The chicken was almost ready. She popped it back into the oven, planted her hands on her hips, and glanced around. She’d love to live full time in a place like this, colorful and cozy, with plenty of natural light even on an overcast day, and so full of personality. Even the kitchen junk drawer brimmed with tchotchkes that made her smile: a mermaid bottle opener, a lighter shaped like a lighthouse, and a pen printed with a stern sea captain who, when you tilted the pen, shed his pea coat to reveal a buff, bare chest.
Of course, her inner horn-dog pictured Kieran doing the same.
And the refrigerator magnet collection! There must’ve been one from every business in Trappers Cove. Her favorite was the UFO from Souvenir Galaxy, complete with an alien flashing a peace sign.
A hippie-dippy sun catcher sparkled in the window above the sink, and over the dining table hung an amateurish painting of the castle she’d spotted on a bluff above the north end of the beach. Addy peered closer. Could she do something like this? For years, she’d wanted to try her hand at painting, but her expensive watercolors remained unopened.
When was the last time she’d done something creative, just for the hell of it?
Speaking of creative, she’d need to pull together some kind of Halloween costume for the party Kieran invited her to. She made a mental note to visit that vintage shop on Main Street, the one with flashily dressed mannequins in the window.
She tapped her tablet to check her recipe for Basque-style braised chicken with peppers. She’d fallen in love with this dish, and the picturesque coastal town where she encountered it, on a trip to the South of France before her first deployment. After that sumptuous meal, she walked along the harborside promenade, relishing the soft, salty air. As the sun slipped below the horizon, she’d promised herself that someday she would live by the sea.
A strange, falling sensation yanked her back to the present, as if the ground were shifting under her feet. Heart galloping, Addy gripped the counter. Earthquake?
Her stomach rumbled.
“No, genius, you haven’t eaten since breakfast.” She cut a slice from the crusty sourdough loaf she bought at Sweet Dreams Bakery, slathered it with butter, and stuffed it into her mouth.
Right on cue, her phone blasted the chorus of ELO’s “Evil Woman.”
Crap on a cracker, Mom again. If she moved to Nebraska, she’d have to give up the snarky ringtones she’d assigned to her family members: Darth Vader’s “Imperial March”, Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back,” AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”
Screw it—she was here to relax and ponder, not placate and pander, so she let the call go to voicemail and moved to the bathroom to touch up her minimalist makeup—a swipe of mascara, a dusting of blush, and lipstick in a subtle shade of rose.
She was misting on cologne—orange blossom and lemon verbena—when the phone shrilled again. And again.
Well, crap. Perhaps there was a real emergency for once.
“About flippin’ time,” Betsy Connor squawked in Addy’s ear. “I was about to call the base commander.”
“You’d never get through to him, Mom.” Keeping her voice carefully neutral, Addy flipped her hair upside down and brushed it until it crackled. “What’s up?”
“Well,” Mom huffed, “this morning, I saw a piece on Wolf News about that PTSD stuff. Terrible! Nightmares, flashbacks, public meltdowns, suicide.” Her tone oozed into a saccharine coo. “I’m so worried about you, baby girl. You’ve served long enough. It’s time to come home to your family. Let us take care of you.”
Addy barely suppressed a snort. “Mom, I’m forty-one. I handle my business just fine on my own.”
“Forty-one? Impossible. I’m too young to have a daughter that old.”
Addy dug through her jewelry case and selected a pair of freshwater pearl drop earrings. “Last week, you told me you were too old to manage on your own.”
“Don’t you get fresh with me, missy,” Mom snapped. “You may be a fancy Army officer, but you’re still my little girl.”
That was the crux of the matter right there—Mom loved babies, but the adults they grew into? Not so much. When Addy became old enough to have ideas of her own, Mom simply made another baby. And another, and another, until the doctor told her the next pregnancy would probably kill her. That’s when the “Make me some grandbabies” campaign began.
Addy was the only one of her siblings who hadn’t obliged, another black mark on her name.
A sharp bark from Snoot gave her the perfect escape. “Gotta go, Mom. My company’s here.”
“Company? Who—”
“Talk to you soon.” She disconnected and trotted to the front door where Snoot lay flat, tail whipping as if he’d discovered an exciting scent.
Another kiss from Kieran would be the perfect remedy to the bitter taste Mom’s call left behind.
“Self-care, self-care, self-care,” she whispered as she fluffed her hair and brushed crumbs from her sweater. “And if I’m lucky, one hot night with the sexy ginger keeper.”
Chapter Eight
