CHAPTER 1
One month earlier…
The September sunset melts like an orange popsicle over the Atlantic, painting the sky in stripes of cotton candy pink and lavender as Emmie, Leo, Jasper, and I take it all in—or at least they take it in while I try to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve my unborn child using my internal organs as percussion instruments.
The bonfire crackles and pops, sending embers dancing upward like fireflies making one last desperate play before the new season crashes the party with all the subtlety of an uninvited relative. The salt-kissed breeze mingles with the woodsmoke and the sweet vanilla scent of the snickerdoodles that my bestie Emmie baked this morning, creating a perfect olfactory symphony that screamsfall is here and it’s brought carbohydrates.
I inhale deeply, savoring the moment—or I would, if not for the tiny kickboxer using my ribs as a speed bag.
“Oof,” I grunt, shifting my very pregnant self on the driftwood log that’s serving as tonight’s seating arrangement, because apparently, when you’re nine months pregnant, regular chairs become as foreign a concept as comfortable shoes. “I swear this baby is auditioning for Cirque du Soleil—the internal organ contortion division.”
“Don’t worry, Bizzy. That baby will be here any day now,” Jaspersays, tightening his arms around my shoulders as the breeze picks up. My handsome husband’s dimples flash as he smiles, making my heart do that flippy thing it’s been doing since the day we met. Even after marriage and impending parenthood, those dimples are still lethal weapons that should probably be registered with the local authorities.
“That’s what you said three weeks ago,” I mutter, watching as our sweet pets run across the sand and all up and down the cove just outside the Country Cottage Inn,ourinn.
Fish, our long-haired black and white tabby, dances just out of reach of Sherlock Bones, our red freckled mutt, while Gatsby and Cinnamon, Emmie and Leo’s golden retriever and labradoodle, race in wild circles around them like they’re performing some kind of elaborate canine ballet.
Fish runs this way and I hold my tummy tighter as if it might accidentally fly away, and seeing that I’m nine months pregnant and counting, that may not be a bad thing at this point.
You look like you swallowed a beach ball,Fish meows as she darts past my feet.Is that baby EVER coming out?
“Love the support,” I call out after her, earning an eyeroll from my cute but sassy feline companion.
My name is Bizzy Baker Wilder and I can read minds. Not all minds, not all the time, but most of the time—and animals are counted in that number, too. And as you might have guessed, the furry among us usually have far better things to say than the human population, who mostly think about grocery lists and whether they remembered to turn off the stove.
Speaking of Emmie, my best friend since forever—she sits cross-legged on a beach blanket beside me, gently rocking her precious five-month-old boy, Elliot, in her arms with the kind of maternal grace that makes me wonder if I’ll ever figure out how to hold a baby without looking like I’m defusing a bomb. Her dark brown hair catches the firelight, and for a second she looks like she’s wearing a crown of flames, which is either magical or a serious fire hazard.
“Poor Bizzy,” Emmie teases with a laugh that suggests she’s enjoying my discomfort just a little too much. “I was pregnant for approximately eleven centuries with this little guy.” She drops a kisson Elliot’s head. “And he was worth every stretch mark and hour of sleep I’ll never get back.”Okay, so I’m not completely sold on the lack of sleep part, but I’ll never say that out loud.
Both Leo and I laugh at that one. As it turns out, Leo can read minds, too. It’s sort of an oddball quirk that we happen to share. And speaking of sharing, only a handful of people know about our little mind-reading secret.
Of course, Emmie knows; she’s my bestie. Emmie and I have been attached at the hip since birth. We not only look enough alike to pass for sisters, with the same long, dark hair and same denim blue eyes, but we actually share the same first name—Elizabeth. And to avoid a lifetime of confusion, we’ve gone by the nicknames our families tagged us with since we were toddling around in matching overalls that our mothers thought were the height of baby fashion.
Leo chuckles my way. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be the first woman in medical history to be perpetually pregnant,” he quips, poking at the fire with a stick. Much like Jasper, Leo works at the Seaview Sheriff’s Department, but while my husband deals with homicide cases, Leo handles the slightly less macabre duties of a deputy.
“Not funny,” I groan, but can’t help smiling. “I swear this baby has built a three-bedroom condo in there with a hot tub and home theater system. They’re probably never coming out—and why would they when the rent is free and room service is available twenty-four seven?”
“You’re just afraid they’re going to mess up the inn’s squeaky clean record once they arrive,” Jasper teases, his gray eyes smiling all on their own as he teases me mercilessly. “No bodies discovered, no mysteries solved for, what, a whole month now?”
I elbow him gently because he’s not wrong, but he doesn’t have to be so smug about it. “Don’t you dare jinx it. The Country Cottage Inn is officially a murder-free zone until further notice, and I’d like to keep it that way at least until this baby learns to sleep through the night.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Leo raises his mug full of hot apple cider with the enthusiasm of someone toasting world peace. “To Bizzy’s murder-free maternity leave!”
We all lift our drinks in a toast just as a familiar voice cuts through the momentary tranquility like a foghorn announcing the arrival of chaos.
“There you are! I’ve been looking absolutely everywhere! Why didn’t anyone tell me there was a beach party? Georgie made hand-knitted booties with anti-evil eye protection charms!”
I turn—slowly, because turning any other way requires specialized equipment at this point—and sure enough, I see my mother bustling toward us across the sand. Her red hair is lifting in the wind in one piece—a testament to her love of hairspray— complemented by a teal windbreaker with shoulder pads big enough to land a small aircraft. She’s paid homage to her favorite era, the eighties, with her fashion choices for as long as I can remember.
And following close behind, waddling with surprising speed considering her age and footwear choices, is Georgie Conner in a kaleidoscopic kaftan that makes her look like a walking, talking acid trip—which would be an homage to her favorite era, the sixties, when apparently fashion rules were more like gentle suggestions.
I wave them both over. “Come join us, ladies. Although it’s less of a party and more of a sunset shindig where we lament the joys of my eternal pregnancy.”
“A gathering of more than two people is a party in my book.” Mom laughs as they finally reach us. She’s carrying a wicker basket that undoubtedly contains something crocheted, knitted, or bedazzled—possibly all three.
Georgie, not to be outdone, is lugging what looks like an entire craft store’s inventory in a tote bag with the wordsGRANDMA SQUADemblazoned across the front in rhinestones that could probably be seen from the moon.
“We brought supplies and emergency baby hats,” Georgie announces, already pulling out knitting needles that look sharp enough to qualify as weapons in at least twelve states. “I had a vision that the womb-dweller is making their grand entrance tonight.”
