The best, the absolute wisest thing Lilah could do for herself would be to stay away.
She had a life – two lives – to put back in order. And standing so close to him now, thinking things she prayed her face would not reveal, Lilah felt a traitorous bloom of red creep up her neck.
“I’m planning a large party in September,” he said smoothly. “If you’re here in the fall, be sure to drop by and help us celebrate.”
Say something, a voice inside her urged. “What will you be celebrating?”
A satisfied smile crawled leisurely, easily across Gus’s handsome face. He looked every inch the contented man, every inch the success, proof that America was still the land of self-made men and second chances. “My marriage.”
In memory of Chauncie Bella, my sweet, sweet
dog. Thank you for fourteen love-filled years and
for showing me it is possible never to have an
unkind moment. Walks won’t be the same
without you, wonderful friend.
My thanks and love to the friends, old and new,
whose presence and care helped so much during
Chauncie’s illness – Lainee, Cathy, Denise and
Dan, Maggie, Rob and Jen, and the staffs of
Powell Blvd Veterinary Clinic, Housecalls
for Pets and Dove Lewis.
There are angels everywhere.
WENDY WARREN
lives with her husband and daughter in the beautiful Pacific Northwest of America. Their house was previously owned by a woman named Cinderella, who bequeathed them a garden full of flowers they try desperately (and occasionally successfully) not to kill, and a pink General Electric oven, circa 1958, that makes the kitchen look like an I Love Lucy repeat.
A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award, Wendy loves to read and write the kind of books that remind her of the old movies she grew up watching with her mum – stories about decent people looking for the love that can make an ordinary life heroic. When not writing, she likes to take long walks, hide out in bookshops with her friends and sneak tofu into her husband’s dinner. If you’d like a tofu recipe – and who wouldn’t – visit her at www.wendywarren-author.com.
Dear Reader,
Several years ago, my husband planned our first road trip. For a week we visited the graves of every outlaw who had died between Oregon and North Dakota. By the time we reached Deadwood, I threatened to fly home. I’m glad I didn’t, because in North Dakota we stayed in a tiny, delightful town surrounded by fields of wild mustard, acres of whispering barley and choke cherries that showed up in everything, including pies, preserves and sweets. The people were kind and idiosyncratic and wonderful. I began my book, Dakota Bride, on the drive home. In Once More, At Midnight I revisit the town of Kalamoose and the Owens sisters, Nettie, Sara and Lilah. It’s Lilah’s turn to fall in love. I hope you’ll have as much fun in Kalamoose as I do. By the way, if you ever drive from Oregon to North Dakota, skip the graves and see the Tetons!
Wendy Warren
Once More, At Midnight
WENDY WARREN
Chapter One
“It’s-too-hot-This-place-smells-I’m-hungry-I-have-to- pee-You-drive-too-slow.”
It’s incredible, Lilah Owens thought, fingers curling around the steering wheel of her old Pontiac. The kid can complain without punctuation.
She looked at her passenger, trying to be patient, because the eleven-year-old had been through a lot in the past several weeks.
Then again, so had Lilah. That, coupled with the fact that she was also hot, hungry and had to pee, tended to blunt her compassion. She took a deep breath, as deep as if she were about to belt a song, and answered back, “If-you’re-so-hot-suck-on-some-ice-We-just-drove-past-a-sheep-ranch-so-what-do-you-expect-You-ate-an-entire-bag-of-Funyuns-five-minutes-ago-You-can-pee-when-we-get-where-we’re-going-And-this-car-is-moving-as-fast-as-she-can-If-you-don’t-like-it-get-out-and-walk.”
She felt fairly pleased with herself until her passenger’s small fingers reached for the door handle and tugged. True to form, her stubborn Sunfire did not give in easily. Eventually, though, the rusty car relented and the door swung open. On the highway. At the Pontiac’stop speed of forty miles per hour.
“Are you crazy?!” Lilah lunged across Sabrina’s thankfully seat-belted body to grab for the door. She caught the handle on the first try, pulled with all her might and managed to shut them in tight again, locking the door for good measure. “Never do that again,” she said, glaring at Bree with fury and disbelief. “Do you want to get us killed?”
Bree shrugged with apparent lack of concern.
Lilah tried to breathe past the pounding of her heart and wondered, not for the first time, if they would actually survive this road trip. The tension had mounted with each mile they’d traveled from California to North Dakota.
Looking out the windshield, she dropped her usual cynicism and for a moment allowed herself to imagine there was a heaven somewhere behind the blindingly hot summer sun.
I know, I promised to act like a mother, Gracie…. Silently, Lilah spoke to the friend who had passed on a month earlier and, who, if there was a heaven, certainly deserved to be there. But I may kick Sabrina out of the car myself.
Grace McKuen had been a perfect friend. Perfect in every way, except in her estimation of Lilah’s ability to take care of a child. Four months ago, Grace had discovered that her body was rejecting her second kidney transplant. A month later she and her daughter, Sabrina, had moved in with Lilah. Two months after that, Gracie was gone, and Lilah Owens, singleton, had become, Lilah Owens, instant mother. Add hot water and stir. Now she knew what she’d merely guessed at before: motherhood was only slightly less daunting than skydiving without a parachute.
“I saw a sign that said ‘gas and food, two miles,” ’ Bree insisted, still using the tone of voice that made Lilah want to open the door and step out of the car herself. “That was probably a mile and ninety-nine one hundredths ago, so like it would kill you to think of someone else for five seconds?”
Lilah brought a smile—the sweetest one she could muster—to her face. Perhaps if she pretended she was Florence Henderson on The Brady Bunch she could respond without doing Bree harm. “I told you, Sabrina—” you little pisher “—I lived in this area for seventeen years. The only gas station on this road closed in 1989. So, you’ll have to wait until—”
“Oh, big wow, you lived here seventeen years,” Bree interrupted. “You’re way older since then. They could have built, like, a nuclear sub station by now.”
“So,” Lilah continued, “you may have misread the sign.”
“As i-i-i-f. If I misread the sign, what’s that?” She pointed, and Lilah followed the direction of the skinny arm, mostly so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact.
She squinted.
Ohmigod.
On their side of the quiet two-lane highway, no more than fifty yards ahead, was a large sign that read Union Gas and Minimart. A gas station and a minimart? Lilah gaped. On a highway that led to a string of towns so small and insignificant they hadn’t appeared on a map since Custer whupped Sitting Bull?
She shook her head. Well, crud. Now she would have to deal with a rude,