Treasure on Lilac Lane (Jewell Cove 2)

Rick choked back the grief inside of him. He couldn’t imagine life without his mom’s warm smile and constant support. Hell, he’d give anything just to have her nag him about his bachelor lifestyle one more time. But instead he was standing here in the chilly wind, willing himself to hold on.

Even standing with the Collinses and the Arseneaults he felt alone. Rick had known he was adopted since he was seven years old, though he’d never shared that knowledge with a single soul. At the time he’d had questions, but soon after that his father had left them and all Rick and Roberta had was each other. Over the years she’d always let him know that if he wanted to find his biological family, she’d help him. She’d especially pushed it when she’d received her diagnosis, insisting that he shouldn’t be alone, but he’d merely kissed her cheek and repeated the same thing he’d told her his whole life. That she was his one and only mother. He’d never meant anything more in his life.

The casket was lowered into the ground, the sound jarring against the peaceful backdrop of leaves rustling and birds chirping from the nearby rosebushes, which had long ago lost their blooms and now held clusters of reddish-pink rose hips. God, he could use a drink. Just a shot or two of rye to steady him out. Shit. His hand started shaking just thinking about it. The sharp fire of it on his tongue, the soft, smooth glide of it down his throat, the warmth of it spreading through his belly.

Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away. His mom had made him promise one last thing before she died, and though he wished she’d asked anything else of him, he wouldn’t let her down. Not this time. It had been days since his last drink. All through the time she’d been in the hospice, and for the last few days as arrangements had been made. Josh and Tom had taken turns checking on him as if they didn’t trust him. They knew what Rick knew: promising his mother that he’d stay off the bottle was an impossible promise to keep. But damn if he wouldn’t do the impossible for her this one last time.

“Richard?”

The mellifluous voice of the minister reached Rick and he lifted his head, confused. Reverend Price was holding out a spade; it was time for the ceremonial shovelful of dirt on the casket.

He could really use that drink.

He took a step forward, then another, took the spade in his right hand as he approached the hole in the earth. Teeth clenched, he anchored his prosthetic hand on the top of the shovel handle.

Goddammit to hell.

Scooped up a bit of dirt and dropped it, the sound a hollow rattle on the top of the box, meaning nothing.

Goodbye, Mom …

He handed the shovel back to Reverend Price, but he couldn’t go back to his spot. Couldn’t wait for the ceremony to end, couldn’t bear to shake everyone’s hand or see their long faces or hear the sympathetic words. He turned around and kept walking, through the maze of headstones, over the soft grass to the dirt lane that wound through the small cemetery on the hill. And he didn’t stop until he reached his beat-up old truck.

He couldn’t think right now. Couldn’t imagine anything beyond the excruciating pain of knowing that he was finally, absolutely alone.

He was stuck with no one but the man in the mirror. And that man was not someone Rick cared to spend much time with.

CHAPTER 2

Jess sat behind the cash register, her hands busy with knitting needles and a ball of super-soft pale yellow yarn. Foot traffic was slow this morning at her store, and it gave her time to work on the blanket she’d started knitting way back in June.

Summer in Jewell Cove was always busy—a frenetic crush of tourists descending on the pretty seaside town for whale boat tours, sea kayaking, and lying on the beach. The waterfront was generally crowded on sunny days—kids begging for an ice-cream cone from Sally’s Dairy Shack, families taking over the picnic tables on the grassy fringes with platters of fish and chips or lobster rolls from the Battered Up canteen. On Thursday nights in August, a local drama group put on Shakespeare in the Park at Memorial Square, in the shadow of the statue of Edward Jewell, the town’s founder.

It was Jess’s most lucrative time of year, too, and for the most part she loved it. Her store, Treasures, was always bustling with people looking for handmade local items. She enjoyed meeting them, listening to different accents, learning where they were from. She enjoyed the long days of sunshine, the way the sun sparkled off the water of the bay, and the crazy riot of blooms that happened up and down Main Street. Window boxes and planters were always a profusion of petunias, geraniums, impatiens, and trailing lobelia.

But she loved this time of year, too—late September, right before the leaves turned into a glorious kaleidoscope of color. It was like a brief oasis of calm between the busy seasons of summer and autumn. The air cooled, and the front stoops were decorated with the more hardy potted mums. The gardens let go of their brazen summer hues and settled into the more sedate colors of asters and goldenrod.

The fall lineup of workshops she held at the back of the store would start in another week or so. Then there was the quilting club at the church, where she coordinated different projects for the quilt show in the spring, which in turn made a fair bit of money for the women’s group and attracted visitors from all along the midcoast. When winter arrived, Jess could really focus on her first love—creating many of the items that graced her store shelves. Beaded jewelry, soaps, scented candles, felted articles. But for now, she was enjoying the time to herself before all the leaf watchers descended en masse to admire the fall colors in Jewell Cove.

Her first project was to finish the soft blanket she’d begun when she’d found out her sister, Sarah, was pregnant, then put aside when Sarah miscarried. It felt wrong to have those stitches sitting on the needles, incomplete. Jess planned to finish it and pack it away. When the time was right, she’d pass it on to someone. She figured she’d know when. And who. Life was funny that way.

Besides, maybe she could save it for her almost cousin-in-law, Abby. Abby Foster had inherited the legendary Foster mansion up on Blackberry Hill and in a few short months had managed to steal the heart of the town’s most eligible bachelor, Jess’s cousin Tom. Jess was particularly happy for them. Both of them had had their share of heartbreak, but Abby was perfect for Tom. Abby had fit right in with their family and felt like another sister. It was hard to believe she hadn’t always lived in Jewell Cove. Jess figured they might not wait too long to start a family of their own.

The door to the shop opened, bringing with it a gust of sea air. Speak of the devil, Jess thought with a smile.

“Morning, Jess.” Abby smiled brightly. As of course she would. Her wedding to Tom was only a few weeks away.

“Hi, Abs. What brings you by this morning? Say muffins. Please.”

Abby lifted a bag of muffins. “Straight from the bakery. Raspberry cream cheese.”

Bingo. “You’re a mind reader. I’ll put on some tea.”

In the summer months they’d gone through this routine occasionally, only with iced tea or lemonade and in between customers. Jess slipped to the back room and switched on the kettle. “How’re wedding plans going?” she called out.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” Abby called back. “I have a favor to ask.”

Jess heated the pot, added the tea bags, and then poured in the boiling water. She took a small tray and added two mugs and a little carton of milk from her bar fridge and carried them to the front. “Favor? I’m intrigued. Because you never ask me for favors.” She raised an eyebrow, teasing.