A GLITTER OF GOLD
Georgia Coast Romance #2
by
LIZ JOHNSON
Date of Publication: August 6, 2019
Number of Pages: 368
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"Both an exciting treasure hunt and penetrating exploration of overcoming mistakes Johnson's excellent novel will captivate readers." -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW
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Chapter
One, Part One of
A
Glitter of Gold
By
Liz Johnson
Anne
Norris knew two things for certain. Some things could be forgiven .
And some things most certainly could not.
At
this moment, she was wondering if her mom would ever forgive her.
“I
don’t understand.” Her mom sighed heavily into the phone.
“Hurricane Lorenzo is supposed to be bad.”
“I
know.”
“Are
you prepared for this thing?”
Anne
nodded before remembering that her mom couldn’t see her. “Don’t
worry,” she said, opening her pantry door and surveying the meager
rations. “I’m watching the news. I’ll be fine.”
“You
can come home, you know.”
“I
know, Mom.” But it was more something she said because it was what
her mom wanted to hear than reality. Because she really couldn’t.
Going back to California wasn’t an option. It hadn’t been in
exactly two years, three months, and twelve days.
Her
mom paused, and there was a long silence on the
other
end of the line. Anne leaned against the phone tucked between her ear
and her shoulder as she traipsed across the sparsely furnished living
room and peeked through the blinds to the street below. The wind had
already started making the trees dance, and sporadic drops of rain
had begun painting the sidewalk. But this would all be a walk in the
park compared to the fury Lorenzo was about to unleash.
“Is
this about money? I know things are tight.”
That
was an understatement. But it also wasn’t the deal breaker. Money
was an issue, but California was the
issue.
“Thanks,
but no. I’m fine. Really.” She sounded like she was trying to
convince herself, and she didn’t like it one bit. Or maybe she
really was trying to convince herself. That was even worse.
Suddenly
a lone figure entered her view. Hunched shoulders. Arthritic hands
clenching a grocery tote in one hand and a pink leash in the other.
Mrs. Kane hadn’t exactly been on the welcome wagon, but she was her
closest neighbor.
“Mom,
can I call you back?”
“Are
you all right?”
Anne
reached for her shoes, untying the knots in the laces. “I need to
check on my neighbor and her dog. I’ll call you in a few minutes.”
She hung up without any more explanation.
She
darted out the door and down the steps from her second-story
apartment, reaching Mrs. Kane just as the older woman began her slow
climb to the apartment in the back of the building. Princess, her
fluffy Pomeranian, bounced at her feet as she clung to the metal
railing and pulled herself up.
“Mrs.
Kane! Mrs. Kane!”
The
woman turned around, squinting in Anne’s direction. “Who’s
that?”
“It’s
your neighbor, Anne.”
After
a long pause, Mrs. Kane nodded. “Okay then.”
“You’re
still here.” Anne didn’t know what else to say. She’d assumed
that Mrs. Kane had evacuated with the other half of the city.
“You
sound surprised.” Mrs. Kane’s voice was loud enough to carry the
half mile to the river and back. Her hearing aids were probably
turned off. “My son wanted me to come stay with him in North
Carolina, but that wife of his never liked me much.”
“I,
um . . . ” Maybe this had been a stupid idea.
Swallowing her sputter, Anne tried again. “I just wanted to see if
you needed anything. You know, before the storm hits.” A lone
raindrop splattered against her cheek, a reminder that it wasn’t
far away.
Mrs.
Kane managed a flicker of a smile just as the little ball of fur at
her feet yipped. It had to be eighty degrees and 400 percent humidity
outside, but she looked perfectly pleased in her yellow velour track
suit. “It’ll take more than a Category 4 to scare away Mavis
Kane. I always could sleep through the storms, my mama said.”
“Of
course. ” Mrs. Kane was a Savannah native and not naive to the ways
of hurricanes that sounded intent on tearing the whole city down.
“Well, if you need anything, I . . . ” Anne lost
her words, not sure exactly what she wanted to say, so she began to
turn.
“Do
ya have any peanut butter? Princess gets awfully cranky without her
afternoon treat.” Her gaze dashed to the dog.
“Peanut
butter?” Anne’s tongue felt like it was coated with the stuff.
With every ounce of her very last, very expensive jar.
“Yes.
Prinny just loves it, and the store was plumb out of it.” She held
up her grocery bag. “You know, all those greedy hoarders storing
up.”
Yes.
She knew them. She probably qualified as one in Mrs. Kane’s book.
Anne
nodded slowly. “I’d be happy to share.”
Mrs.
Kane’s face softened. “We’d be grateful.”
“I’ll
be right back.”
The
rain had already begun to make the metal slick, but she hurried up
the stairs to her home. Her air conditioner chugged in the window on
the far side of the room, barely making a dent in the weight of the
air , but it was better than being outdoors.
When
she opened her pantry door, she cringed. The shelves were small and
contained a couple ten-cent packets of noodles and two jars of peanut
butter. Hugging the unopened jar to her chest, she closed her eyes.
This—and
the bread and jam in her fridge—was all she had. But it was enough
to share.
As
she walked past her counter, she snagged her purse and hefted it over
her shoulder. She might as well face her landlord too before the
storm hit.
Mrs.
Kane took the peanut butter and cradled it as though it was treasure .
“Thank you.”
Anne
managed a full smile. “You and Princess take care of each other,
okay?”
“We
always do.” With that the older woman shuffled up the steps to her
apartment.
The
rain had grown steady by the time Anne reached the front door of
Maribella ’s. The coffee shop took up the entire first floor of the
white brick building. Before the Civil War, it had been a
boardinghouse, and the upstairs rooms had been converted into
apartments—all managed by Lydia Robin.
Anne
cringed as she stepped inside, already preparing for the run-in.
“You’re
late,” Lydia said from behind the counter. The smile she offered to
her customers was conspicuously absent.
Anne
had been paying her rent at this counter for more than a year, and
Lydia’s scowl was about as welcoming as a shark at the shore. “I
know.” She dug into her floppy bag, her fingers searching out the
sharp corners of the check she’d written earlier that morning. She
tried to give Lydia a smile, but her effort faltered. “I’m
sorry.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Forget Southern hospitality. Lydia had skipped the serving of sweet
peach pie in favor of a double portion of sour apples.
Anne
sighed and repeated her apology. She didn’t want to apologize
again. She just wanted to find the check, which was playing a pretty
convincing game of hide-and-seek in the depths of her purse while she
jabbed her hand into the darkness. She’d spent five years and seven
months cowing to bitter women who took advantage of their positions.
And she’d moved three thousand miles to try to forget it all.
Liz Johnson is the author of more than a dozen novels, including A Sparkle of Silver, A Glitter of Gold, The Red Door Inn, Where Two Hearts Meet, and On Love’s Gentle Shore, as well as a New York Times bestselling novella and a handful of short stories. She makes her home in Phoenix, Arizona.
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blog tour services provided by
sounds wonderful! Added to my want to read list.
ReplyDeleteAwesome! :)
ReplyDelete