One particular secret could tear them apart...

Yolanda Sanchez had never been a “follow your bliss” type of girl, always preferring to make practical choices. But since her mom’s will stipulated that she had to fulfill a dream with her inheritance, here she was, opening a used book store. With consummate dreamer Adam Snapp, an artist and childhood friend, as her handyman. So much for her comfort zone.

But she needs help, and Adam needs the work. It’s strictly business...until they discover a mysterious book about Scorpion Ridge history. One that reveals not just secrets of their families’ pasts, but how deeply intertwined their futures really are.

She needed to have a handle on Adam.

Yolanda liked thinking about him being this happy-go-lucky, free-spirited boy who always landed on his feet. Lately, though, she was seeing him as an amazingly talented adult man who pitched in when his family needed him.

Conflicted. That was what she was.

She should avoid him at all costs. And not because she didn’t respect him. After everything he’d done for her this past week, helping her with the mystery, he’d gained her respect and maybe a little more than that.

Subtle attraction.

But she knew him too well. Right now he was shouldering his responsibilities in Scorpion Ridge, but what if an offer he couldn’t refuse came along? Or, an even better thought, what if his father got better and Adam wasn’t needed?

He would leave, and this time he might not come back.

Dear Reader,

My love of books started in second grade. I remember the author who lit my fire for reading. She was Carolyn Haywood and she wrote the Betsy books. They were like chocolate. I couldn’t get enough. Neither of my parents were readers. My mother got her first library card when I was in second grade so that I could check out enough books to keep me occupied until the next library visit.

My father was in his sixties when he got his first card. I was home from college for a few weeks and there was a book I wanted to read. The library wouldn’t give me a card because I didn’t have a local address, and I guess I’d lost the old one. Dad came and applied. Of course, I had him check out a romance.

In Small-Town Secrets, Yolanda is the book connoisseur. You don’t see it on the pages, she’s too busy uncovering town secrets and getting closer to the hero, but she’s definitely harboring a Mills & Boon Heartwarming book in her bedroom, a mystery in her purse and a paranormal beside the cash register.

My hero, Adam, also likes to read. Not everyone sees past his easygoing manner to his steadfast heart. Yolanda didn’t at first. He’s the kind of man who would say to his love, “I’ll clean the house—you sit back and read.” He’s also the kind of man who isn’t afraid to fend off any attack. Yup, don’t be fooled by his soulful brown eyes. He’s a black belt. Which might come in handy as he and Yolanda discover more about the history of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona, and the secrets of their own families...

So settle back, enjoy the story and ask yourself about the secrets your family holds.

If you’d like to know more about the Heartwarming authors, please visit heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com. If you’d like to know more about me, please visit pamelatracy.com. I love to hear from readers.

Pamela

Small-Town Secrets

Pamela Tracy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PAMELA TRACY is a USA TODAY bestselling author who lives with her husband (...the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (...the interference for most of her writing time). Since 1999, she has published more than twenty-five books and sold more than a million copies. She’s a past RITA® Award finalist and past winner of the Christian Fiction Writers’ book of the year award.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To my brother Danny Crawford, who has the soul of an artist (music instead of murals) and the kind of steadfast heart that his sisters need.

We love you, Danny.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WERE TWO things Yolanda Sanchez didn’t want to see in her somewhat restored Queen Anne Victorian, whose ground floor now housed the Twice Told Tales used bookstore.

One, a leaky roof. Leaks were bad, very bad, for books. But as she was a worrier, she’d already thought about the roof and installed a new one. Now a roof leak shouldn’t be a problem, especially since her bookstore took up the first floor.

The second threat was fire. Fire was bad, very bad, for books. That’s why the puffs of smoke floating and fading in the air near the history room couldn’t possibly be good news.

Yolanda quickly set the three books she’d been carrying to the children’s section on the nearest empty shelf. In her haste, she misjudged how much room she had and two of the books tumbled to the floor. She ignored them and hurried through the rows of popular fiction, self-help and romance.

She’d been in the history and nonfiction room just this morning doing inventory. Some of the books there were so old she’d put them in Ziplock bags and was considering putting them on display next to the cashier instead of keeping them in their genre area. They were rare and a book lover’s dream, with brittle covers, ragged corners and yellowing pages. They were the most precious of firewood.

No! Not on her watch!

She rounded a corner and stopped so abruptly that her shoes made a squeaky sound. The noise didn’t seem to disturb the room’s occupant. Amidst the books was a tiny lady wearing a light brown sweater and dark brown skirt. Her clothes—right down to her brown, flat shoes—looked dull and faded next to the bright purple walls of the history room. The expression on the woman’s pale face was serious. Without blinking, her bright blue eyes perused the shelves, peering closely to read the titles that even Yolanda couldn’t make out on a good day without the use of her glasses.

“We’re not open yet,” Yolanda sputtered.

What she’d wanted to say but couldn’t seem to form the words was, “Who do you think you are, smoking a cigarette in the middle of my used bookstore?”

The woman reached up to finger a strand of pearls around her neck. “I realized that when I arrived and there was no one to help me.”

The judgmental tone didn’t inspire Yolanda to feel generous. “The sign on the door clearly states that we’re not open yet.”

Obviously, Yolanda needed to work on her assertive nature because the woman merely shrugged and said, “I’m looking for a book about the history of this town.”

Oh, yes, this was a seasoned smoker, with the telltale throaty voice. Yolanda gritted her teeth—customer relations and all that—shook her head and gently suggested, “If you want something immediately, you’ll need to go to the town museum or one of the gift shops on Main Street. We don’t open until Friday.”

The woman’s expression remained disapproving. She didn’t seem bothered one bit by the fact that the used bookstore wasn’t open and that she didn’t belong there. Instead of looking chastened, like Yolanda expected, she looked determined. She inquired, “Do you have other books about Scorpion Ridge? Besides what is in this room. Old books, I mean, perhaps written by someone long ago who lived in this town but who only published for themselves or their family. I’m not finding the book I want. I’ve been to the little museum. They don’t have it. It’s a particular one, probably written a little more than a hundred years ago. I’m looking for proof.”

“Proof of what?” Yolanda asked.

“Just you never mind.”

What a curmudgeon. Unhappiness and anger oozed from her.

But there was something else in her eyes, too, an emotion so fleeting that Yolanda almost didn’t see it. This woman had suffered loss and never recovered. Yolanda gentled her response. “I’m still working on this room. You need to come back some other time. I’ve not quite unpacked...”

Just like that, Yolanda’s eyes teared. And not from the smoke. She love, love, loved that she was living her dream, but she was struggling with all the changes, not only to her way of life but also to her way of thinking. She was living in her grandmother’s house. The history section of Twice Told Tales was located in what used to be her grandmother’s bedroom. Now Rosi Acura, who told everyone she was a little over seventy but who really was quite a bit over eighty, lived in a retirement group home close to downtown.

The home’s director had a bit of a crush on Rosi. Yolanda figured he believed the woman really was in her seventies.

“I love being at the home,” Gramma Rosi kept telling Yolanda. And Yolanda didn’t doubt that she did. Rosi’s best friend lived in the room next to hers. The group home’s caretaker—who had been Yolanda’s history teacher way back when—enjoyed squiring her grandmother around on any errand she wanted. Plus, a van took her shopping, to bingo and once a month on some sort of touristy excursion. That, combined with helping Yolanda’s new venture, did a lot to distract Rosi from the grief of losing her oldest child.

A year ago, Yolanda’s mother died, quietly, without pain.

Yolanda’s mom, Trina Sanchez, had invested wisely and had lived frugally. She’d left six figures, all to Yolanda. Yolanda would rather her mother have taken her to Disneyland when she was ten, to the beach once or twice, or even a few excursions to the big city of Phoenix and a movie night or something. Instead, Yolanda had spent many hours alone in the house while her mother worked. Mom had been adamant about the security of savings and worried about every penny spent.

Maybe at the end, though, her mother had reconsidered her practical philosophy. Because a stipulation in her will emphasized that the inheritance could only be used to build a dream.

Possibly because Trina had not fulfilled her own dreams?

“This room looks quite full.” The raspy voice snapped Yolanda out of her reverie. The woman’s eyes swept the room. Her lips pursed, as if she didn’t like what she saw. “Do you have anything in storage? I’d be glad to help you unpack. Or perhaps you’ve a special place for your really old books?”

Yolanda straightened to her full height, which put her eye to eye with the petite woman’s just over five-foot frame—and that counted the curly top of the woman’s gray hair. In her most commanding small-business-owner voice, Yolanda said, “Ma’am, we’re not open, and even if we were, smoking is not allowed on the premises.”

Finally, the woman’s expression changed but only marginally. Her red lips pursed when she glanced at her cigarette as if just noticing it. She then looked around for a place to put it out. As the ash was almost at the length where it would soon drop to the floor, Yolanda reached for the bright yellow coffee cup she’d left on the windowsill this morning. It was from a set of four that her grandmother had given her. Butter yellow with an orange daisy painted on it, three cups had survived a household of kids.

“I can search through the trunks in the attic,” the woman volunteered, giving the cup a disdainful look before dropping her lipstick-tipped cigarette into the coffee cup as if it were a gold-plated ashtray meant just for her. “It would have to be now, though.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Yolanda said. Only one trunk of books remained to be unpacked from her Gramma Rosi’s attic, where the remnants of Yolanda’s ancestors were stored, gathered by her family for the last hundred years and maybe even earlier. Yolanda wasn’t sure. The books in the final trunk appeared to be as old as the house and just as precious.

Used books were the lifeblood of Yolanda’s new business. That the first ones shelved had been from her attic made the venture all the more special. Besides yard sales, friends simply giving her their already read offerings, and buying the surplus from a used bookstore in Phoenix, Yolanda had also snagged more than five hundred books from the town of Gesippi, just an hour to the north. Its library had closed just two weeks ago, and Yolanda had purchased a good deal of their inventory, but she hadn’t had time to go through all her purchases. They were in the carriage house.

For a moment she thought the woman would argue, so Yolanda continued. “We’re right on schedule for the opening, and I have plenty of volunteers. Come back on Friday.”

The woman gave the shelves one last perusal. “Did you put any books on reserve?”

“We’re a used bookstore, not a library.” Yolanda’d been patient long enough. “Who are you?”

“I’m staying with relatives right now,” the woman said. “Maybe you’ve heard of Chester Ventimiglia.”

Yolanda didn’t know a Chester, but she did recognize the Ventimiglia name. Richard Ventimiglia and another man named John Moore had been the town’s founding fathers. There were still a few Moores in Scorpion Ridge, but the Ventimiglias had long since left or died out.

“I do know the name, but...” Yolanda’s words tapered off as somewhere in the old Victorian something clattered to the floor, the sound as effective as a fire alarm. Yolanda stepped from the room, listening. Maybe the old woman wasn’t the only one snooping in the used bookstore before the grand opening. In the silence she moved closer to one of the vents where now she could clearly hear talking—singing?—and relaxed when she recognized Adam’s voice. He’d said he’d be by later, something about replacing the hinge on one of the saloon doors he was hanging for her.

“This isn’t really yours,” came a throaty whisper.

When Yolanda turned back, the woman was gone.

* * *

FOR SUCH A little thing, Yolanda Sanchez sure made a lot of noise. So much so that Adam Snapp stopped his singing. Last time he’d honored the Beatles with his limited musical talent, she had poked fun of his voice. Poking fun at him was something she’d done since fifth grade, when she’d noted that he’d worn two different colored socks to school by accident. Used to be, he’d tease her back, saying something like, “Across America, socks are standing up and shouting, ‘We don’t have to all be the same.”’ He’d said it loudly and made sure there was an audience. Yolanda hadn’t seemed fazed.

Today he wanted to quip, “Better to sing off-key than not to sing at all.”

For the last few months, though, his ability to joke his way through life had taken a severe hit. Which was why when his father got sick and the family business went from profitable to precarious, it had been a simple decision to come home and help. He’d not told anyone the mess he’d made of his once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.

Straightening the toolbox he’d accidentally stumbled over, Adam listened to Yolanda’s stomping and huffing. Occasionally, she’d call out, “Ma’am?” Something or someone had her riled; he was glad it wasn’t him.

Picking up a Phillips screwdriver, he held the door level while screwing the pivot hinge into the doorjamb. The blank surface beckoned him but only for a moment. Personally, he didn’t think saloon doors belonged in this late-nineteenth-century Queen Anne. And they were a ridiculous choice to separate a private office from a place of business. She’d get no privacy.

She, however, thought they were pretty.

He reminded himself that he’d signed on to help her complete general handyman duties and to follow her directions about decorative shingles and dormers and enclosed breezeways. His job was not to tell her how she could make the two-story Victorian even more authentic and artistically pleasing.

The house was her canvas, not his.

She came up with ideas; he obliged to the best of his ability. Like these pressboard saloon doors that she wanted him to paint brilliant orange.

The old Adam Snapp would have painted books on one side; after all, this was to be a used bookstore. Then he would have added real covers and used shellacked fanned-out pages for a 3D effect. He’d also have painted a caricature of Yolanda, her nose in a book, as it always was, on the other panel. He’d have glued a pair of glasses above that perfect little nose. She, all female with slim lines and slight curves, was a painter’s dream. She often displayed a Mona Lisa smile. Her hair, black and straight, would look simple on anyone else: normal, everyday. On her it accentuated big, smiling black eyes filled with determination.

Her lips had always been a challenge for him to capture. For some reason, whenever he’d painted her—and he had many times back when they’d both been teenagers working for the local animal habitat, BAA—her lips had come out bigger than they really were and always seemed pursed. She’d gotten mad at him on a few occasions, accusing him of making it look as if she’d just swallowed a pickle.

Yes, he could picture exactly how he wanted the saloon door to look. He clenched his fingers. Desire rose, fell, disappeared. It didn’t matter what his heart told him to do. Right now, when his fingers grasped the pencil so he could start to seriously sketch, nothing happened.

Nothing.

So it was best to just tighten the screws, adjust the hinges, check to make sure the doors were level, paint the stupid panels Kool-Aid orange and be done with it.

“Ahem.”

Adam looked down. She hadn’t used to be able to sneak up on him. He was really off his game. But then, in the weeks he’d been working for her, she’d been too involved with the plumbers and electricians to pay much attention to him. Almost gave him a complex.

“What was that noise? And did anyone come past you?” Yolanda demanded, all righteous indignation. When he didn’t answer fast enough, she added, “There was an elderly woman over in history and nonfiction. I turned around, and she was gone. I’ve searched the nooks and crannies of the first floor book areas. I even went upstairs to my private suite.”

Adam hadn’t been up there yet. Yolanda’s priority was the bookstore. As a result, he had a to-do list in his back pocket that would keep him busy for a year. He’d make, he figured, not even half of what he’d made the last five years painting murals, and he’d work harder. It would take longer to get it done.

Up until a couple of months ago, his life had been about creating art, murals specifically. Most of his creations had been done outdoors. Now he was indoors, hemmed in, without space to call his own. To Yolanda, creativity, when it came to her old house, was categorized as either “That’s not practical” or “Not in the budget.”

Not that Adam had much creativity himself these days. He wasn’t sure where his muse had gone off to and doubted it would come back. And right now he was too worried about his dad and his family to go after it. “Adam,” Yolanda said impatiently. “Did someone go by you?”

“No, I haven’t seen anyone.” He watched as she peered past him, as if someone really could have sidled by and taken up residence in her tiny office. “The front door was open when I got here. What about the back?”

“I thought they were both locked,” Yolanda stated.

“You should start checking.” The last five years Adam had lived in a few off-the-beaten-path neighborhoods. He’d learned to value a good door lock. When she finally focused on him again, he said, “I’m glad you’re here. Check this out.”

He opened and closed the doors a few times. “Hear anything?”

“No, but I heard something earlier. What did you drop?”

Okay, so she didn’t appreciate his handyman skills. “I tripped over the toolbox.”

She looked down. “I can tell by the assortment of tools spread out on the floor that today is ‘Get rid of loose hinges’ day.”

“Hey, I can’t believe Hallmark hasn’t thought of creating such a holiday!”

Yolanda didn’t laugh. In all the years he’d known her, she’d never responded to his humor. She’d been the straight A student who kept trying to tell him, “You should try harder,” while he’d been the class clown responding with a “Maybe later...”

And she’d been right. When later came, he’d been ill prepared. He’d had the opportunity of a lifetime the last few years and because he’d not had good business sense, he’d made one mistake after another.

Yolanda continued, “I think I’ll use that shade of orange on the upstairs baseboards. It will add a little character to the place.”

Adam shook his head. He might make poor business decisions and have no clue when it came to women, but he knew that would be wrong. This house was almost three thousand square feet of historical space and sculpture. The shade of orange she wanted hadn’t been invented when this house was built.

“Of course,” she continued, “I shouldn’t even be thinking of the upstairs until after the bookstore is a success.”

It would be a success, Adam thought, because she’d poured her heart into it. Per Yolanda’s orders, he’d painted every room—the foyer, study, parlor, dining room, bedroom, bathroom, enclosed breezeway and kitchen—a different vibrant color. The grand lady, a Queen Anne who probably missed her flowered wallpaper, had never shined so bright. Next he’d be working on the second-floor bedrooms. When he finished that she wanted him to turn the upstairs of the house’s two-story garage, which used to be a carriage house, into an apartment she could rent out.

He might not agree with her color choices, but he appreciated the work to take his mind off his mistakes and his family’s problems.

“This old dame doesn’t need any help with character. She’s loaded with it.”

“You did a great job,” she admitted. “But I’m more concerned about the woman I just spoke to. Are you sure no one went past you?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“She was old, really old, and tiny. She had gray hair with a hint of blond left. The cut was straight and close to the scalp. Her eyes were blue. She wore tiny pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her face was as wrinkled as any I’ve seen, and she was smoking a cigarette.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

Yolanda frowned. “I don’t smell it anymore, either. That’s so odd. Come, help me look. Maybe you can figure out how she just vanished.”

Adam followed her into what used to be the living room. Now it housed popular fiction. From there he passed her, meandering through horror, true crime and mystery before finally stopping in the history section.

“No. No lingering smell of cigarette smoke. Are you sure she had a cigarette?”

“I caught her right here, in this area. I didn’t recognize her, and when you made such a noise—” Yolanda glared at his tool belt as if it were somehow to blame “—she somehow got past me. I’ve never seen her before, and I didn’t get her name. I was hoping she came by you so you could fill me in.”

“What did she want?”

“She wanted to know if I had any old books about Scorpion Ridge.”

“Sounds harmless enough,” Adam said, “except for the cigarette.”

“I used to catch people trying to sneak cigarettes at BAA, but they always did it in some out-of-the-way corner. This woman didn’t care that she was breaking the law,” Yolanda said.

Adam had also been vigilant about smokers during his tenure at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. He’d taken the infraction a bit personally, as his autistic brother was bothered by smoke, so much so that he often demanded to be taken home if he smelled it, no matter how important the event the family was attending.

“And,” Yolanda continued, “the expression on her face wasn’t harmless. She stood in the middle of the room as if she had a right to be here.”

“At BAA we called that attitude entitlement.”

“Yes,” Yolanda agreed. “That’s exactly the attitude she personified.”

Adam glanced around the room loaded with history books. It even smelled old. This was not a place he would normally spend much time. His taste bent more toward true crime and horror.

“You really think people will buy old school history books?” he asked.

“I used to.”

“Well, you’ve always been a bit strange.”

Her color deepened, exactly the response he’d hoped for. He bent down, picking up a book that had fallen to the ground. “Soiled Doves of the Desert,” he read. “I’m thinking these aren’t the kind of doves that squawked.”

Yolanda took the book from his hand and placed it on the shelf. “I’m being serious. Something about her wasn’t right.”

“Well, she didn’t come past me. I’d have seen her.”

Annoyed, Yolanda said, “Which means she went out the back door, which is definitely not a public exit. And just how did she know where it was?”

“Are you talking to me or just muttering to yourself?”

“Both,” Yolanda retorted. She patted a bookshelf, moved a book then looked at the shelves below and above. “Oh, I almost forgot. She flicked the ashes...”

“What?”

Yolanda had gone pale. Not a color he liked seeing on her. She whispered a response, “She used my favorite yellow coffee cup as an ashtray. But the cup is gone.”

She kept searching the shelves and then went to the end table and chair in the corner of the room.

“You think she swiped your cup?” Adam asked.

“I can’t imagine why. This makes no sense.”

“You’re probably overreacting.”

“I don’t overreact, ever.”

That was true. She was always in control, always did what she was supposed to do. Yolanda had once been in a school play, and the stage had collapsed under her feet. She’d kept saying her lines even as the actor playing the cowardly lion helped her out of the hole.

“You had to have seen her.”

You have to pay more attention...

He’d heard that a million times growing up, mostly from his father. They’d never seen eye to eye on anything, particularly after he’d dropped out of high school, and Adam had been desperate to leave Scorpion Ridge as soon as possible. Now he was back.

“No one walked past me. She must have gone out the back.”

“But—”

He ruffled her hair, knowing it would distract her. “It doesn’t look like anything’s missing. It was probably some tourist who wandered in, realized she’d made a mistake and then wandered out.”

Yolanda nodded, though she didn’t appear convinced.

Adam checked his cell phone and turned to leave. “I’ve got to be at the Tae Kwon Do studio in thirty minutes, and I still need to finish the door.”

“Tell your brother I said hi.”

“I will.”

Snapp’s Studio, his family’s business, had employed the whole Snapp family for years—except for Adam. He was there now, though, once again working for his father. Only this time if his father made a request, Adam jumped to it, trying to make his dad’s life easier.

Tonight Adam was scheduled to give a lesson to a beginner class. His twin brother, Andy, would be there stacking mats, folding towels, offering advice from the side of the room. If the noise and chaos got overwhelming for Andy, he’d go into the back office away from everyone. But usually it was where Andy felt most comfortable.

Right after his brother was diagnosed with autism, a well-meaning counselor had handed Adam’s mother a pamphlet and recommended a group home for him.

Both parents decided that was not in Andy’s future.

Adam respected all they’d done to keep that from happening. Snapp’s Studio was the result of taking what Andy loved most and making it his life’s work.

Yolanda followed Adam. “You know, the old woman didn’t give me her name but she did say something about a relative. Have you heard of Chester Ventimiglia?”

“His name is on the courthouse wall. On a plaque.”

“Trust you to remember that. If an historic politician is commemorated anywhere in an artful way, you’ll know. Are you sure you don’t mean Richard? Wasn’t he a judge?”

Adam bent down, opened his toolbox and soon cleared the floor.

He was sure. Both Chester and Richard’s names were written on the courthouse, but they were two different engravings.

All his life his father had been telling Adam to pay attention to what went on around him, not to lose himself in whatever project he was engaged in.

And he’d been right.

Adam Snapp had become a successful artist, but he hadn’t been able to balance art and life. His art had become his sole focus.

All the while, the rest of his life had fallen apart.

CHAPTER TWO

IF ANYONE HAD told Yolanda that Adam would become Mr. Fix-it, she’d have laughed. He was a dreamer, an artist and a wanderer. His family and friends had always worried about him, sometimes even more than they had about his brother. But Yolanda had to admit, Adam always seemed to land on his feet, albeit wobbly.

After dropping out of high school, he’d managed to become a pseudo artist-in-residence, surviving by doing caricatures during the weekend and then masterminding most of the artwork—mostly murals—at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. Back then, a whole five years ago, he’d painted during the day and during the night, acted as a security guard in exchange for room and board.

Yolanda’s mom had called him a loser. But Trina Sanchez had thought only a man wearing a suit and tie and bringing home a four-digit-a-week paycheck was to be admired.

Yolanda had never met that man. Her memories of her own father were shadowy. She remembered that he was tall and that his chin and cheeks had always felt rough to her touch. He’d smelled of ink, as he’d worked in Phoenix at some type of print shop. He’d died when Yolanda was four. Her mother hadn’t talked about him much, simply saying he should have had more drive.

Yolanda had long suspected that no one possessed enough drive to please her mother. Yolanda certainly hadn’t.

When it came to Adam Snapp, Yolanda couldn’t get a handle on whether he had drive or not. He was passionate about his art, and never seemed to worry about anything else, like rent or food. In his teens and early twenties, he’d been content to live in an old house, more a caretaker’s cabin, on BAA’s property. Existing day to day, almost like a hippie. Yolanda had almost envied him this worry-free existence.

Unfortunately, there’d been only so many walls to paint in Scorpion Ridge, which was just a tiny spot on the Arizona map. Fortunately, his talent had gotten noticed, big-time, and he’d left Scorpion Ridge with a suitcase of clothes and four suitcases of art supplies. At least that’s what Yolanda’s grandmother had heard from Mr. Teasdale, who’d heard it from... Well, the small-town grapevine had many roots.

What Yolanda remembered most was that when Adam left Scorpion Ridge, her mom had shaken her head and given him six months before he came back, head hanging, to move in with his parents.

Yolanda had refrained from mentioning that she still lived with her parent. And, although Yolanda nodded in agreement with her mother’s prediction, secretly she believed Adam would do something great with his talent. She respected that he had the motivation to follow his muse to other places. She’d been so busy making sure she got straight A’s that she’d not had time to develop a muse. Wasn’t sure she knew how.

And, though she’d never admit it, especially to him, she thought Adam was quite good.

To everyone’s surprise, two years after Adam left, an article in the Scorpion Ridge Gazette reported that he’d won a national competition and was becoming fairly well-known, with patrons willing to pay in the five digits for his art.

Even in black-and-white, the winning mural featured in the newspaper was riveting. It was as if Adam had only been practicing when he’d painted all the murals at BAA. His real talent lay elsewhere.

And now he worked for her, removing hinges.

“Yolanda.”

Startled, Yolanda blinked, realizing that she’d followed Adam to the front porch and had just stopped, afraid to go back in the house but unsure what to do next.

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

Yolanda started to protest, but stopped. Adam, of all people, could read people’s moods. He’d been doing it his whole life, watching out for his disabled brother by diffusing emotional situations before they got out of hand.

“You’re right,” she admitted, “for some reason, I’m overreacting.”

“Not like you,” he admitted. “How can I help?”

It felt strange to accept help from him. She and Adam were usually adversaries—she promoting the side of logic; he on the side of risk.

She glanced back at the house, almost asking him to walk around with her again. Help her figure out where the woman had gone, how she’d disappeared. He’d do it, she knew. He would never walk away from someone who needed him.

“Nothing right now,” she finally said. “I’ll figure it out.”

He nodded, not looking convinced, and he took a couple of steps down the front stairs.

She didn’t want him to go.

“Adam, why’d you come home?”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. “Haven’t you heard? I came back to help my parents.”

Yolanda knew that his dad had hurt his back while teaching a Tae Kwon Do class, and that the doctor had found something suspicious in the X-ray. But Adam’s parents were young. Probably in their fifties.

Her mother had been young, too, even though Yolanda had been a change-of-life baby, a complete surprise, born when her mother was forty-six. She’d passed away at seventy-one, too young. Yolanda still wanted her mother. And Gramma Rosi was eighty-six. Maybe eighty-seven. No one was quite sure.

“I heard that but didn’t realize your father was so sick that you had to give up your career.”

“Sometimes family comes first.”

No, Yolanda thought. Family always comes first.

But she didn’t buy that his father’s illness was the only thing that had brought Adam home. Something had to have happened, something that had stymied his paintbrush, filled his eyes with sadness and erased the smile from his face.

Yolanda didn’t know what, but right now she was glad he was here because his over-six-foot frame made her feel protected. She rather liked the sensation. The old woman must have really spooked her, enough so that she walked to the edge of the steps, closer to him. Funny, she’d never realized just how tall he was.

“I’ve got a class to teach,” he reminded her, but he didn’t leave. The street in front of her wasn’t busy. It was a small-town kind of Monday, paced for the beginning of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday would see more people out and about. By Thursday the out-of-towners would arrive not only to enjoy the wildlife habitat but also to stay at the many ranches that catered to weekend cowboys.

It was Yolanda’s town. The Acuras had arrived here just after the Moores and Ventimiglias. She liked the close-knit Scorpion Ridge community, quaint downtown and the feeling of a rich history that came with it. Adam had always been meant for bigger and better things, however.

He stood for a moment, watching her. “If you’re really afraid, you can always come to the studio with me. I doubt your ghost will be signed up for a beginner’s class.”

“She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t smoke.” Yolanda stepped around him and settled in one of the two rocking chairs on the front porch and studied her surroundings. Across the street, a young woman pushed a stroller. The woman’s husband worked at a nearby mine. Maybe someday she’d come in for a romance novel for her and a picture book for the baby. Another neighbor raked his yard. A car—Yolanda recognized it as belonging to the minister—traveled down the street and turned right.

Nothing was out of place or suspicious.

“She’s gone,” Yolanda muttered.

“Who’s gone?”

Yolanda started at the new voice. “Gramma Rosi, where’d you come from?”

“I was sitting in the backyard on the swing, enjoying the garden. I thought it was time to come in.”

Rosi Acura still owned the house, still had a key. She could visit whenever she wanted...and apparently leave doors unlocked so people could wander in off the street.

Right now she called a lot of shots in Yolanda’s life. Her biggest stipulation: “Even though I’m giving you the house, I still want things in my name. I’ll pay the gas and water and such. All the taxes.”

When Yolanda protested, Gramma Rosi merely scoffed and added her two cents to Yolanda’s mom’s wish that her daughter live her dream. “In the world today there are people who love what they do and people who don’t know how to love. You are a lot like your mother, but you don’t have to live like she did. All my life I worried about that girl.”

“Hello, Mrs. Acura,” Adam said. He took two steps down the front stairs, apparently feeling it was okay to leave now that Yolanda wasn’t alone.

“Adam, I love what you’ve done to the floorboards. They look like they did when my family first moved in.”

“When was that, Mrs. Acura?”

“Nineteen hundred and forty-six... maybe earlier, or later. I had just turned sixteen. Until now, it’s always been a private residence.” Gramma Rosi gazed up at the house, all smiles, something in her eyes that Yolanda didn’t understand.

“It’s still somewhat a private residence,” Yolanda reminded her. “I’m living upstairs, remember.”

Maybe Scorpion Ridge was too small a town for a used bookstore... That had been her aunt Freda’s comment. Rosi’s second daughter. Yolanda had always thought it magical that her grandmother had had two families. First, she’d had Trina. Then, when Trina was grown and gone, she’d had two more children.

“They kept me young,” Gramma Rosi claimed. “Also, it made it so much easier to lie about my age.” Freda had moved to California the day after her college graduation. They saw her maybe once every three years.

You’ll have to take care of your own insurance, both life and medical... That had been her uncle Juan’s contribution. He was Gramma’s youngest child.

He lived life to the fullest, always had, yet seemed to land on his feet and make good decisions. Yolanda, on the other hand, needed prodding to take risks and sometimes took so long deciding which course to take that she missed out on opportunities.

But Rosi had made the decision to open the bookstore easy by giving Yolanda her house. “You, more than Freda or Juan, deserve the house. Take it now while I can enjoy watching what you do with it.”

True, Freda was in California. She didn’t want it. Juan lived in Phoenix in a gated community, complete with wife and children and all their activities, although he did love to come visit.

Grandma had another stipulation. “And I’ll work for you. You don’t even have to pay me.”

Just what Yolanda needed. Gramma Rosi would give away books if the customer didn’t have enough money, or worse, she would lend him the money. And if a book that had questionable content—maybe it was a bit too sensual—wound up on her counter, she’d accidentally misplace it. Even if a buyer was right in front of her.

But her immediate concern was the mysterious older woman. “Gramma, did anyone leave out the back door while you were sitting in the backyard swing?”

“No, why?”

“I found an elderly woman in the history section. She said she was searching for a book. I turned away for a moment and when I looked back, she was gone.”

“It was someone you didn’t know?”

“She said she was related to the Ventimiglia family.”

Gramma Rosi’s smile disappeared. “You must be mistaken,” she said. “That family died out. They’ll do no more harm.”

“Harm?” Yolanda said.

“What did she look like? What did she want?”

Quickly, Yolanda described the woman and mentioned the book she’d asked after.

“Phhh,” said Rosi, still frowning. “Probably some reporter thinking there was a story. The Ventimiglias used to own just about everything in these parts. If she appears again, you find me.”

“But—”

“Just do it,” Gramma Rosi said.

With that, she went inside. Yolanda watched her climb the wide stairs, slowly and stiffly.

“I’ve never seen her like that,” Yolanda remarked.

“I’m curious, too, now. Let me call GG,” Adam offered, setting his tool chest on the porch. “If there’s a Ventimiglia relative still living and hiding somewhere, she’d know.”

For a moment Yolanda thought about saying no. Her grandmother had been so upset. But why?

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“They’re about the same age, your grandmother and mine.”

Which meant that Adam’s great-grandmother Loretta, who wouldn’t let him add great to her title and so was called GG, was nearing ninety.

“She was a Realtor for all those years,” Adam said. “What she doesn’t know about Scorpion Ridge isn’t worth knowing.” He fetched his cell phone from one of his many pockets and soon was busy trying to get the lowdown on the Ventimiglias.

Yolanda sat down on the top step, wrapping her arms around her knees and listening.

“GG says she thinks the family has died out, too,” he reported. “And she’s never heard of a Chester. GG wants to know if you’re sure the name was Chester and not Richard.”

“I’m sure.”

“Guess neither of you noticed the plaque on the courthouse in the middle of town,” Adam teased before returning to the call. He paid rapt attention to Loretta, nodding exaggeratedly before sharing, “The last Ventimiglia, not named Chester, left decades ago, more than six.” He listened some more, finally saying to Yolanda, “GG says they were not a nice family, and everyone was glad to see them go.”

“Well, your great-grandma and my gramma agree. Hmmm, why’d they leave?” Yolanda wondered.

But Adam was still intently listening to Loretta. “GG says she’s not heard the name Ventimiglia in a long time. She’s sure you’re mistaken about the name.”

“No, I’m not. And the name sure got a rise out of my gramma.”

Adam shrugged and handed Yolanda the phone.

“The Ventimiglias are long gone,” Loretta Snapp said, her voice guarded. “Died out, and I don’t recall there being a Chester. But my grandson says his name is on the courthouse wall. Adam’s always had a good memory. It’s been years since I’ve even thought about the family.”

“Did you know any of the Ventimiglias?” Yolanda asked.

“The person Adam described sounds like Ivy, but she died a long time ago. Why, she’d be almost ninety if she were alive.”

“Sorry,” Yolanda said, thinking that Loretta hadn’t really answered the question. “And she didn’t have any children?”

“Oh, she lived the life she deserved, went off to college, but never married or had any children.”

“Are there any distant cousins or such?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The family left town when I was still a teenager. It caused a bit of a scandal.”

“Any idea what the scandal was?”

“No.”

“So my elderly visitor was probably somebody doing a bit of research on town history,” Yolanda decided.

“If you want to know about old families, ask me about mine. I was born a Munro. I married a Snapp, who’ve lived in Scorpion Ridge for over a hundred years. I can also tell you about the Moores and the Sheldons and—”

“That’s all right,” Yolanda said.

Adam held out his hand, and after thanking Loretta, Yolanda returned his phone. He said goodbye and hurried down the steps to his ancient minivan. He was the only guy she knew who willingly drove one. It had always been full of paints, brushes and old towels.

It perfectly represented his vagabond life and reminded Yolanda that she’d only be able to rely on him temporarily.

Heading back toward the house, Yolanda couldn’t help but feel that Adam’s grandmother, who apparently was well versed in the whole history of Scorpion Ridge and its oldest families, knew more than she was telling.

* * *

SNAPP’S TAE KWON DO studio was in a strip mall nestled between a nail salon and a doughnut shop. It would celebrate fifteen years of service in a few months. In some ways the studio was a blessing. It gave Adam’s autistic brother, Andy, a productive way to earn a living. But it had also been a huge change for the Snapps. When Adam was eleven, his father had walked away from a six-figure white-collar job and purchased the studio. The Snapps had gone from buying whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to spending on a budget.

And Adam had been angry. He’d liked having a television in his room, being able to get any video game he wanted and the best art supplies.

It had been the beginning of his strained relationship with his father. Adam had just wanted a voice, to be heard, but his dad had never seemed to want to listen.

This afternoon the parking area in front of their studio was fairly empty, as the Scorpion Ridge schools didn’t get out for another hour, and the two morning Tae Kwon Do classes, one for tots and the other for seniors, had ended before Adam rolled out of bed.

“Hey,” his mother greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. She was at the front desk taking advantage of the lull by counting out fliers to be delivered to the local schools and anywhere kids or any potential client might be found.

“Andy feeling better?” Adam asked.

“No, he’s been in his room all day. Doesn’t want to come out.”

“Still don’t know what triggered the mood swing?”

“Not a clue.”

Andy was a creature of habit, a connoisseur of routine. If his day got out of whack, he closed down.

“Want some help?” Adam offered.

“No, go on back and see your father. He tried calling you earlier.” Marianne smiled at him, as she had his entire life. She’d been his champion, but she hadn’t really understood him, either.

Adam figured his dad was checking up on him, calling to make sure he would fill in for Andy and the three-thirty class. Adam didn’t need reminders. He was here to help out, and that’s what he’d do.

Well, that was the price for arriving early: too much time to talk. His dad might have traded a suit and tie for a white sparring uniform called a dobok, but he still harbored the soul of an accountant. He liked every task to be itemized, completed and checked off.

Maybe that was where Andy got his extreme need for routine.

Robert Snapp was hunched over his desk, muttering about paperwork and frowning. He still believed, even after almost a decade, that somehow Snapp’s Studio would turn a decent profit. Maybe in the big city, but here in Scorpion Ridge?

Getting sick had only made him want to succeed more.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Adam had ignored his dad’s phone call, but it was harder to ignore the man.

“Sit down.”

Adam reminded himself that he was a foot taller than his dad and that he’d been living on his own a long time: two years working at BAA and five years in three different states as a well-paid muralist.

But all he could remember was that every time he was called into his dad’s office, whether it was here at Snapp’s Studio or at home, he would hear how displeased his father was with him. Adam had sat through hundreds of lectures grilling him on grades that were never the best, goals that were not met and how in the Snapp household everyone had a job.

Problem was, the job his dad wanted him to do and the job Adam had been born to do were two different things. Choosing a paintbrush over a “reliable” career had put the two men on opposite sides, and neither was willing to swim to the other.

Until Dad got sick.

“It’s good to have you home,” Dad said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Adam started to remind his dad that this was temporary, but stopped himself. Adam had had five years to miss his family and to consider the real meaning of home.

“It’s good to be home.”

One thing his ex-girlfriend Stacey had taught him was that home was temporary and love wasn’t always unconditional. To some it was the means to an end.

Now, though, his dad needed him. Dad had injured his back three months ago at the studio. He still moved slowly, and a wrong move would put him in bed. But then a blood test had turned up something more serious: pancreatic cancer. His parents had been very optimistic about treatment and recovery, but Adam hadn’t thought twice about coming home. He wanted to see the world and work a career he loved, but he could put his family first for a while.

Taking a deep breath, Adam reminded himself to keep thinking as positively as his parents, because thinking any other way made the truth all too clear.

His father could die.

So until his dad’s health returned, Adam would teach the classes that his brother and the other instructor, Mr. Chee, couldn’t.

“Glad you’re here early,” his father said. It was his idea of a compliment.

“I was working over at Yolanda’s. She’ll be opening on time.” Adam waited for the chitchat to end. His father wanted to talk about something more important than what he’d done that day.

“She’s a hard worker. So was her mother.” Adam’s dad approved of hard workers, whether they be a waitress at the local restaurant, or a grocery store clerk, or a housekeeper.

Roving mural painter didn’t make his list, though. It didn’t make Yolanda’s list, either. She’d stopped speaking to him when he dropped out of school, muttering something about people not knowing when they had it good. Back then, he’d thought she was talking about his dropping out, home life and art. Now, after working with her these past few months, he realized she’d just meant his home life.

She was right. He’d taken his family, especially Andy, for granted. His talent, too. Now that both were in jeopardy, he realized just how much he could lose.

Adam smiled, thinking about Yolanda. At first glance she was quiet, deceivingly hesitant, but underneath she was all fire and opinions. But she never got flustered. Not even when they’d worked together at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. If they’d had a problem, she’d just calmly tug on his sleeve and say, “The anaconda is loose” with no more concern than if she were asking for a tissue.

But she’d made it clear that she felt he should charge for his murals. She was a bit more impressed that he did caricatures for pay on the weekend, but only a bit.

She was too much of a Type A. Always with her calendar filled with tasks and no time to watch the sunset. Let alone enjoy it.

Just like his father.

“You had something you wanted to say to me?” Adam chose not to sit but remained standing. He didn’t want his father looking down on him.

His dad closed the folder he’d been fingering. The pause was typical, but had a different feel. Adam started to worry. Finally, his dad said, “Shut the door.”

Adam did as requested.

“Your mom and I are going to get a place in Phoenix for a while, close to the Mayo Clinic. The doctors want to do exploratory surgery to see what can be done—either good news or bad.”

“Will this improve your chances?”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you anymore. It might give me five more years.”

Adam’s breath left his chest like a vacuum taking air from the room. The lights seemed to dim. And Adam, who didn’t cry, felt his throat close and his eyes water. He couldn’t talk.

His father continued. “We’ll be relying on you a bit more.”

Adam nodded. His parents couldn’t stay in Phoenix if no one was around to take care of Andy, not just at home but here, at Snapp’s Studio. “Sure, I’ll do it.” Unbidden came the thought: this might be the last thing my father asks of me.

His dad blinked, clearly surprised. “You will? It means working more hours at the studio and some real time with your brother.”

“Of course. When will you be going?”

“We’re working on—” his dad hesitated “—on getting the money together.”

Adam swallowed. He’d have money to give his parents if he’d been a little wiser. If he hadn’t trusted in Stacey’s supposed love.

Stacey Baer had wanted to be an artist, so she claimed. He’d met her when he’d been commissioned to do a mural for the town of Wildrose, Illinois, and she’d insinuated herself into his work and his life almost immediately. She’d climbed right up on the catwalk beside Adam as he started sketching the train and all the history of Wildrose, population two thousand and three—counting him.

He’d loved the old building the town was turning into a museum. It had character. No one was threatening to paint it Kool-Aid orange! Having someone next to him who appreciated art had made the job all the better.

He’d shared his craft, his apartment and his money.

Growing up in Scorpion Ridge, he’d been insulated. No one had taken advantage of him, ever. And he’d made sure no one took advantage of Andy. They were the Snapp brothers. People admired his family, especially his dad, who’d sacrificed so much. They were pillars of the town. They paid their bills, attended parades, went to church... It had ill prepared Adam for the realities of life.

Six months later, as soon as he finished the mural, Stacey had cleaned out his bank account and broken his heart. Last he’d heard, she was in Boston. That is if she hadn’t run out of his cash. He hadn’t been able to paint since.

“You need money, Dad?”

“I’ll get it.”

Which probably meant Adam’s grandmother was already involved. She’d been careful with every cent, but still couldn’t have that much to spare. More than ever, Adam wished he had the money he’d earned and the muse that Stacey had taken when she left. He’d been foolish. And now he realized the cost.

“How much will the surgery cost?”

“Between medical bills and living expenses...at least twenty thousand dollars. But I don’t want you to worry about that. The operation’s been scheduled for a few weeks from now.”

“You gonna be able to get around okay until then?” Already Dad was missing work, sitting down a lot when he used to always be on the move. He wasn’t eating much, either.

“I plan on giving it my all.”

“Andy know?”

“Not yet.”

Adam wasn’t sure he wanted to be in the room when Mom told his big brother about the change in his routine. Older by just two minutes, Andy was brilliant, which sometimes made living with his disorder harder. People started to expect him to be brilliant in everything, which was impossible.

Looking around his father’s office, Adam took in the pictures. They were mostly of Dad and Andy. Andy was shorter than Adam, coming up to Adam’s chest. He was thicker, too, but not by much. Tae Kwon Do was to thank for his fairly slender build because Andy loved to eat. They both had the same brown, unruly hair, the same nose, same smile. Adam was a bit more prone to whiskers, though. Adam was in a few of the photos. He and his brother both were featured in the one where his dad had been painting the words Snapp’s Studio onto the building. Each brother held a paintbrush and was looking at the camera, both innocent still, not realizing how much time and energy this new endeavor would take.

Adam had gone the whole route, all the way to black belt. He’d competed and done well. But in about eighth grade, he’d backed off, realizing that Tae Kwon Do was something his brother needed more.

And really, Adam had his art. Snapp’s Studio was awash in murals. It had been Adam’s first blank wall and the one time when his father hadn’t shook his head at the waste of time.

“Are you going to ask—” Adam began.

“GG already said she’d move in, too, while we’re gone.”

“Did you talk her into teaching the senior session?”

His dad laughed. For all their angst, Dad’s disappointment and Adam’s disregard for “going into a profession where you can make a living,” they shared one trait. Both fiercely loved and protected their family, especially Andy.

Adam wondered if the bond between him and his brother would have been as strong if Andy hadn’t had autism. He doubted it.

When Adam was in fifth grade, his mother had told him that having an autistic brother made the family more of a unit, working together for the good of the whole. Andy didn’t get other people’s jokes, often said the wrong thing and liked routine. He was perfect at Snapp’s Studio, though. He’d laugh at the little kids’ jokes no matter if they were funny or not. In turn, the kids didn’t notice or care when he said the wrong thing. And, as long as the kids tried to follow him, that was routine enough. Best of all for them, he clapped no matter how the students performed.

“You’d need to move back home,” his dad said.

Adam nodded. He really liked living in the groundskeeper’s cabin over at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. It was off the beaten path and felt right. His best memories were there: learning how to make it on his own, realizing that he could make a living off his art. Best of all, he could paint there and leave his supplies where they lay. The house he’d grown up in hadn’t offered that option. It was a “clean up when you’re done” kind of atmosphere where get-er-done meant get-er-done in one setting. Most of Adam’s projects took a week if not more.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

“I might be able to handle things without GG needing to move in,” Adam offered.

Loretta was in her late eighties and still sold realty. Granted, those transactions were few and far between and mostly just for dedicated clients—most as old as she was. But she had her own routine, and it wouldn’t jibe with Andy’s.

“We appreciate it, Adam. You can make the guest room your own,” his father offered.

But it had been a long time since Adam had felt anything was his own.

* * *

CHECKING HER WATCH, Yolanda decided to finish stocking the last few rows of the children’s room. The decor there was the opposite of the history and nonfiction room. The room had not a shred of seriousness in its atmosphere; instead, it was bright, colorful and inviting.

She’d already spent way too much time investigating what was probably a harmless old woman who simply wanted to read about the history of a town her forefathers helped create. With that in mind, Yolanda went looking for the books she’d left waiting on a shelf in the middle of the second floor.

Two Ramona books were on the floor. Yolanda picked them up. Their author, Beverly Cleary, had started life as a librarian before writing some of the best children’s books. Five-year-old Yolanda had begged for a chapter of Henry and Beezus each night.

Two books remained on the shelf where Yolanda had placed them earlier.

Two?

Yolanda frowned. She only remembered carrying three books in the series. Two were on the floor; only one was supposed to be on the shelf.

“How funny,” she whispered as she picked up the top book, which was clearly not intended for the children’s area. It was dark blue, dusty and had faded embossed gold lettering proclaiming the title Stories of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona.

Unease followed Yolanda as she walked toward the history and nonfiction room. She really wished that Adam hadn’t left. She was sure this book hadn’t been in her hands this morning when she’d been interrupted by the old woman. The book certainly hadn’t made its way to the shelf by itself.

Someone else had been in her used bookstore.

Or perhaps the old woman had found the book—without Yolanda noticing?—and then realized it was the wrong one.

Yolanda might have chosen to forget the whole incident if she hadn’t been a stickler for details. Inside the cover page a name was written. Black ink, perfectly formed letters, all caps, looking almost like one word.

CHESTER VENTIMIGLIA

CHAPTER THREE

TUESDAY MORNING ADAM’S phone sounded way too early. He’d always preferred to wake up when his body wanted to wake up rather than when the alarm said it was time.

Nowadays he woke up a lot earlier. Mostly because he wasn’t painting way into the night.

“I’m awake,” he muttered into the phone.

“I’m trying to find Adam Snapp,” a voice said.

“You found him.”

“I’m William Woodhull Huckabee. I’m just outside of town. I own—”

“You own all the ostriches.”

Huckabee chuckled. “That would be me. Huckabee’s Harem is about to expand. We’re trying to bring more visitors to our door. I’ve seen your work around BAA, and I wondered if you’d be willing to do a mural for us?”

“No,” Adam said, swallowing hard. “No, I’m not doing murals anymore. But I can make a referral.”

Huckabee paused before saying, “No, I don’t want a referral. I was hoping to do a bit of tie-in with BAA. After all, they don’t have ostriches, and when we get visitors to town, having two places to visit is a plus. If both attractions have a similar look, we can maybe combine our advertising. I can make it worth your while. What do you usually charge?”

He’d been paid twenty-five thousand, plus room and board, for the Wildrose job. From start to finish, it had taken six months. Since then, he’d had three more offers, all in the same price range. He’d turned the jobs down and come home with an almost empty checking account.

Huckabee’s Harem, however, was not a twenty-five thousand dollar kind of establishment. And Adam, still licking wounds that weren’t healing, couldn’t take the job. Didn’t matter the payoff.

But the money could go right to his father. He paused for a moment, running the idea through his mind, trying to picture himself with a clean slate.

No picture came; only a clean slate remained.

He’d make the money some other way. He could do it. Would do it.

“Sorry, I’ve gotten out of the business. I’m doing something else now.” It wasn’t a lie. He was teaching Tae Kwon Do classes, taking over the care of his brother and remodeling Yolanda’s Victorian.

None of which would bring him the money he needed to help his father. Maybe he should take a lesson from Yolanda. At least once a day she sat down with her spreadsheet and made sure that she was sticking to her budget, following the business plan she’d created. If Adam were lucky, he’d break even this month and manage to put gas in his van and food in his belly.

He was right back where he started: just getting by. Proving his father right. But his lack of career had also made him available when his father needed him.

Getting back that career would help his father even more.

“Tell you what,” Huckabee said, “I’m not in a hurry. I’ll give you a few weeks. You change your mind, give me a call. Better yet, come on out. We’re fairly new, and the locals haven’t really taken to stopping by. I’ll show you around. Bring the family.”

Definitely not an outing that would fit into his brother Andy’s routine. Adam had taken him to BAA, but he hadn’t been able to handle all the noise and chaos.

“Okay, I appreciate that.” After a quick goodbye, not giving Huckabee a chance to say any more, Adam rolled out of bed.

Good thing Huckabee had called. Adam had to teach a class this morning. After a decent breakfast, doughnuts and milk from the grocery store in town, Adam made it to Snapp’s Studio where his first step was to head down to the dressing room and change into his uniform. He had a ten-thirty class with ten students, all at various levels. One was actually better than he was. Two were beginning their second week. There was even a mom.

An hour later Adam applauded his class for being the best they could be and went through his list of reminders: their next lesson was on Thursday, there was a competition in Mesa this coming Saturday and they still had time to sign up and that a School Special started in just over a week. For the month of September, anyone who brought in a spelling test with a perfect grade got a ten dollar coupon for a Snapp’s Studio T-shirt.

His dad believed that Tae Kwon Do had to include the whole student, not just the student who showed up for lessons a few hours a week. Adam’s dad monitored the school kids’ homework and attitude.

Nobody dared mention Adam’s own past grades or bad attitude.

Changing back into his regular clothes, Adam tossed his uniform into the laundry bag and headed for the front lobby. There would be another lesson at four, but it would be taught by Mr. Chee.

Adam’s dad and brother were in Phoenix volunteering at a food donation center. They’d been going every Tuesday morning for a decade. Andy was a natural at sorting, and sorting was just what the donation center needed.

Adam had gone with them a time or two. But the repetition, standing still, had made him want to scream. His dad, however, never even blinked at the challenge.

Adam’s mother was up front. The beginning of the school year meant his parents put out a rash of advertising. She had stacks of brochures ready to go, all crisscrossed with sticky notes marking their destination.

“Want me to deliver these, Mom?”

She looked up at him, a half smile on her face, but tears were shimmering in her eyes.

“Mom, you all right?”

“No. Yes. There’s just such a lot going on. And I appreciate you staying with Andy while...” She didn’t finish. Instead, she came around the desk and reached up to hug him. He realized just how small she was, and yet she always carried so much: his dad, his brother, him.

He was more like her than he was his father. She was the decorator, and he’d gotten his love of color from her. When he was six, he’d helped her paint the living room as well as put tile down.

After a while she let go and stepped away.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Mom.”

“Your delivering these fliers would really help.”

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of Snapp’s Studio, staring at the sign, at the advertisements posted on the windows and at his mom still working at her desk inside.

It was in little more than a strip mall.

His dad had traded the highlife for such a venture. His dad had had a good reason, though. He’d not given up on his old life; he had instead given his all to what mattered.

Adam wasn’t sure he could say the same. But he was determined to change that.

* * *

YOLANDA HADN’T SLEPT all night. Every noise she’d heard had had her grabbing a flashlight and heading downstairs. Plus, when she’d showed the book to Rosi, her grandmother hadn’t remembered owning such a book and refused to even look at it, muttering that she didn’t want to remember the Ventimiglias.

Odd.

Yolanda had then spent an hour going through the books she still had to shelve. None were on the history of Scorpion Ridge. Later that evening Gramma Rosi begged off Yolanda’s offer to take her out to dinner because her favorite television show was on. Gramma Rosi never put television before family.

So she’d taken the mysterious book to bed. Now on Yolanda’s nightstand was a book that didn’t belong to her, but possibly did belong to a woman who’d not only disturbed Yolanda but had also disturbed her grandmother.

Adding to Yolanda’s anxiety, the book’s letters were small and handwritten, the words running close together—forget paragraphs. There were no indentations. Her head started hurting after reading two pages. So at midnight, when she realized sleep was a goal not to be realized, she settled on reading the pages devoted to a Ventimiglia: Richard. Chester wasn’t mentioned at all.

What she did like about the book were the drawings. Hundreds of thumbnails all about Scorpion Ridge. Some were faded and impossible to make out. Others, though, were still crisp and clear, almost jumping off the page in bold strokes.

Bold strokes? Now that was an Adam Snapp term.

The pictures were of homes and people—mostly faces. Most of the places were long gone; most of the people had passed away. She recognized her own house, looking much the same only with a stable. The other house she recognized was downtown and housed the Scorpion Ridge Historical Society Museum. The drawing showed the building with a door in the middle and two windows flanking it on each side. It looked the same today, except the front door had been moved, and there was now a swamp cooler on top. Yolanda had been there many times and remembered that the hardwood floor creaked and the ceilings were low. The back porch was big enough to sleep on. It was an old adobe dwelling with a plaster coating, same as in the picture.

Next came a drawing of an old mission that looked a lot like San Xavier Mission in Tucson. Under the drawing was a name, but Yolanda couldn’t make it out. The last structure she recognized was the old Scorpion Ridge courthouse. She remembered hearing about it in school. The old building had burned down in nineteen hundred and forty-six and had been replaced with an ugly cement structure.

But Adam had mentioned there was a plaque on the wall that mentioned Chester Ventimiglia. Here was something Yolanda could actually investigate! She finally fell asleep knowing how she’d spend her morning.

Her alarm sounded and she rolled out of bed at the first ring. Today she’d strive for good mood and peace of mind.

Not always easy. Yolanda had always been a worrier. Gramma Rosi blamed Yolanda’s mother for passing on such an unnecessary pastime. Yolanda knew that worry was a choice, and one she needed to make differently. She got up, got dressed and made an easy breakfast: cereal. Then she checked her to-do list before spending the next few hours stocking the last empty shelves in the children’s area.

Tired of bending, dusty from the books and needing to get outside, Yolanda locked the front door behind her and walked downtown. It took her three blocks and ten minutes. It would have only taken her eight minutes, but there were plenty of people to say good morning to. All asked about her grandmother. Two asked about the opening of her bookstore and promised to bring her some gently used books. And one offered a marriage proposal.

“No, thanks, Otis. I’m too busy to get married.”

Otis Wilson gazed past Yolanda at her Victorian. “I used to love a girl who lived there, you know.”

Yolanda wasn’t surprised. According to legend, her Gramma Rosi had been quite a looker. Of course, Gramma Rosi liked to weave her own legends. Whether they were true or not...

Yolanda arrived at Scorpion Ridge’s courthouse at the same time as the mayor, who’d been her third grade teacher. Janice Kolby had handed Yolanda her first Ramona book. “I hear the bookstore’s coming along,” Mayor Kolby said.

“Every room is stocked.”

“Make sure you take advantage of all the tax breaks given to female business owners.” With that, Mayor Kolby hurried through the front door. According to Gramma, the mayor was just as good at fiscal responsibility as she was averaging classroom grades. Which meant Gramma was pleased because Scorpion Ridge was debt-free.

Yolanda hoped her bookstore was a success and she could continue to be debt-free. If the business failed and she lost all her mother’s money...? Maybe she should have taken a “real” job. One that had benefits and where she didn’t need to prove herself.

Or maybe she should have bought the Corner Diner. She’d been offered that business, one already established and making a profit. Lucille Salazar, the owner, had been wooing Yolanda for years.

“You’re the best cook in town” had been her first compliment. “Come work for me.”

That had been a mere five years ago, and Yolanda had been attending college and working as a housekeeper for Ruth Dunbar, who used to be a Moore, owner of one of the other still-standing houses in Yolanda’s book.

Not Yolanda’s book—it was Chester’s.

Then Lucille had tried, “A little restaurant is easier to manage than a mansion. Come work for me.”

Yolanda’s hours had been flexible when she’d worked for Ruth. The pay had been good. And Ruth had treated Yolanda like a daughter who happened to help around the house.

Ruth had paid for most of Yolanda’s schooling because no one—not Yolanda, Gramma or Ruth—had known that Trina was a miser.

Eventually, Lucille said, “I’m wanting to retire. I’ll give you a good price.” But Yolanda didn’t want to own a restaurant. She loved books. They opened windows to adventure and took readers to new worlds. So if she was going to take a risk, she wanted it to be for something she loved.

Today, however, Yolanda’s adventure was the Scorpion Ridge courthouse, and it was nothing to get excited about. When the original building depicted in the book had burned down, only the iron doors had been salvaged. Adam was right, though. A bronze plaque was on the front wall, down a bit from the doors, and now partially hidden by a giant bougainvillea bush. Yolanda had to step off the walkway in order to read the words. They were weathered, time-faded and neglected. She brushed away a bit of mud that obscured the first word. She traced the engraving, so worn away by time that it could barely be read.

Erected in nineteen hundred and fifty because of Richard Ventimiglia and by Chester Ventimiglia, by his hard work and money.

She’d once known a poet who’d said, “I’d rather write a book than a poem. Much easier to get everything said.”

This plaque boasted sixteen words, and Yolanda immediately realized their depth. His hands not their hands. His money not their money.

“So you never noticed this before?”

Yolanda jumped.

Adam grinned, only one side of his mouth going up in a lazy, devil-may-care expression. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I was delivering a stack of advertisements—” he held up a flier with Snapp’s Studio pictured across the top and a twenty percent discount coupon on the bottom “—to the woman in charge of parks and recreation.”

Must be an easy job, Yolanda thought. Scorpion Ridge had one park and very little recreation. Maybe that was why it was debt-free.

“I didn’t hear you come up, and no, I’ve never noticed this before.”

“One of my art teachers brought us here when I was in fourth grade,” Adam said. “We used butcher paper and charcoal to make a rubbing. I still remember how what we re-created was clearer than what we could actually see.” He reached out a finger and traced what looked like bumps and grooves. “These are actually two angels holding a banner.”

“What does the banner say?”

“Impossible to tell. The teacher guessed that it was something about God. I never thought that, though. None of the letters resembled a G to me. And what we decipher of the letters didn’t form any biblical saying I could think of.”

“Oh,” she joked, “and in fourth grade you knew quite a few biblical sayings.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I’m surprised that I’ve never heard of Chester, only Richard. And I can’t find any information about Chester. I searched last night, both online and among some of my grandmother’s books.” Yolanda peered at the plaque, now noticing the top. “You know, this could easily be restored.”

“At a cost, and no one really cares,” Adam pointed out.

“It’s part of our history.”

“Forgotten history. Maybe if there were some Ventimiglias still around...”

“That woman yesterday said she was visiting relatives of the Ventimiglias.” Yolanda truly wished Adam had spoken to the old woman, too. No one seemed to believe her. “Never mind. What do you think it means that this refers to Chester’s hard work and money but not Richard’s?”

“Huh?”

Yolanda read the plaque aloud to him, emphasizing the pronoun. “It sounds like Chester not only paid for but also helped build the courthouse.”

“Richard was a judge,” Adam remembered. “He’d have had money.”

“Yes, that’s in here.” Yolanda hoisted her backpack around to the front of her body and pulled out the dark blue book. She flipped to a page and read, “Richard Ventimiglia was born in Wisconsin, a graduate of West Point, class of nineteen hundred and one. He then went into the army as a second lieutenant before going back to school. This time he attended National University Law School, before coming to Arizona—which wasn’t a state yet—and settling here and becoming the town’s first judge.”

“Busy man.”

“There’s no mention of parents or siblings. That’s unusual. Almost all biographies have a family tree.”

Adam held out his hand for the book. Reluctantly, Yolanda turned it over. For some reason she felt protective of it. Adam started to skim through the pages, but almost immediately slowed his pace, studying page after page, his brow furrowing.

He was thinner now than when he’d left five years ago. Taller, too. He didn’t joke as much, either, but maybe that had to do with his dad’s illness and having to make a living instead of living to make art. His hair was the same, though—brown and windblown even when there was no wind. She’d always enjoyed looking up at him even when she hadn’t been able to make sense of him. He existed in a world she didn’t understand. He’d always done exactly what he wanted to do, taken risks and seemed to love life.

Maybe because he’d never wanted for anything.

“Where did you get this book?” he asked.

“I found it on a shelf in the children’s section. It wasn’t there earlier.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not a book I cataloged. Until I picked it up from the shelf, I had never seen it before. I think the old woman left it.”

“I thought she was looking for a history book.”

“She was. At least that’s what she said. Now I believe she must have brought this one in with her and then accidentally left it behind.”

Adam flipped to the front cover. “No name and no publisher. This is a manuscript more than a book. But someone wrote it and did the drawings so precisely that at first glance, it looks published.”

“It’s amazing.”

“You’ve read it already?”

“No, just a few pages about Richard Ventimiglia. I had a hard enough time getting through that,” she admitted. “The print’s small and runs together. Made me wonder if I should get stronger glasses.”

“The drawings are well-done and quite detailed, especially for being so small.” He closed the book, studying the cover, back and spine. Then he added, “You think there’s something in here about Chester.”

“I hope.”

“I didn’t see his name anywhere.”

“Really, you skimmed that thoroughly?” Not a chance. Books were her world. She was a master reader and skimmer.

“No.” Adam closed the book tightly. “Though I did notice you’ve got some pages missing.”

Yolanda’s mouth opened. “You’re kidding.”

“No. It’s actually a common practice. Somebody probably wanted a drawing or two or three.” He grinned. “I’m certainly tempted to snatch this book from you and take a few pages. The pictures are not only vintage but also inspiring. Some of the facial expressions are hilarious.”

He sobered. For just a few moments he’d gotten excited—more like the old Adam, the one she knew so well—but then remembered something sad.

“Anyway,” he continued, “if you go into any library and look at the art books, you’ll invariably find many with pages missing. People find a drawing they like and rip it out. Usually nobody notices. I once went looking for an old book that had a picture of Johannes Vermeer’s Girl with a Lute. I went all the way to Gesippi because the librarian there was willing to hunt down and order the book I wanted. When it arrived, Vermeer’s painting was listed in the index but missing from the book.”

“It’s so odd that you like Vermeer,” Yolanda said. What really surprised her was his willingness to track down the book. It showed gumption and dedication.

“Because his paintings are so realistic?” Adam guessed.

“Yes.”

“Well, I like all artists who weren’t appreciated in their own time. As you don’t appreciate me.” His words were joking, but his eyes said something else. Something Yolanda hadn’t expected.

Not from Adam Snapp.

“Actually, I do appreciate you. Especially right now—you’ve pointed out two important details. One, the decorative top to the plaque. I didn’t realize that even existed. Then you figured out that pages are missing from the book.”

She thanked him again and he headed away from her and into the courthouse. Yes, she admitted that she was feeling pretty appreciative of him right now.

Adam Snapp looked darn good from the back.

* * *

ADAM FINISHED MAKING his deliveries by ten. It had felt strange, going back to some of his old haunts. The director of the Boys and Girls Club asked him if he’d be interested in teaching an art class on Saturday mornings. The principal at his high school handed over some literature about getting a GED.

His phone rang as he was leaving the Corner Diner.

Another call inspired by the town mural in Wildrose, Illinois. And this time the caller knew exactly how much Adam had been paid, and was even willing to offer a bit more plus expenses for living in the town of Targus, Mississippi.

This time Adam hesitated. His family needed the money, but they also needed him. Right now he couldn’t leave. Not until after the surgery, at least. But after that? Would he be more help to his family if he took the Mississippi job?

“Sorry,” Adam said, “I’m already employed elsewhere, and it will be at least a couple of weeks before I can even consider relocating.” It took a few moments to convince this guy, too. Finally, after Adam agreed to let the man know if the situation changed, Adam ended the call, stored it in his phone and headed for his minivan.

Two calls in one day. It certainly made him reevaluate his current job situation. He could tolerate teaching Tae Kwon Do classes and helping his parents for a while. He was enjoying working with Yolanda on the Victorian; he just wished she’d listen to his advice a bit more. Unfortunately, what she paid wasn’t enough to help with his father’s surgery.

He blamed himself for being broke. He’d squandered and enjoyed every minute of his time away from Scorpion Ridge. Until he opened his eyes one morning and found it all gone. Along with his girlfriend, new van and all his art supplies.

Adam knew his squandered money had been a huge mistake. Learning the hard way had always been Adam Snapp’s way. But it was time to reassess, think about his family, make better choices and find a way to stay in Scorpion Ridge for the next few weeks and still make enough money to help support his parents.

At most, they’d gain ten to twenty new students with this beginning-of-school enrollment push. The students would sign a long-term contract and pay by the month. There’d be no big chunk of change when his father needed it.

It would trickle in, instead.

Luke Rittenhouse, his boss at BAA, would let him sell his art in the habitat’s gift shop on commission, but only if it related to animals. Adam had been able to do animals easily. They allowed Adam’s quirky side to flourish. Of the five pieces of his that were on sale now at BAA, the bear had real teeth—provided by the habitat’s veterinarian—the peacock had real feathers—a simple matter really, he’d just picked them up as he walked the grounds—and the others all had something similar.

They were, however, pieces Adam had completed more than a year ago. Nothing new.

He remembered the passion he used to have. He wanted it back. Maybe he should follow Yolanda’s lead, take a community college class and come up with a business plan.

He already had a name when it came to murals, from the more than two dozen he’d done at BAA plus the five he’d painted in New Mexico, California and Chicago. They’d all been collages of small-town history. Each one had boasted a train, a long-dead high-profile town figure and whatever the town was famous for.

They’d been fun, but Adam had to admit his heart was no longer in it. Painting the history of a town he was a stranger to felt wrong.

The places he’d stayed during the few years he’d been away from Scorpion Ridge hadn’t been home. They’d been little more than glorified motel rooms. He’d come close to a home in Wildrose. The little apartment he’d shared with Stacey held good memories. He’d seen what it could be like to have someone by his side, someone who believed in him and shared his passion.

He also remembered how the refrigerator was never stocked, how few clothes were in the dresser drawers and that no photos of his family had been displayed.

It had still been a glorified motel room. He’d just not realized it.

Walking up the steps to the Victorian, he wondered if Yolanda felt at home here. She and her mother had lived in a tiny house near the edge of town. It had always looked perfect. He’d only been in it once. He remembered that the furnishings and decor appeared almost staged. Yes, that was the word. It was decorated as if a photographer were about to enter and take a picture.

It didn’t seem lived in at all.

Her grandmother’s Victorian had never looked perfect, at least not until now. Rosi Acura believed in toys on the porch, bikes in the yard and chalk drawings on the sidewalk. He’d helped her out a time or two with that. Yup, the Victorian was certainly a lot more elegant now than it had been all those years ago.

Back then, the neighborhood kids had thought it was haunted when in reality it was just the oldest house on the block and a bit run-down. The kids had dared each other to take a step into the front yard. Once, when he was ten, he’d run to the front door, rang the doorbell and then hightailed it back to his friends hiding behind a car parked in the street.

Yolanda’s grandmother hadn’t helped matters. Sometimes Rosi’d open the door and yell boo. But then she’d come out with cookies or popcorn and entice the kids into the yard again. Her presence, they pretended, would scare away any ghosts.

Yolanda had spent a lot of time here while her mother worked. She’d sit on the porch, with her nose either in a book or thrust in the air, all annoyed at the silly games boys played.

“You home?” he called, opening the door. In the neighborhood he’d lived in in Chicago, an unlocked door meant a negligent tenant. Here in Scorpion Ridge it meant come in, neighbor.

“Hey, Adam.” To his surprise, Rosi exited the kitchen. She wore a frilly brown, black and white shirt over black stretch pants. Normal enough attire until you looked at her feet. Black-and-white zebra slippers. BAA had a whole display of wild animal slippers, so these were probably a gift from her granddaughter.

“Yolanda here?”

“No, she’s in Phoenix shopping for dormers.”

He’d been the one to tell her that the four dormers in her living room were too small for the job they were performing, hence their deteriorating condition. She’d wanted to keep them; he’d urged her to replace them. Guess his pep talk about staying true to the home’s history paid off. She should have asked him to tag along, though. She’d have trouble finding the right ones without him.

Rosi followed him to the stairs, but she could no longer climb them. “What are you planning to do today?”

“Doors.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs, wanting to get busy yet wanting to talk. Finally, he set the promotional fliers on a table by the front door and sat on the fourth step up, his long legs stretched before him, and glanced at Rosi.

She still looked like she had back when she was hollering boo at him. Maybe her face was lined a bit more and maybe she walked slower. Even after all these years, she was the type of woman who took care of people.

She laughed and joined him. “I love this house. Yolanda loves it, too. You’re going to fix the rest of it up for us, right?”

“I’m gonna try. Upstairs, I’m pretty sure we’re looking at a lot of lead paint in all those doors. I need to see if they’re worth saving.”

“They are.”

That answer was no surprise as this was her house. But Yolanda wouldn’t be happy with how much more it would cost to renovate rather than replace.

“How long did you live here?” he asked.

“Since I was sixteen.”

“So, we’re talking the nineteen forties?”

“Yes. Late nineteen forties.”

“I spoke to my grandmother yesterday. She remembered the Ventimiglias. Said the same thing you did, that they weren’t very nice. Do you remember Ivy Ventimiglia?”

“I do. I remember those days like they were yesterday. Actually, I remember the past better than the present.”

“What do you remember about Ivy?”

For a moment he thought Rosi would withdraw. Instead, she said, “Well, she was a few grades behind me in school. I was in the same grade as your grandmother. Not that Ivy would have associated with us. Me, anyway. I think your grandmother might have spent some time with her. Position, family wealth, heritage, they all meant a lot more back then. Not always for the good.”

“What do you mean?” He had an inkling, but wanted her to spell it out.

“Ivy and your grandmother lived here on the hill, the rich part of town. Even if they didn’t like each other, and they didn’t, they had to pretend.”

That was a question he’d have to ask his great-grandmother. To his knowledge, GG liked everyone. “Did you and my grandmother get along?”

“Loretta was larger than life and nice to everyone, even those outside her station. She was also a little wild.”

“My great-grandmother, wild?” Adam could believe it.

“Wild and adored. She was homecoming queen.”

Adam hadn’t known that. “Yolanda’s pretty enchanted with the book that got left behind.”

“Book? What book?”

“Yolanda didn’t mention it to you?”

“I didn’t go to dinner with her. Then this morning when I got here she was already gone. What kind of book?”

“It’s like a published journal and has all kinds of town history events and even some drawings. This house is in it.”

Rosi shook her head. “Journals don’t mean anything. Most of us girls kept them back then. And not very much in them was based on fact. Best Yolanda stop thinking about the Ventimiglias. There are none left. Ivy had an older brother but he died in an accident when he was nineteen. Ivy never married.”

“You kept track of her? How do you know she didn’t marry?”

“It’s a small town, even though they moved, word trickled back. If she’d have married, I’d have heard about it. Weddings were a bit more important in those days, especially for the wealthy. It would have been in the paper, complete with pictures and pedigrees.”

“Why didn’t Ivy and Adam’s great-grandmother like each other?” In the quiet of the bookstore, Yolanda’s voice seemed loud, and both Adam and Rosi startled. Neither had heard the door open and close, yet here was Yolanda, holding a bag of groceries and looking as if she’d been standing there since the conversation began.

“It was a long time ago,” Rosi said. “Some say it had to do with Ivy’s brother. Maybe a little. Then, too, I don’t think Loretta had much respect for Ivy, and Ivy knew it.”

“High school’s hard on girls,” Yolanda said. “There’s always a cat fight or two. But they couldn’t have moved just because of that. If people moved after every teenage drama, there’d be a For Sale sign on every other house.”

“You’re jaded,” Rosi accused, “and way too practical. Ivy’s family made all the calls in this town. And we learned to deal with it. Plus, Ivy’s reputation had to be protected at all costs.”

Adam was amazed. “You’re kidding? Did she do something to ruin her reputation?”

“No, not that I know of. But even associating with the wrong crowd could cause talk. Ivy was told—no, ordered—who to talk to, where and when. Your great-grandmother was a bit ahead of her time. She used to tell Ivy to grow a backbone.” Rosi chuckled. Then she added, “For a while, I thought Ivy and Otis Wilson might get together.”

“Otis from across the street?” Yolanda couldn’t keep the shock from her voice.

Rosi merely smiled. “His family had position, but not enough to satisfy Ivy’s father. Your family—” she nodded at Adam “—lived in the house that’s now the Fremont Bed-and-Breakfast. They were Munros. Of course, that house has been remodeled and added onto so much that it’s hardly recognizable as one of the grand ole ladies that made up the houses on this street.”

Adam needed to ask his grandmother more questions. She’d talked about being a Munro, but until now, how special that was hadn’t occurred to Adam. Today she lived in a condo with a view of a golf course and a man-made lake. “But if their relationship wasn’t the reason the Ventimiglias moved,” he asked Rosi, “what was?”

“Some secrets are better left alone.”

“Gramma, you sound like someone on a Halloween show.”

“Ask your great-grandmother,” Rosi urged Adam. “See if she’s willing to tell you anything.”

“Don’t speak to her without me,” Yolanda demanded, “I’m starting to really get into this small-town history.”

“Sometimes,” Rosi said, “what’s dead and buried should stay dead and buried. Loretta knows that well.”

“Where did Ivy live?” Adam asked.

“Here. This was her house.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.