Lilies on Main (The Granite Harbor Series Book 4) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by J. Lynn Bailey

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.jlynnbaileybooks.com

  Cover Designer: Hang Le, By Hang Le, www.byhangle.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Julie Deaton

  Proofreader: Sarah Kellogg Plocher

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7324855-7-0

  Contents

  Granite Harbor Map

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Note to the Reader

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS WRITTEN BY J. LYNN BAILEY

  One

  Lydia White

  I suppose it’s the same way the red fern bends and shrivels its leaves in a shade of brown when winter starts to set in. The way seasons pass without regard to our life plans. Rain. Snow. Humidity that makes our skin stick to our leather seats. Hot days that make our makeup drip down our faces like tears.

  Life just is.

  What I like about science, about math, is that there’s always a right answer. Cause and effect. Numbers don’t lie. Metamorphosis can be seen through a time-lapse camera, and it does so without human intervention. Science is proven over and over and over again. But there’s always probability, right? Probability can give us an idea based on favorability, a ratio of probability, hopefully in our favor.

  Methotrexate, they said, may cause hormone changes, personality changes, and memory loss. It did.

  Also, at the advice of an old friend, an FBI friend, she said to change everything from my hair color, my appearance to my personality. So, I guess, the Methotrexate in combination with the advice given, I was willing to do anything to keep my daughter and I safe.

  “She’s good,” I say to my mom, Gwen, over the phone as I watch Lilly pull a book from the shelf and park herself on the dated although beautiful and well-loved wood that runs parallel to the storefront. “She’ll start school this fall. I talked with Mrs. Jeffers at Granite Harbor Elementary. Explained the situation.”

  “All of it?” My mom’s tone becomes brittle, on the brink of falling to pieces, most likely out of fear.

  I sigh. “Most of it. The important parts at least.”

  The door opens to the store.

  “I’ll call you later. I love you.”

  She says something about good-bye, but I hit End on my phone and lay it down on the counter.

  Lilly jumps to her feet, and I give her an assured look as she grins her toothless six-year-old grin my way.

  She approaches the new customer. The woman is a tourist. I can tell by her handbag, made of tulle and bright red buttons. Very European.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to Rain All Day Books. Can I help you find something?” Lilly asks the woman.

  She looks down at my daughter, smiles, and in a thick French accent says, “You are adorable. Where are your books on Granite Harbor, eh?”

  The woman most likely has a granddaughter or two about Lilly’s age. Maybe a little older or younger. Or maybe she wants a grandchild badly, but her children don’t have children yet. It’s in her eyes that I can tell. Or maybe her children along with her grandchildren live in the States, and that’s why she’s here.

  Lilly takes the woman by the hand, gives me a wink, and leads her to the local author section.

  I smile through the fear that gathers in my throat every time I see my daughter do something a normal six-year-old wouldn’t do, like carry on a conversation with a French woman about the interesting life of cats that will inevitably take place any moment. Though Lilly’s allergic, she still holds out hope that we’ll get a cat one day.

  Probability. A ratio based on favorable cases.

  Moving to Granite Harbor, Maine, from New Hampshire was a choice I made when Brett and I split. My mom wasn’t happy. Said we needed better medical care, that they—she and my father, Lee—felt it would be safer if we stayed closer to them. I want to raise Lilly somewhere where the air we breathe carries the ocean’s mist. Where storefronts shut down at five o’clock for weddings or funerals. A place where the fire whistle rings every day at noon to signify the lunch hour. Where people are kinder. Slower. Softer. My mom thought I was crazy. Thought I was running based on fear. A piece of that might be true. But, when you have a daughter to raise, your needs, your wants, go out the window. That’s probably why my mom makes the hour-and-a-half trek out to Granite Harbor almost every weekend. Truth be told, I think it’s for two reasons. One, to make sure I’m taking care of myself, and two, to spend time with Lilly and me.

  It’s early June, and the coast watchers are beginning their travels to the most picturesque small town, Granite Harbor.

  “Your daughter is quite the salesperson,” the woman says in her French accent as she and Lilly approach the counter.

  “She is,” I say as Lilly comes around to my side of the counter.

  The woman slides two books across the counter. One is A History of Granite Harbor, Maine, and the other is a children’s book titled, Leo The Cat.

  I look down at Lilly, and she shrugs.

  “I think Ines will really like that one.” Lilly leans in closer to me. “Ines is Fran’s granddaughter.”

  Nodding, I begin to ring Fran up. “How long will you be visiting Granite Harbor?”

  “We’re at the end of our trip, I’m sorry to say. It has been wonderful.”

  I listen to her accent, mull over her word choices as I give her the total.

  Lilly has already bagged up her books and is pushing the bag across the counter from her stool when the bell signifies another customer.

  Lilly hops down, comes around the counter, and hugs Fran around her waist. “It was nice to meet you, Fran. If my mommy and I ever make it to France, we’ll call you.”

  Fran’s eyes grow big as she looks back at me and puts her arms around Lilly’s back. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met a child quite like you, Lilly. It was an honor.”

  Lilly makes her way to the front door to greet the next customer, and we start all over again.

  “You’re
sure an animal wasn’t harmed in making this?”

  “I’m sure, Lil. It’s mashed potatoes.”

  Lilly peculiarly eyes me and then looks down at her mashed potatoes. “Remember the time you said it didn’t have meat, and then you said you cooked it with chicken broth?”

  I try not to laugh. “I do. But, honey, chicken broth isn’t meat.”

  “But it comes from a chicken. A chicken that was probably alive and frolicking in the hills, and then, all of a sudden, he’s dead and lying on our table. And then people make bro-broths, or whatever it’s called, and chicken nuggets, and stuff.”

  Holding my water to my mouth, I say, “Where’d you learn to use the word frolic?”

  “Judge Judy.” She picks up her spoon and cautiously uses it to touch her mashed potatoes.

  Eye roll. My mother. I guess it’s better than other words. Maybe it’s more of the idea of my daughter watching Judge Judy. But, again, I guess it could be worse.

  “Judge Judy said, ‘So, I should set you free, so you can frolic in the hills with your mistress?’” Lilly mimics Judge Judy.

  I lower my fork, close my eyes, and sigh. “What did Nana do when she heard Judge Judy say that?”

  Lilly lifts her spoon to her mouth with a smidgen of mashed potatoes. “She turned the TV off.” She stares down the puffs of white at the end of her spoon. “What’s a mistress, Mommy?”

  “Eat your mashed potatoes,” I say, unprepared to have this conversation at the dinner table with my six-year-old.

  After dinner, Lilly gets into the bath while I finish up the dishes.

  There’s a gentle knock at the door, and every bone in my body freezes. My stomach ties into knots. I look at my watch. It’s just after seven. We live above the bookstore, and there’s only one back-door entrance. I always know when we’re expecting a guest.

  Breathe, Lydia. Just breathe.

  It’s not him.

  I wipe my hands on the dish towel, swallow the irrational—some rational—thoughts, and slightly open the door.

  Relief spreads through my body when I see that it’s Alex. I pull open the door.

  “Hey!” She hands me a white bag and quickly throws her hands around my shoulders. “Eli and I were on our way back from Boston, and I saw this and knew you had to have it. We’ve got two screaming kids in the car, who we just picked up from Brand and my mom’s, so I’ve got to run.”

  I drop my head to the right and smile. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.” She reaches in for another quick hug and then turns toward the stairs. “Now that Lilly’s back, let’s get the girls together.”

  I wave her on. “Yeah, that will be great. And thank you, Alex. For whatever it is.”

  She waves and pops down the stairs.

  Alex Fisher was the first girlfriend I made when I moved to Granite Harbor. She’d moved here from the West Coast, met Eli Young—a game warden for the Maine Warden Service—and the rest was up to fate. She’d lost her first husband, Kyle, several years ago in what she thought was an accident. They have two daughters, Emily and Noah.

  Quietly, I shut the door, lock it, and hear Lilly.

  “Mommy, I’m ready for you to wash my hair.”

  I smile. Her words fill me and every bone in my body.

  “Coming,” I say, setting the white bag down on the kitchen table.

  A girl always needs her mother. Just as I still need my mother. I’m thirty-seven, and I still call my mother—my father even—for advice. They’ve been my backbone when I was sick and helped me raise her. Kept her safe.

  In the bathroom, I see Lilly with a pile of white bubbles on the top of her head.

  “It’s my top hat.” She turns to me, and I see the bubbles around her mouth. “I’m Abraham Lincoln.”

  A grin starts across her face, and my insides fill with joy. I never thought it would be possible to love a human as much as I love Lilly.

  “Well, Abe, let’s get that hair washed.” I kneel beside her bath and roll up my sleeves, which exposes three scars.

  Lilly immediately notices the newer one. “Another shark bite, Mommy?”

  “Can you believe it?” I thrust my hands in her warm bath water to change the direction of the conversation. I begin to wash her blonde hair. “Are you ready for your new school after summer?”

  “Yep.” She toys with the bubbles, quietly telling her own story in her head. I can tell this because her eyes are wide with imagination and she is speaking in a low whisper.

  “Are you nervous?”

  Lilly stops what she’s doing. “No. Why would I be nervous?”

  Children adapt to change so well. Far better than adults. They exist purely in the moment, perhaps so fear and all the other worries adults have for them have no chance of survival.

  I shrug, mad at myself for even asking the question, but I don’t give a chance for my own fears to become hers. “Nervous.” I roll my eyes and smile. “I meant, excited.”

  Lilly’s smile slowly spreads across her face. “Yes!”

  In Lilly’s six short years of life, she’s never met a stranger. The impulse to ask questions of adults never ceases. Her curiosity for people and their stories has always taken a front seat with her motivation to help others. Her empathy runs wide and deep.

  I push the soap through her hair and take in the scent. These are the moments that make my heart seize when I try to picture her life without me. The lump in my throat grows.

  “Mommy, what are the kids like in Granite Harbor?”

  Lilly has always been able to relate more to adults than kids her own age. Maybe it’s because she’s always around adults or that she’s an only child.

  But I give her honesty, as I always have. “I’m not sure, baby.”

  “Well, I sure hope I find a friend like Maddy Sunday. I miss her. But I’m happier to be with you now.”

  I press my lips firmly together, take her face in my hands, and push our missing moments away because we’re here together now. My voice gets caught behind my love, but I find it again. “You have no idea, Lilly White,” I barely get out before I kiss her little cheek.

  She started kindergarten in New Hampshire with my parents for a lot of reasons. My treatments required travel, and I wanted to give Lilly stability. And I wanted to get established in Granite Harbor before I made my daughter move. Wanted to see if my bookstore would make it. And I wasn’t so sure Brett Lancaster didn’t have people following me. I know he’d never put Lilly’s life in danger, but I’m almost certain he’d be all right if I went away.

  Two

  Aaron Casey

  It’s not the bodies we’ve recovered from searches. Don’t get me wrong; if you’re the warden who discovers the body, it’s hard. It’s the families we have to break the news to when the aftermath is covered in despair as two young children come to the door. That’s the toughest part of the job.

  This night is different.

  The air. The lack of sound. The sadness that keeps us together, builds, as I accompany Katherine Bernstein, the current warden chaplain for the state of Maine, to the Tudor family home just east of the town of Hope. When the chaplain accompanies a warden, it’s never good news. Katherine is here to soften the blow. Provide support for the family members. Many times, family members think Katherine is another game warden, and she is. But Katherine has what most people need during difficult situations—a skill that most game wardens don’t know how to tap into while on the job. Experience. She lost her husband, a state trooper, seven years ago in a car accident with four young children at home.

  Jane Tudor invites us in.

  It was a search in the beginning. The husband and father, Kurt Tudor, had been on an early morning fishing trip at Alford Lake. For reasons unknown yet, the boat had sunk. Mr. Tudor had gotten stuck in a fishing net and been unable to free himself. The problem was, his wife, Jane, had thought he was fishing at Chickawaukie Pond. When the evening hours set in and Mr. Tudor didn’t return, she’d called law enforcem
ent. We searched every inch of Chickawaukie Pond but to no avail. Two days into the search, state troopers noticed a man’s truck had been sitting in the parking lot of Alford Lake for a couple days. Parked near a tree, it was almost hidden. Met the description of Mr. Tudor’s truck. That’s when our rescue turned from a search to a recovery.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Jane asks, her children nipping at her heels, eager to know why two law enforcement officials are standing in their living room, too young to understand what the unspoken words mean yet probably old enough to know that death is permanent.

  “Children, go wash up.” Jane’s hands rest in the pockets of her elbows as she sits in chair. “Please, sit,” she tells us.

  Katherine sits on one end of the sofa while I continue to stand.

  The kids pad down the hallway.

  “Is there someone you can call to be with you?” Katherine says in a soft voice.

  “Did you find him?” Jane asks.

  Katherine nods. “Alford Lake.”

  Jane’s head whips back to Katherine, and her eyes fill with tears that don’t fall. The tears sit, wait, and get heavy. “Alford Lake? But he said he was going to Chickawaukie Pond. He left a note.” Jane stands and walks to the kitchen just off the living room, brings back the note, and hands it to me, not Katherine.

  HEADED TO CHICKAWAUKIE POND.

  BE HOME LATER.

  LOVE,

  K

  I read the note and slide it into my pocket. I don’t hand it to Katherine because she won’t care to see it. Her job is to be here for Jane, not ask questions.

  Jane stares at her wedding ring and moves the simple gold band that circles around her finger until the tears finally make their descent.

  The kids come back down the hallway.

  I want to intervene and allow Jane time with Katherine to ask questions alone.

  Jane quickly wipes her tears.

  The kids stop in their tracks and stare at their mother.

  “Go to your room, and I’ll be there in a minute,” Jane says.

  “Do you mind if I read them a story, Mrs. Tudor?” I ask.