Blue Moon Bay by Lisa Wingate Read Free Book Online Page B

handbag, pointing out girls whose hemlines were too short and boys who had hair over their collars.
    More than once, she’d cornered me and let me know that my oversized black T-shirts were “unbecoming on a young lady,” and that if I’d drop by the variety store, she’d be happy to help me look for something more appropriate. Perhaps in a nice shade of blue or mauve. She felt sure there was a cute figure underneath my misguided wardrobe, and she wondered if I’d ever thought about entering the Miss Moses Lake contest.
    Thank goodness she didn’t recognize me now. I didn’t bother to introduce myself as I carried the wheelchair to the sidewalk and set it against the front of the church.
    â€œThank ya, sweetie.” She held out the Vote for Blaine flyer. “Here. Pass this along to someone while you’re here. Tell them Blaine Underhill’s their man. It’s about time we cleaned up that county commission.”
    I felt obliged to take the pamphlet, and then I quickly backed away, folding it and stuffing it into my jacket pocket.
    I could feel Mama B’s curious stare following me across the parking lot. “Where’d you say you were stayin’?” she called. A propane delivery truck passed by in a whoosh , and I pretended not to hear. Swirls of asphalt-scented air skittered across the parking lot in the truck’s wake, and I made a hasty exit, my suitcase bumping along behind me. Mama B hollered at the propane driver, informing him that the speed limit through town was thirty-five.
    Dry winter grass crackled under my feet as I left the pavement and moved into the ditch alongside the rural highway, traversing the short distance to the tall limestone pillars and rusting iron gate that marked the entrance to Uncle Herbert’s driveway. The sign hanging in the shade of lofty magnolias still read Harmony Shores Funeral Home and Chapel , even though the place had been closed since Uncle Herbert’s health problems had forced him to shut down the business. It was a beautiful old place, if you didn’t find sleeping in the bedrooms above the funeral chapel strangely morbid. Unfortunately, I did, and the usual chill accompanied me through the gate and followed me up the long, tree-lined drive. A shudder gripped me like a fist, squeezing the air from my lungs. A voice in my head was urging, Run, just run .
    Pulling in a fortifying breath, I veered off across the grass toward the memory gardens, my suitcase bumping over twigs and pecan shucks. Dampness from the soil seeped through my suede boots, making them soggy and chilly by the time I reached a stone path, where holly bushes and magnolias provided secluded alcoves in which grieving families could reflect privately.
    Pausing, I gazed at the treetops and did a poor imitation of the yoga breathing I’d learned from a fitness-guru-slash-boyfriend who’d tried to convince me that meditation would help my tension problems. At the time I’d laughed flippantly and told him I couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. Me, tense?
    Now I wished I’d paid more attention. The muscles in my back were as twisted and knotted as a string of used rubber bands in the corner of a junk drawer. I jerked at the sound of cars coming up the drive, and a charley horse kicked up its heels near my spine.
    That odd temptation to bolt for the woods stirred me again. Instead, I did the mature thing and ducked behind the holly bushes, peeking through the limbs as three cars rolled past. I recognized the one in the lead, and I knew whose little gray head that was peering over the steering wheel. Mama B. That would be the church ladies behind her. Apparently, they had arrived on another reconnaissance mission, with food in hand, of course. The fact that the casserole ladies were so interested in what was going on at Harmony Shores was not a good sign.
    The third car pulled in, and I peered through the leaves,