Second Chance at the Sugar Shack by Candis Terry Read Free Book Online Page A

eyelet lace hung like a Victorian petticoat behind the plate glass window. The building looked dated and worn out. But she knew it was as reliable as the sweets served inside.
    The Sugar Shack.
    Kate had spent the early days of her life in that bakery kitchen, licking chocolate cake batter from the big wooden spoon her mother used. According to Letty, metal turned the chocolate bitter. Whether the story was true or not, Kate never found out. And when she’d had sweet chocolate smeared all over her face, she hadn’t cared. The chocolate myth was just one of her mother’s quirks that everyone accepted as gospel. Her mother had a million bakery mysteries that ranged from the possible to the absolutely ridiculous.
    Sitting in the driver’s seat of her mother’s car, Kate stared at the darkened window of the brick building and fought back the emotion welled in her throat. The engine idled to keep the heater running. She turned on the radio—oldies, of course. Practically the only station in town. Unless you happened to favor country—not—or the talk radio station out of Bozeman—to which she’d rather gouge herself in the eye with a wand of cheap mascara.
    Tom Jones serenaded her with It’s Not Unusual . Her mother had adored the Welsh singer. Kate had always thought he had fish eyes and would get totally grossed out when her mother would giggle and swoon when old Tom swiveled his hips. Even after Kate had met the singer at a Grammy’s after party, she still couldn’t see understand her mother’s fascination.
    Over the years she and her mother had argued who was better: Elvis or Tom, Gilligan or the Professor, Bo or Luke. Kate never won a single dispute. Hard to do when you were arguing against the 1965 Deer Lick Debate Champ.
    Kate slumped further down into the seat to stay warm. She leaned back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and listened to Mr. Jones croon away.
    It’s your fault. . .
    She tried to push Edna’s accusation and all the chaotic thoughts in her head to rest. But as she sat there, the air thickened with the cloying scent of vanilla. Despite the heater blasting, the interior of the car grew colder. Kate rubbed her arms. Maybe she’d done enough reminiscing for one day. Maybe she just needed to go home, crawl into the same small bed she’d slept in most of her life, and pray for complete oblivion.
    Inside the car the temperature took another dip. She shivered and reached for the gearshift. As her cold fingers curled over the plastic knob, the air inside the car vibrated.
    Suddenly Kate knew she wasn’t alone.
    Goose bumps rushed across her arms and up her spine. With one hand on the door handle, Kate snuck a peek over her shoulder, fully expecting to see some guy in a hockey mask waving a bloodied axe.
    What she saw trapped a scream in her throat.
    Surrounded by cookbooks, quilting fabric, giant knitting needles, and an odd hazy glow, sat her mother.
    Looking anything but dead.
    “Long time, no see, daughter.”

C HAPTER F OUR
    “S o how’d I look at the funeral?” her mother’s voice asked. “Okay? Or did Trudy White put too much blush on me like she does everybody?”
    Kate twisted back around in the seat and faced the windshield. Her brain clicked through several cycles before she managed to come up with a relatively normal rationalization.
    She was hallucinating.
    No other explanation came to mind. It had been months since she’d had a decent night’s sleep. She’d been overwhelmed by the approach of awards season. And then her mother’s unexpected death . . . clearly she was exhausted.
    As her heart tried to pound out of her chest, she reached up, adjusted the rearview mirror and scanned the reflection.
    Just to be sure.
    The radiance remained, floating above the clutter in the backseat. Nothing else seemed out of sorts. The glow could be just the moonlight bouncing off the oversized knitting needles. And the voice? Well, she’d always gotten good grades in her creative