Deep Secrets. Beverly Long

of tornadoes. At nine o’clock, like every night, she’d hung the Closed sign in the window. Had been grateful that the restaurant had cleared out by eight thirty. She had already sent Daisy, her night cook, home, because the woman was deathly afraid of storms.

      She’d been walking back to the kitchen, to do one final sweep of the space, when pounding on the front door got her attention. She’d turned, locked eyes with the handsome stranger and, as crazy as it seemed, realized immediately that her life was about to experience a fundamental shift.

      She’d unlocked the door just as the Ravesville tornado sirens started ringing. The stranger had smiled at her. “I think it’s about to get interesting,” he’d said.

      She’d had no idea.

      The café didn’t have a basement, so she and the man had ridden out the storm sitting on the floor in the small space between the back wall and the counter, protected from the possibility of flying glass. They’d each had two pieces of banana cream pie because he’d convinced her if they were both about to die, there was no sense worrying about calories.

      The café had survived the storm, and when he’d said goodbye, he’d touched her cheek. She’d thought she’d seen the last of her mysterious stranger, that he’d been a one-timer, but then two nights later, he was back, asking her to dinner. By the following weekend, they’d been lovers.

      Neither one of them were kids. She’d been thirty-three and he was just a year older. She hadn’t been especially interested in marriage. She was well aware of how miserable Summer was with her husband, Gary Blake, and she didn’t have any interest in making a similar mistake. When Rafe asked her to move in with him after six weeks of dating, she said no. She liked her independence and didn’t see a need to give it up.

      But Rafe Roper knew how to wear a girl down. He was an amazing lover but it was more than that. He was different than the other men that she’d dated. Most important, he made her laugh. Every day. And he remembered all the little things. She’d get up in the morning and there would be chocolate doughnuts on her front porch. He’d have dropped them by early on his way to Hamerton, where he was part of the construction crew building the new mall. He would send her flowers. Never roses, because she’d mentioned just once that they weren’t her favorites. He sent lilies. Always lilies.

      He was a fabulous cook and could make all her favorites, including eggplant parmigiana and shrimp scampi. He’d teased her mercilessly about owning a café and being barely capable of boiling water.

      She and Summer still had work to do on the café and he was always willing to lend a hand, to fix a door or paint a wall. She could still see Summer standing near the pie case, telling Trish that she’d be a fool to let him get away.

      And Trish knew she was right. So when Rafe asked her to marry him after they’d been dating for three months, she didn’t hesitate to say yes. And he didn’t give her time to think about her decision. They were married just two weeks later. Then they bought a house together, too big for just the two of them, but she’d started dreaming about babies to fill the empty rooms. Babies with dark eyes and an amazing smile, just like their daddy.

      And life was pretty darn near perfect.

      Nine months later, he was dead. He’d gone back east to visit a friend who was sick. She’d assumed it was a dear friend because when he’d returned, she’d sensed that he was still upset. When he’d left the next day on a float trip with his buddies on the construction crew, she’d hoped it would cheer him up.

      His raft had overturned and his body had never been recovered.

      Then it was not just the rooms of her house that were empty.

      Her heart. Her soul.

      Her spirit.

      She’d wished she was dead, too. But she’d lived. And somehow, someway, had managed to crawl her way back. Didn’t expect to ever feel full again but had developed an odd contentment with the emptiness. Except for nights like this, when it became unbearable.

      She’d expected to feel blue today. That was probably why earlier in the week she’d jumped at something Mary Ann Fikus had said. M.A., as everyone called her, worked at the bank and ate lunch almost every day at the café. She was just back from a week in the Ozarks. She’d been going on about the cottage where she’d stayed.

      Trish had been to the Ozarks, the lake-filled, mountainous area in southwest Missouri, several times and had even stayed at the particular lake that M.A. had visited. It was a lovely area.

      And when M.A. described the cottage, it had sounded like the perfect place to rest and read books and maybe, just maybe, fish. Thinking there was little chance it would be available at such late notice, Trish had called the owner and been pleasantly surprised that it was. She’d assumed they would want a credit card to hold it, but Bernie Wilberts had told her that she could simply leave a check on the table when she left. She’d been very careful to explain that she would arrive on Sunday, but he’d told her it didn’t matter, that the cottage was empty. He’d given her the combination code for the lock on the door.

      If Summer had been around, Trish would have told her about her plans. She’d thought about telling Milo, but given his propensity to worry about her, she’d thought better of it. She’d tell him just before she left town.

      She turned to walk back to the kitchen and stopped abruptly when there was intense pounding on the door. Her heart leaped in her chest. It was like that night so long ago. She turned.

      And through the glass, she saw Keagan, her fourteen-year-old nephew. With five-year-old Adie next to him. Summer and Bray were a little slower to get out of the SUV.

      She opened the door and the four of them tumbled in. “What are you doing home?” she asked, hugging each of the kids. Then Bray. Finally, her sister. She hung on an extra minute. She knew why her sister was here. “You shouldn’t have,” she whispered.

      Summer shook her head. “When I told Bray what today was,” she said, grabbing her new husband’s hand, “he changed our flight so that we could get back. He insisted.”

      She rolled her eyes in her brother-in-law’s direction. “I guess I do understand why she loves you,” she said.

      Bray winked at her and focused on Adie, who had found her favorite seat at the counter and was whirling on the stool at warp speed.

      “How are you feeling?” Trish asked, looking at Summer’s still-flat stomach.

      “Fine. But anything that went in circles at Disney World was Bray’s domain. I stood on the sidelines and ate orange Popsicles.”

      It was unbelievable that Summer and Bray would be adding to their family in just seven more months. More proof that life really did go on. She drew in a breath and smiled. “Well, Milo was insisting on a movie tonight. I guess you’re all excited to see Pretty Woman one more time.”

      “How did you know that was my favorite movie?” Bray asked with a straight face.

      Summer lightly punched her husband’s biceps before turning back to Trish. “I’m sure you’re glad that you’re not holding down the fort alone any longer. Next week, I want you to rest up. You will take a couple of days off, right?”

      “I think I will,” Trish said.

      “Where’s Milo?” Summer asked, moving quickly to the next topic.

      She could tell them both about her plans. “Taking out the garbage. I’ll get him.”

      Trish went through the swinging door that connected the dining room to the kitchen. No Milo. The back door was open just a fraction of an inch, letting the cool spring air blow in. The light near the back door was on.

      “Milo,” she called, walking toward the door. “Summer and Bray are—”

      She opened the back door and almost tripped. On a body.

      Milo. Oh my God. “What happened?” she asked, dropping to her knees.