Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter

shaped to resemble wild strawberries. A Christmas gift from Jessie Kay West for hosting a last-minute party.

      Holly sat behind the reception desk and called her name. Dorothea skidded to a stop, willing to risk anything—even a confrontation with Daniel—to help her sister.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “Just wanted you to know I’m taking tomorrow off,” Holly said.

      The good times never stopped. “Mrs. Hathaway has a doctor appointment in the morning, so I need you here.” Tomorrow was parent-teacher conference day at Strawberry Valley High. For once, her sister could work an entire day, allowing Dorothea to attend in their mother’s place. “Without you, I’ll have to close the inn.”

      “How cute.” Holly popped a bubble as she stared down at her phone, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. “You thought I was asking for permission.”

      “This is a family business, Halls. We—”

      “Aren’t a family. We’re strangers.”

      Only five words, but they utterly shredded Dorothea. She whispered, “I want to be more. I’m striving to be more.”

      “Well, you can quit that like you quit Strawberry Valley, college and your marriage. As soon as I graduate, I’m gone, and I’m not ever coming back.”

      Dorothea swallowed a cry of despair, a countdown clock appearing in the back of her mind. Three months. She had three months to win her sister...or she would lose her forever.

      “I love you, Holly. I’ll always love you.”

      Her sister swiveled the chair in the opposite direction. Message received. The conversation had officially ended.

      “However you feel about me,” she persisted, a lump growing in her throat, “you still have to work tomorrow.”

      Silence. Thick, oppressive silence.

      Disheartened, Dorothea strode outside. The bell over the door tinkled, and cool air embraced her. She’d go...somewhere. She was New Dorothea, after all, and she would do something other than wallow.

      She made her way to the parking lot across the street. Her car keys—

      Were still in her room. Crap! She switched direction, heading for the town square. What she’d do when she got there, she had no idea. Every shop had already closed for the night.

      The scent of wild strawberries wafted from the fields that surrounded the entire town, resurrecting what should have been happy memories. As a child, she’d run through those fields, laughing merrily, untouched by troubles as her dad gave chase.

      He’d loved her then.

      At least, she’d thought he loved her. If he had felt the smallest bit of affection for her, he would have stayed in contact after he’d divorced Carol.

      For a long time, Dorothea had blamed herself for his abandonment. She’d wondered if her appearance or weight had disappointed him. But then, she used to blame herself for Jazz’s infidelity, too. If only she’d worked harder to bring in more money, fixed her hair a different way, lost more weight, tried harder in bed, cooked better, offered more stimulating conversation, something, anything, she would have been enough.

      But the fault didn’t rest on her shoulders. Even though she was the one constant in all her failed relationships.

      Fighting a wave of depression, she focused on the hodgepodge charm of her surroundings. Four-bulb lampposts illuminated historic buildings intermixed with modern ones. While the inn possessed the elegance of an antebellum structure, the local grocery store was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof. Across the street, a row of box-shaped homes contained a hardware store, a “gourmet” café, an antiques store and a dry cleaner. The theater had a copper awning, and gargoyles perched along a balcony.

      A whitewashed bungalow was home to Rhinestone Cowgirl, the town’s premier jewelry store. Around the corner was Lintz Auto Shop. Just down the street was Strawberry Valley Community Church, a white stone chapel with massive stained-glass windows.

      Out of habit, her gaze lifted to the sky. No stars in sight, the bright pinpricks of lights obscured by cirrostratus clouds. A whitish veil with a smooth sheetlike appearance.

      “Dorothea!”

      A car idled beside her, she realized, Lyndie Scott behind the wheel.

      Warm relief washed through her. “Hey, you. What are you doing out so late?”

      The strawberry blonde was as beautiful as ever with wide amber eyes and flawless porcelain skin, but...she looked sad. She always looked sad, even when smiling. At the age of twenty-one, Lyndie had married the police chief of Blueberry Hill. By twenty-three, she had become a widow.

      Dorothea had only seen pictures of her friend with Chief Carrington; their relationship had taken place during her years away. She hoped they had loved each other deeply, madly, the way Dorothea had always yearned to be loved, but she suspected the couple had had their fair share of problems. Otherwise Lyndie would have kept her married name? Maybe?

      “I actually came by the inn a few hours ago.” Lyndie gazed at her with concern. “Are you all right? Your sister said you didn’t want to be disturbed because you had a case of—” she glanced over her shoulder and whispered “—raging diarrhea.”

      Dorothea nearly choked on her tongue. “Holly lied.” What else had the girl told the townspeople? Chronic flatulence? Hemorrhoids and anal fissures? “I promise I’m perfectly healthy.”

      Lyndie pressed her lips together only to burst into laughter. “I’m sorry! I am. But oh, wow, your sister is a character.”

      “Yeah, a character in a horror novel.” Though Dorothea had done a lousy job of keeping up with her dear friends while living in the city—she’d worked too much and foolishly poured all her free time into Jazz—the two had called and texted her often. Tidbits here and there about what they were up to, or inside jokes about their high school days. For instance, the time they created the ten commitments for any relationship, even though they were invisible to boys.

      A boy shalt not:

      Lie to anyone, ever, not even to flatter;

      Cheat with so much as a look;

      Steal even when desperate;

      Harm others in any way;

      Make excuses for bad behavior.

      He shalt:

      Compliment when merited;

      Help when needed;

      Treat others with kindness, always;

      Consult you when making big decisions;

      Do his best, not just what’s good enough.

      Looking back, she comprehended Lyndie and Ryanne had seen through Jazz’s charisma to the slimeball within. By reminding her oh, so subtly of the list, they’d hoped she would see the truth.

      She had, only far too late.

      “Ryanne has the night off,” Lyndie said, “and she’s fixin’ me breakfast for dinner. Of course, by ‘me’ I mean ‘us.’ You’re coming, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

      A fun, spontaneous night with friends? “You don’t have to drag me kicking and screaming. I’m in!” She climbed into the passenger seat and buckled up.

      They drove to the Scratching Post a few miles outside of town, once owned and operated by Ryanne’s fourth stepdad, Earl.

      Her mother—Selma Martinez-Wade-Lewis-Scott-Hernandez-Montgomery—had married Earl after divorcing Lyndie’s father for reasons neither girl had ever discussed with Dorothea. In fact, both girls tended to act cagey whenever the subject came up, so she’d stopped asking questions. Eventually she’d stopped feeling hurt by the secrecy, too.

      Whatever