Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters. Susan Mallery

a protein shake with frozen berries. When her cereal was ready, she stirred in a few walnuts and a spoonful of brown sugar and carried everything to the kitchen table. She got her tablet from the shelf by the window and checked her email while she ate.

      By the time she’d finished, she’d scanned the digital headlines, browsed two farm equipment ads, and had chuckled at a kitten playing with a laser dot on a Facebook video.

      She rinsed her dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then poured a second mug of coffee. She had to figure out what she was going to cook on her days this week. She and her father alternated that particular chore.

      They’d come to terms with their unusual living arrangement fairly easily. They each had a wing in the house. He went out for breakfast at Helen’s diner five days a week, they had someone in to clean the house, and they traded off cooking the evening meal. Their schedules were posted on a large wall calendar in the oversize pantry, so each would know when the other wasn’t going to be around for dinner. Every now and then Kelly thought that maybe she should move out and get her own place, but each time she mentioned it, her father told her he liked having her around. As for her, well, she didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to go anywhere.

      The back door opened and Jeff Murphy walked in.

      “Hey, Kitten.”

      “Hi, Dad. How was breakfast?”

      “Delja cooks a mean omelet. If I thought I was man enough, I would marry her in a second.”

      Kelly laughed. “I don’t think she’s your type.”

      “Probably not, but a guy can dream.” He hung his jacket on the hook by the back door and crossed to her for a quick hug. He poured himself coffee, then leaned against the counter.

      “We have two more Christmas orders,” he said. “If this keeps up, we’re going to be shipping half a million tulips in December. Plus you know some idiot’s going to call in November and ask if we have any extras.”

      “I’m ready. We can go as high as six hundred thousand, then we’re out.”

      “I’ll be sure to let our distributors know. Also, that fancy yellow one is selling real well in Los Angeles. Connie wants to know if you can make those in any other colors.”

      “Da-ad. Those yellow ones? Is that really what we’re reduced to these days?”

      “You go ahead and use their fancy names. I’ll stick with yellow.”

      Jeff knew the names better than she did. He’d been growing tulips since he was a teenager. When Kelly had graduated college and joined the farm full-time, they’d talked about how to handle things. Jeff was tired of being responsible for all the growing and Kelly had no interest in dealing with distributors or clients, so they’d split the duties. Like their living arrangements, it was a system that worked for them.

      Sometimes she wondered if he’d ever wanted more than life in a small town. He was a relatively young man—not yet fifty—but he hadn’t remarried after his divorce. As far as everyone was concerned, he’d never even dated. Every few months he disappeared to Seattle for a long weekend. Kelly assumed he met someone for a brief affair, but that was it.

      As for herself, she had no idea what she was going to do about Griffith. Being someone’s girlfriend again sounded nice, but shouldn’t she want more? Shouldn’t she want to fall in love and have babies and live happily ever after?

      She supposed the problem was she didn’t believe in happily ever after anymore. If she ever had.

       4

      Jammin’ Madame Lefeber—named for the tulip, not a person—took up about a third of what had once been a grocery store, long since defunct. The other two-thirds were a bowling alley, with both businesses sharing the ample parking lot. On the upside, neither business cared if the other made noise. On the downside, despite thick layers of insulation and sound-deadening drywall, the crack of bowling balls hitting the pins could still be heard. It was a low and arrhythmic beat and could distract even the most professional of musicians.

      Helen walked into the foyer a couple of minutes early. Pictures of former students covered the walls. Some were classic studio poses while others showed bands playing live at a venue. She smiled when she saw Jeff and herself in the background of many of the band shots.

      JML was a music school that focused more on guitar and drums than the more classical instruments. As part of the services, students could put together a band. An instructor would help them learn a handful of songs, then arrange for a showcase onstage at Petal Pushers or somewhere else. To help the fledgling bandmates get their sound together, near professional-level musicians played along.

      The work didn’t pay much. Helen did it for the fun and to get the chance to play keyboard every now and then. The bands were interesting, although rarely gifted. Still, it was better than playing piano alone in her living room. Adding to the pleasure was the fact that she and Jeff frequently worked as a team. The man played a mean guitar. More than one fourteen-year-old had been left slack-jawed at Jeff’s rendition of “Stairway to Heaven.”

      Thinking about Jeff got her chest to fluttering. She reminded herself of the importance of appearing cool, even if she didn’t feel it, despite the fact that her feelings for the man bordered on a rock-star crush.

      She knew that he’d played in a rock band in high school, then had quit after he’d gotten married. She wasn’t sure when he’d taken up the guitar again. She’d started working with the students at JML years ago—shortly after her divorce. In fact, that was where she’d first noticed Jeff. She’d fallen for him during an off-key Beatles retrospective—specifically “Hard Day’s Night.”

      Before she could dig up more swoon-worthy memories, Jeff appeared in the foyer. Her throat immediately tightened and speech became impossible. What was it about a man in a plaid shirt? Okay—not any man—just this one. Or maybe it was the worn jeans that hugged his narrow hips and long legs. Or the way he held his guitar case with such confidence.

      Jeff smiled as he approached. “Heard anything about our latest bandmates?”

      “Isaak said they’re fifteen-year-old twins who got guitars for their birthday.”

      Jeff winced. “Why do parents do that?”

      “Someone has to be the next generation of rock music.”

      Isaak, a tall, curly-haired man of mixed heritage, walked into the foyer. “You’re here,” he said, sounding grateful. “Adults. Thank God.”

      “How are the new students?”

      “You honestly don’t want to know. They’re arguing about whether to play Atreyu or Pop Evil.”

      “Are those bands or songs?” Jeff asked.

      “Bands,” Helen told him. “You really have to pay attention to music from this century.”

      “I like Coldplay.”

      “They started in the nineties.”

      “But they have songs out this century.”

      “You’re hopeless.”

      “Probably.” Jeff turned to Isaak. “Give them the approved music list.”

      “That’s less of a problem than them having trouble grasping what a chord is. Can you give me a few minutes?”

      Jeff looked at Helen who nodded.

      “We’ll wait,” Jeff told him.

      The music director retreated to one of the practice rooms. Jeff and Helen walked to the break room in the back. Jeff pulled several dollar bills out of his pocket and walked to the soda machine.

      “Diet Coke?” he asked.

      “Thanks.”

      He