Grumpy sunshine books, from a Lake District B&B to a snowbound forecast

She sat up with a stretch, clambered off her queen-sized bed, and drew back the velvet curtains covering her floor-to-ceiling windows. As bright summer light flooded the room, Eve tossed aside her silk headscarf, kicked off the shea butter foot mask socks she’d slept in, and grabbed her journal from her bedside table, leafing through gold-edged pages. Settling back into bed, she began.

Good morning, darling,

—The journal, of course, was darling.

It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.

I regret to report that things didn’t go 100 percent to plan. There was a bit of a fuss about Cecelia’s corset being eggshell instead of ivory, but I resolved that issue by encouraging her to take a Xanax from Gigi. Then there was a slight palaver with the doves—they were supposed to be released over Cecelia and Gareth for the photographs, but I discovered just before the ceremony that their handler (that is to say, the doves’ handler, not Cece and Gareth’s (I was their handler, to be frank)) hadn’t fed them for two days (!) so they wouldn’t shit all over the guests. But really, when one wishes to work with the wonders of the animal kingdom, one must respect their ways and resign oneself to the odd sprinkle of shit. One certainly must not starve the poor creatures to avoid said sprinkle of shit. Any sensible person knows this.

So I may have lost my temper and released them all. The doves, I mean. Clearly, they were born to be free—hence the wings, et cetera. Unfortunately, the handler demanded I pay for them, which I suppose was fair enough. It turns out doves are very expensive, so I have had to request an advance on my monthly payment from the trust fund. Hopefully Mother won’t notice.

Anyway, darling, here is my point: Cecelia and I have sadly fallen out. It seems she was very attached to the idea of the aforementioned doves, and perhaps her tongue had been loosened by the Xanax, but she called me a selfish jealous cow, so I called her an ungrateful waste of space and ripped the train off her Vera Wang. By accident, obviously. I did fix it—after a fashion—in time for the actual ceremony, so I don’t entirely see the issue.

But knowing the lovely Cecelia as I do, I’m sure she’ll spend her Fiji honeymoon bad-mouthing my services on various bridezilla forums in order to destroy my dream career. Obviously, the joke is on her, because I have no dream career and I have already erased Eve Antonia Weddings from the face of the earth. And Chloe says I lack efficiency!

The Guy whose name she never really got.

The Guy she met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom she could find.

The Guy who asked her, “Out of curiosity, is there a specific reason you’re crying in my restroom?” Olive squeaked. She tried to open her eyes through the tears and only barely managed to. Her entire field of view was blurry. All she could see was a watery outline—someone tall, dark haired, dressed in black, and . . . yeah. That was it. “I . . . is this the ladies’ restroom?” she stammered.

A pause. Silence. And then: “Nope.” His voice was deep. So deep. Really deep. Dreamy deep.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Fairly, since this is my lab’s bathroom.”

Well. He had her there. “I’m so sorry. Do you need to . . .” She gestured toward the stall, or where she thought the stalls were. Her eyes stung, even closed, and she had to scrunch them shut to dull the burn. She tried to dry her cheeks with her sleeve, but the material of her wrap dress was cheap and flimsy, not half as absorbent as real cotton. Ah, the joys of being impoverished.

“I just need to pour this reagent down the drain,” he said, but she didn’t hear him move. Maybe because she was blocking the sink. Or maybe because he thought Olive was a weirdo and was contemplating siccing the campus police on her. That would put a brutally quick end to her Ph.D. dreams, wouldn’t it? “We don’t use this as a restroom, just to dispose of waste and wash equipment.”

“Oh, sorry. I thought . . .” Poorly. She’d thought poorly, as was her habit and curse.

“Are you okay?” He must be really tall. His voice sounded like it came from ten feet above her.

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Come on, Jess.” She dropped the tube back into her bag. “You don’t have to make, serve, or clean up after this meal. The dishes alone are worth at least one more bitter ex-wife story.”

A stall door clicked open, startling her, and a willowy blonde emerged. She glanced at Jess with bald pity.

“God, I know,” Jess agreed with a groan. “I’m talking to myself in a bathroom. Tells you exactly how my night is going.”

Not a laugh. Not even a smile of politeness, let alone camaraderie. Instead the woman moved as far away as possible to the end of the empty row of sinks and began washing her hands.

Well.

Jess went back to rummaging through her purse but couldn’t help glancing toward the end of the counter. She knew it wasn’t polite to stare, but the other woman’s makeup was flawless, her nails perfectly manicured. How on earth did some women manage it? Jess considered leaving the house with her zipper up a victory. Once, she’d presented an entire fiscal year’s worth of data to a client with four of Juno’s sparkly butterfly barrettes still clipped to the front of her blazer. This gorgeous stranger probably hadn’t been forced to change outfits after cleaning glitter off both a cat and a seven-year-old. She probably never had to apologize for being late. She probably didn’t even have to shave—she was just naturally smooth everywhere.

“Are you okay?”

Jess blinked back to awareness, realizing the woman was speaking to her. There was really no way to pretend she hadn’t been staring directly at this stranger’s cleavage.

Resisting the urge to cover her own less-than-impressive assets, Jess offered a small, embarrassed wave. “Sorry. I was just thinking that your kitten probably isn’t covered in glitter, too.”

“My what?”

She turned back to the mirror. Jessica Marie Davis, get your shit together. Ignoring the fact that she still had an audience, Jess channeled Nana Jo into the mirror: “You have plenty of time. Go out there, eat some guacamole, go home,” she said aloud. “There’s no ticking clock on any of this.”

I’m more excited than nervous, but there are still a great deal of nerves vibrating through me. With one last deep breath, I turn off the car and pop the door open. Immediately the dense midday heat of a Georgia summer hits me from all sides, a familiar and deeply loved sensation that’s only improved by the salty sea breeze sweeping in off the water surrounding Little Crescent Island. I double-check that I have my notebook, voice recorder, and pens, then bump the door shut and stoop to check my rapidly dampening bangs in the side mirror. I try to school my grin into an expression of neutrality. It’s important that I play this cool. Fact: I have never played it cool in my life. I open the gate, my sandals slapping the stone walkway as I follow its curve around a wall of foliage: black needlerush and cabbage palm, prickly pear and glasswort, and—my favorite—live oak. Eleven years in Los Angeles, but every time I see a Georgian live oak, I still think, Home. A charming turquoise house on wooden stilts comes into view, and I climb a handful of worn wooden steps to reach its hot-pink front door, every inch of which has been hand-painted with white swirls. I’m rewarded with a suitably eccentric doorbell. I mean, it looks like a normal doorbell, but when I hit it, it sounds like wind blowing through chimes. I’m still mid-preparatory breath when the door swings open and a short, gray-haired woman in a faded flannel shirt and jeans scowls out at me. “Hi!” I stick my hand out. “I’m Alice. Scott.”

“Do I believe in cosmic forces that guide our decision-making and lead us on a predestined path to an already decided end?” I twist the toaster oven knob hard to the right. “Absolutely not.”

Her eyes widen. “Really? After everything we’ve been through?” Adeline hip-checks me on the way to return the cereal box she’s been eating directly out of, her face a teenage mask of outrage. “Don’t you think fate brought me, you, and Penelope together?”

I snort. “No. I believe Child Protective Services brought us together. Custody hearings. Our mother’s inability to be a responsible parent.” I nod toward the front hallway. “Shoes, please. We’re running late.”

“I need my bonus cereal first.” Adeline exchanges the Lucky Charms for the Froot Loops and pours them into a rogue coffee mug, exactly one piece of cereal at a time. I stand at the toaster oven and try not to have a mental breakdown.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

She slants me a look only a fifteen-year-old can. “What?”

“The thing with the cereal.”

Another three loops hit the sides of her container. Plop. Plop. Plop. She stares at me with a smirk. “What thing with the cereal?”

“Never mind.” I don’t have time for this. I pop open the front of the toaster oven and slide out the tiny tray holding my sanity. “Where’s your sister?”

“Why is she my sister when she’s late, but your sister when she’s ordering that weird hippie pizza you like?”

I carefully wrap the cruffin in a paper towel and cradle it close to my chest. Like a newborn.

Adeline frowns. “Did you sleep last night?”

“I did.” Four hours, give or take, but I was definitely unconscious at some point.

“Don’t lie to me. You’re eating your emergency cruffin and you’re being more snippy than usual.”

“I’m never snippy.” I grab the cereal box out of her hand and put it back in the pantry behind us, ignoring her pout. “And I’m not that predictable.”

“Jackson,” Adeline says. “You’re the most predictable person I know.”

She hikes her backpack higher over her shoulder, her dark blond hair swinging in the ponytail she tugged it into. For all the things my mother did lack—common sense, the concept of a schedule, the ability to remember to feed her children—she didn’t miss when it came to passing on her genetics.

Honey blond hair with just a hint of curl. Pale blue eyes. The way our bottom lip dips on one side when we smile. Adeline, Penelope, and I might as well be carbon copies of one another, different fathers be damned.

“Why do we have to leave so early?” Adeline whines.

“Because I have a meeting at the station.”

Adeline’s eyes narrow. “About what?”

“I have no idea.” My role at the radio station doesn’t usually require one-on-one meetings with the boss. I occupy a solid thirty-six seconds of airtime every hour. I report the weather and traffic, and then I disappear into the background. Exactly how I like it.