The Sandcastle Sister (7 page)

Selected among
Booklist
’s Top Ten of 2012 and Top Ten of 2013, Lisa Wingate skillfully weaves lyrical writing and unforgettable Southern settings with elements of women’s fiction, history, and mystery to create stories that
Publishers Weekly
calls “masterful” and
Library Journal
refers to as “a good option for fans of Nicholas Sparks and Mary Alice Monroe.”

Lisa is a journalist, an inspirational speaker, and the author of twenty-four novels. She is a seven-time ACFW Carol Award nominee, a multiple Christy Award nominee, and a two-time Carol Award winner. Her novel
Blue Moon Bay
was a Booklist Top Ten of 2012 pick. Recently the group Americans for More Civility, a kindness watchdog organization, selected Lisa along with Bill Ford, Camille Cosby, and six others as recipients of the National Civies Award, which celebrates public figures who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life.

She was inspired to become a writer by a first-grade teacher who said she expected to see Lisa’s name in a magazine one day. Lisa also entertained childhood dreams of being an Olympic gymnast and winning the National Finals Rodeo but was stalled by the inability to do a backflip on the balance beam and parents who wouldn’t finance a rodeo career. She was lucky enough to marry into a big family of Southern storytellers who would inspire any lover of tall tales and interesting yet profound characters. Of all the things she loves about being a writer, she loves connecting with people, both real and imaginary, the most. More information about her novels can be found at
www.lisawingate.com
.

P
ERHAPS DENIAL IS THE MIND’S WAY
of protecting the heart from a sucker punch it simply can’t handle. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe denial in the face of overwhelming evidence is a mere byproduct of stubbornness.

Whatever the reason, all I could think standing in the doorway, one hand on the latch and the other trembling on the keys was,
This simply can’t be happening. This can’t be how it ends. It’s so . . . quiet.
A dream should make noise when it’s dying. It deserves to go out in a tragic blaze of glory. There should be a dramatic death scene, a gasping for breath . . . something. . . .

Denise laid a hand on my shoulder, whispered, “Are you all right?” Her voice faded at the end, cracking into several jagged pieces.

“No.” A hard, bitter tone sharpened the cutting edge on the words. It wasn’t aimed at Denise. She knew that. “Nothing about this is
all right.
Not one, single thing.”

“Yeah.” Resting against the doorframe, she let her neck go slack until her cheek touched the wood. “I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to stand here looking at it, though. For the last time, I mean.”

“We’ve put our hearts into this place. . . .” Denial reared its unreasonable head again. I would’ve called it
hope
, but if it was hope it was the false and paper-thin kind. The kind that only teases you.

Denise’s hair fell like a pale, silky curtain, dividing the two of us. We’d always been at the opposite end of the cousin spectrum in every way
 
—Denise strawberry-blond, pale and freckled, me dark haired, blue-eyed, and olive skinned. Denise, easygoing and naturally open with people, and me . . . not so much.

“Whitney, we have to let it go. If we don’t, we’ll end up losing both places.”

“I know. I know you’re right.” Maybe she was more comfortable speaking the truth with her hair masking the despair on her face.
All
of me rebelled. I couldn’t stand the thought of being bullied one more time. “I understand that you’re being logical. And on top of that, you have Mattie to think about. And your grandmother. We’ve got to cut the losses while we can still keep the first restaurant going.”

“I’m sorry,” Denise choked out. With dependents, she couldn’t afford any more risk. We’d already gone too far in this skirmish-by-skirmish war against crooked County Commissioners, building inspectors taking backroom payoffs, deceptive construction contractors, and a fire marshal who was a notorious good ol’ boy. They were all in cahoots with local business owners who didn’t want any competition in this backwater town.

Denise and I should’ve been more careful to check out the environment before we’d fallen in love with the old mill building and decided it would be perfect for our second Bella Tazza location and our first really high-end eatery. Positioned along a busy thoroughfare for tourists headed up north to ski or spend summer vacations in the Upper Peninsula, Bella Tazza 2 with its high, lighted granary tower was a beacon for passersby.

But in eleven months, we’d been closed more than we’d been open. Every time we thought we’d won the battle to get and keep our occupancy permit, some new and expensive edict came down and we were closed until we could comply. Then the local contractors did their part to slow the process and raise the bills even more.

You’re not the one who needs to apologize,
I wanted to say to Denise, but I didn’t. Instead, I leaned beneath the archway, sunk into one of the benches, and surveyed the detailed murals that Denise and I had lovingly painted by hand after spending long days at Bella Tazza #1, in the next county over.

I felt sick all over again.

“The minute we have to give up the lease, they’ll move in here,” Denise echoed my thoughts the way only a cousin who’s more like a big sister can. “Vultures.”

“That’s the worst part.” But it wasn’t, really. The worst part was that it was
my
fault we’d gone this far in trying to preserve Tazza 2. Denise would’ve surrendered to Tagg Harper and his hometown henchmen long ago. Denise would’ve played it safe if only I’d let her.

Yet even now, after transferring the remaining food inventory to the other restaurant and listing off the equipment and fixtures we could sell at auction, I still couldn’t accept what was happening. Somehow, some way, Tagg and his cronies had managed to cause another month’s postponement of our case with the state code commission. We couldn’t hang on that long with Tazza 2 closed but still racking up monthly bills. This was death, at least for Tazza 2, and if we weren’t careful, the financial drain would swallow Tazza 1, leaving our remaining employees jobless.

“Let’s just go.” Denise flipped the light switch, casting our blood, sweat, and tears into shadow. “I can’t look at it anymore.”

The click of the latch held a finality, but my mind was churning, my heart still groping for a loophole . . . wishing white knight would ride in at the eleventh hour, brandishing sword and shield.

Instead, there was Tagg Harper’s four-wheel-drive truck, sitting in the ditch down out by the road. Stalker. He was probably kicked back in the truck, scratching his belly while sipping a brewskie and smiling at himself.

“Oh, I hate that man.” Denise’s teeth clenched over the words. “I’d like to . . .”

I couldn’t help myself, I took a step in Tagg’s direction.

“Whitney, don’t go get into it with him.” Denise’s hand snaked out protectively and snatched a fistful of my jacket. “There’s no telling what he’s capable of.” A time or two, we’d wondered if Tagg might do something drastic to put the final nail in the coffin he’d carefully crafted for us.

My despair began to morph into a feverish anger. My white-knight fairytale transformed into a cartoon as I imagined my anger pouring forth like acid, rendering Tagg Harper to ashes right there in his truck.

Denise’s grip tightened. “Don’t give him any more satisfaction. It’s bad enough, that he’ll see our equipment on Ebay as soon as we post the listings. Jerk. This is so wrong. All of this is so wrong. Honest competition with his restaurant, I can handle, but this. . . .”

“I’d just like to . . . walk down there and nail him with a kick to that great, big gut of his.” The past few months’ drama had driven me to think about refresher courses in Tang So Do karate, a pastime I’d given up after leaving the high school bullies behind, twenty years ago. I hadn’t told Denise, but someone had been prowling around my cabin at night.

As usual, my cousin was focused on the practical, on achieving
containment
. “We need to just concentrate on digging out financially and keeping the first store alive.”

“I know.” The problem was, I’d been adding things up in my head as we’d made our auction list in the mill building. What we’d get for the supplies and equipment wouldn’t even take care of the final utility costs here, much less the legal bills we’d amassed. With the flagging economy and the need to absorb as many Tazza 2 employees as possible into the other restaurant, I wasn’t even sure we could make payroll. And we
had
to make payroll. Our employees were counting on it. They had bills to pay, too.

Guilt fell hard and heavy, settling stone by stone as I crossed the parking lot. If I hadn’t moved back to Michigan five years ago and convinced Denise to leave her teaching job and start a restaurant with me, she wouldn’t be in this position now. But I’d been sailing off a big win after quitting an upper management job, starting my own bistro in Dallas, proving it out, and selling it for a nice chunk of change. With three-hundred-thousand dollars in my pocket, I’d been so sure I had the perfect formula for success. I’d told myself I was doing a good thing for my cousin, helping her escape the constant struggle to singlehandedly finance a household, take care of her aging grandmother, and pay for Mattie’s asthma care on a teacher’s salary.

Denise, I had a feeling, had been hoping that our starting a business together would somehow defeat the wanderlust that had taken me from culinary school to the far corners of the world, opening world-class kitchens for a multi national restaurant conglomerate.

“See you in the morning, Whit.” A quick shoulder-hug, and she disappeared into her vehicle, cranking the engine, then crunching across the layer of ice runoff from leftover winter snow. Rather than disappearing down the driveway, she stopped at the curb, near Tagg’s truck. Through the cold-smoke, I could feel her watching, waiting to be sure I made it to the road without spiraling into a confrontation.

It was so like Denise to look after me. Since the days she’d been my babysitter while my mother worked late teaching private music lessons, Denise had always been a natural born caretaker. She’d understood all the things I couldn’t tell my mom
 
—the bullying I endured in the exclusive private school across town, where Mom’s teaching job came with free tuition for me, the pain of not fitting in with the silver-spoon kids there, the lingering damage from the loss of my father. Denise had always been my oasis of kindness and sage advice
 
—the big sister I never had.

Passing by her car on the way out, I didn’t even look at her. I couldn’t let her see the complete despair that was finally pressing through. I just bumped down the winter-rutted drive, turned onto the road, and headed toward home, checking once in the mirror to make sure Denise was out of the parking lot, too.

Tagg Harper’s taillights came on just after her vehicle pulled out onto the road. My anger flared with tidal force, and I was starting a U-turn before I even knew what was happening. By the time I made it back to the restaurant, Tagg was positioning his truck in the middle of the parking lot.
Our
parking lot. The driver’s side door was just swinging open.

I wheeled around and pulled close enough to prevent him from wallowing out. Cold air rushed in my window, a quick, hard, bracing force.

“You even set
one foot
on this parking lot, Tagg Harper, I’ll call the police.” Not that the county sheriff wasn’t in Tagg’s pocket too. Tagg’s dumpy pizza place and convenience store was the spot where all the local boys gathered for coffee breaks . . . if they knew what was good for them.

Lowering his window, he rested a meaty arm on the frame, drawing the door inward a bit. The hinges groaned. “Public parking lot.” An index finger whirled lazily in the air. “Heard a little rattle in my engine just now. Thought I’d stop and check it out.”

“I’ll bet.” Of course he wouldn’t admit that he wanted to get his meat hooks on this place. He was probably afraid I’d have my cell phone on, recording. If I could ever get proof of the threats, the bribes to officials and contractors, the constant anonymous harassment online, I’d take it to the county DA so fast it’d make heads spin. The DA was young and actually seemed like a decent guy, but without proof, he couldn’t do a thing. Tagg knew that.

Which was why he was smiling and blinking at me like a ninny now.

“It’s
my
parking lot, until this is all settled . . . and you’re not welcome on it. We reserve the right to refuse service to
anyone.
You’re not welcome here.”
Don’t back down. Not this time. Don’t let him bully you.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I swallowed hard.

“Heard you were moving out early to save on the rent.” His breath drew smoke curls in the frosted air. I smelled beer, as usual. “Expensive to keep a building for no reason.”

My fist-locked fingers went pinprick numb. “Well, you heard wrong, because we’ve got a hearing with the state code commission in six weeks, and with that little bit of extra time to prepare, there’s not a way in the world we won’t win our case.”

His chin receded into wind-reddened rolls of neck fat before he relaxed in his seat, self-assured and smiling. He knew a bluff when he heard one. “It’d be a shame to drag yourself any deeper under . . . what with your
other
business to think about, and all.”

There was an unmistakable threat in there. What did
that
mean? Bella Tazza #1 was outside the county. There wasn’t anything Tagg could do to affect it, other than posting derogatory food reviews online, which he and his peeps had already done.

But he was thinking of
something
right now. That was clear enough even in the dim combination of moonlight and dashboard glow. His tongue snaked out and wet his lips and then he had the gall to give the mill building a leisurely assessment before turning his attention to me again. “Guess I’ll wait until the carcass cools a little more.”

Pulling the door closed, he rolled up his window, and then he was gone.

His confidence haunted me as I left the parking lot. What were the good ol’ boys plotting as they kicked back with their doughnuts and coffee?

What other killing blow did Tagg Harper have in his arsenal?