Unforgettable

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#u3d8d397e-6646-508a-bda6-db8aa7faa0b4)

Funny how everything could be normal one minute and utter chaos the next.

For the rest of her life, Carrie Martin would remember that bright Saturday as a perfect spring day in a perfectly happy, settled, safe life.

At ten o’clock in the morning, while on her hands and knees in the front yard transplanting iris bulbs and waiting for her daughter and husband to show up with peat moss from Clifford’s Garden Center, Carrie was jolted by the onk-onk of a car horn. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, but she did anyway, lifting a dirty gloved hand in greeting as the gold-colored Oldsmobile sailed into the driveway with one final blast of goodwill.

Her mother, the irrepressible Francis Adler—Frannie to her friends—hopped out of the Olds and crossed the grass, her short, green-clad legs pumping with the energy of a woman half her sixty-one years.

Frannie’s enormous hat, also green, formed an ever-advancing pool of shade across the sunny lawn. Today was St. Patrick’s Day and this was Mother’s method of announcing to the world that she was Irish. Even if she hadn’t been, she would have worn the hat.

Frannie never did anything halfway.

“Good morning, Mother.” Carrie rested back on her heels with a smile.

From behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, Frannie looked her daughter up and down before extracting a stick-on shamrock from the pocket of her loose cotton jacket—green, of course. “You aren’t wearing green.”

Well, Mother certainly was.

Frannie slapped the shamrock onto the pocket of Carrie’s white camp shirt.

Carrie glanced down. “I am now.”

“I saved you from being pinched,” her mother said cheerfully. “How do you like my hat?” A pudgy, beringed hand patted the wide brim.

“Very Irish.” Like a plump leprechaun. Any minute now Carrie expected her to leap into the air and click her heels. She would do it, too, if the notion struck. As with holidays, Mother never missed an opportunity to have what she termed as fun. Carrie termed it embarrassing.

Take for instance, last year’s Gusher Day festivities, their small town’s celebration of its oil boom heritage. Mother and her Red Hat Society compatriots, a group of over-fifty ladies with a zest for life, marched in the parade tossing bright red wax lips into the crowd while belting, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” in a slightly off-key, wobbly-voiced style.

Carrie, watching from the church craft booth, had inwardly cringed at Mother’s outrageous display. How could a Christian woman be so…boisterous? A better question, perhaps, was how had Francis Adler given birth and parented a daughter who was her total opposite?

Candace Ellis, the pastor’s unassuming wife had surprised everyone in the booth by saying, “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to join, too. Those ladies have a blast.”

Carrie had managed a tight-lipped smile. Not me, she thought. I wouldn’t be caught dead prancing in front of everyone in the Red Hat brigade.

She loved her mother, truly, but sometimes she wished her only parent was a little more low-key.

“So, where are you headed this morning, Mother?” Using the edge of her glove—the only clean spot—to brush hair out of her eyes, Carrie continued to trowel around another overgrown iris. “Or did you come by to help me separate these bulbs?”

“Oh, honey, why don’t you let them grow? Your yard would be beautiful filled with all the different-colored irises. Like a rainbow of flowers.”

“My yard is beautiful,” she answered a little stiffly. “Everyone admires the way my flowers border the walkways and line the drive in tidy rows.”

She lifted out a tangle of moist, earthy-scented soil and bulbs.

That was the thing about irises. If she wasn’t right on them in the spring, rooting them out, they took over. The blessing of course came in giving them away. What she viewed as pests, her friends considered coveted additions to their gardens. Carrie loved her gardens, but she loved them neat and orderly, although she had to admit a certain envy of Mother’s carefree attitude about her plants.

She added the uprooted bulbs to the bucket at her knee. Clods of dirt pattered like rain against the thick plastic.

“I think I’ll take these over to Sara Perneky.” The younger woman had raved about Carrie’s garden last spring.

“Wonderful idea.” Mother crouched down beside her to peer into the bucket. A fog of Avon cologne mingled with the scent of fresh, fertile earth. “After that nasty divorce, Sara could use a bright spot in her life. Poor girl. Don’t let any of these go to waste now. I know half a dozen ladies who would love a start, including me.”

“Mother, for goodness’ sake. Your garden is overrun now.” To Carrie’s way of thinking, Mother’s garden wasn’t a garden. It was a jungle.

“The more the merrier, I always say. Let ’em bloom.”

“A perfect nesting place for snakes.”

“That could have happened anywhere,” Mother said. “Besides, that little critter added a spark to the day. Lots of excitement when a snake comes a-calling.”

Dan, Carrie’s husband, had been called upon last fall to kill a copperhead found slithering from beneath the jungle of lilac and japonica and honeysuckle vines growing over the concrete top of Mother’s cellar. They’d all breathed a sigh of relief afterward when Frannie got out her giant hedge clippers and whacked away the worst of the bushes.

“I wonder where Dan and Lexi are?” Carrie said, shading her eyes to peer down the street. “I thought they’d be back by now.”

“Well, fiddle. Lexi’s not here?” Frannie adjusted her sunglasses. “I came by to see if she wanted to ride with me to the airport.”

Carrie froze. “The airport?”

Riverbend boasted a small airport for private planes. Mostly oilmen flew in and out of there, but occasionally someone gave flying lessons.

“You aren’t taking flying lessons, are you?” Frannie had threatened to do just that for years, but money was always an issue. Carrie thanked the good Lord it was. The thought of her mother barnstorming in a single-engine plane gave her hives. She could almost imagine Frannie decked out in Amelia Earhart helmet and goggles taking on a crop dusting job for the express purpose of swooping down to scare her daughter into apoplexy.

Frannie flapped a hand. “Mercy, no. Too expensive.”

Fingers gripping the top of the bucket, Carrie didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it seeped out in a whistle. “Then whatever for?”

“Skydiving.”

Carrie held up a stiff hand, stop sign style. “You aren’t going skydiving, Mother. You aren’t.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Carrie. The skydiving club is doing a jump today. I’m only going out to watch.” A sneaky little grin teased the corners of her vermilion lips. “This time.”

Frannie had been threatening to jump out of an airplane as long as Carrie could remember. The idea struck sheer terror in her height-phobic daughter. “Thank the Lord.”

Mother checked her watch. “Gotta run. I told Alice I’d stop to pick her up on the way.” Alice Sherman was Mother’s best friend.

“Are you coming by later?”

“Probably not, honey. I have bowling tonight.”

Carrie lifted an eyebrow. “With Ken?”

She liked teasing her mother about the rugged farmer. The pair had been friends long before Ken’s wife died, but now Carrie suspected a romance. Except for the fact that Ken had taught Frannie to drive a tractor and ride a horse, both a little silly for someone of her age, Carrie was glad. Mother had been alone for most of her life.