Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

From the Kitchen of Verbena Fullbright

When whippin' up a new cake recipe don't be afraid to have a little fun by experimenting with different textures and flavors. Sure, the recipe might not work out, but by taking a chance you might could find that special something you've been looking for all along.

Tessa Jane

"Whoo-eee!" Aunt Bean howled with laughter early Monday morning as she swerved around a corner, making the back end of Sweetie, her pea-green 1951 Ford pickup truck, swing into the empty oncoming lane. "Don't you just love this time of day, girls?"

"I'd love it more if I wasn't scared to death," Addie said from her spot in between Aunt Bean and me. "Is there a reason you're driving like a maniac?"

The day had dawned cool and misty, and I sat on my hands so I wouldn't grip the truck's bench seat, or the dashboard—or anything—as Bean sped along the side roads that ran between her farmhouse and the Starling Cake Company on Market Street.

It was a few minutes past seven, and the temperature inside the truck roughly matched what was outside—low forties—since the heater was broken and had been for decades.

"Maniac? Hardly." Bean scoffed. "You're not scared, are you, Tessa Jane?"

"Terrified," I admitted. "I've never wished so hard for airbags in my whole life."

My voice was thick with exhaustion. I was bone-tired. Soul-weary. I hadn't been able to relax since I'd arrived. Beyond what was going on with Bean's health and the uneasiness that came with being around Addie, every time my phone buzzed or rang, I tensed up, sure it was going to be my grandfather.

I'd been in town three days now—long past time that good manners dictated I should pay Winchester Wingrove a visit. But I kept putting it off. Not only because I didn't want to hear, yet again, what was expected of me—as if it hadn't been drilled into me since I'd been born—but also because I didn't trust myself around him right now. He was used to, demanded, even, sweetness and light. With my grim mood these days, I might do or say something I'd come to regret, because upsetting him was like to kicking a fire ant mound.

The truck's gears creaked and groaned as Bean yanked the shifter. "Lordy. When was the last time you girls had a little fun?"

Addie and I glanced at each other, then quickly looked away, neither of us saying anything.

I honestly couldn't remember. Fun hadn't been a word in my vocabulary for a long while now.

Bean shook her head and tsk ed at our silence. "Oh dear. We'll work on that."

"Can we work on it while driving the speed limit?" Addie pleaded.

Aunt Bean laughed, but she did slow a bit. "I'm just so dang tickled you're both here. Gavin would be, too. Oh, how he loved you girls."

Gavin. My and Addie's father. He'd died when I was only five and a half years old, and I hated that I'd never really had a chance to get to know him. I tamped down a surge of grief and focused on watching water droplets slide down the windshield.

"Are you sure you can't get more time off, Tessa Jane?" Aunt Bean asked. "I know it's greedy of me, but I'd sure love to have you here longer than a month."

"I'd sure love to stay longer than a month, but my boss just about had a conniption fit when I asked for that much time off."

Bean nudged Addie with her elbow. "It's a good reminder that we shouldn't take for granted the perks of being our own bosses."

"True," Addie said with a nod, but didn't add anything more.

She sat still as a statue, her knees pushed together. Her right elbow was tucked in close to her side, as if not wanting a single centimeter of her body to accidentally touch mine. I don't think she noticed the quick frown that flashed across Bean's face before she tucked it out of sight.

Bean had been trying all morning to get Addie to talk to me more. Had been trying all my life, really.

To be contrary, I wiggled a tiny bit closer to Addie, letting my arm rest against hers.

To my surprise, she didn't even flinch, like she used to do when we were girls and I wandered too close.

Her chestnut hair was pulled up and coiled into a neat bun, not a flyaway to be seen. She wore hardly any makeup—just mascara and a tinted lip balm. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her nails short, tidy, and unpolished. She wore ankle-length plain blue jeans, a pair of black tennis shoes, and an olive-green utility jacket, snapped clear up to her neck with the drawstring at her waist pulled tight and tied in a neat bow.

Before this visit, the last time I'd actually seen or talked with Addie she'd been eighteen—nearly twelve years ago. She'd hardly changed a bit in all that time—it seemed she was still as buttoned up as a person could be, hardly letting anyone into her life—or her heart. Not that anyone could blame her, considering the way her mama had all but abandoned her, then with Daddy dying. And then her high school best friend, Ree, passed, too. It was a lot of loss. Too much.

With me, Addie had always been extra guarded, keeping me at a firm distance, blaming me for something that hadn't been my fault. When we were kids, she had no qualms about ignoring me, making me feel like I simply wasn't there. She had been so adept at blocking me out that if not for Aunt Bean, I might've questioned my own existence.

But now, even though she'd hardly spoken to me since I'd been back in town, I sensed something had changed within her. Something had softened.

I didn't know what to make of that. At all.

Crackly country music filled all the empty spaces of the truck's cab as Aunt Bean took a hard left. The force of the turn plastered me against the door, and I searched high and low for a bright side to Bean's terrifying driving.

Seeing glimmers of hope and light in a dark situation—even in a person—had always been the one positive thing that I could truly count on in my life, filling me with warmth. But for almost a year now, it had been a struggle to see any brightness. And over the last two months it had been practically impossible. Now that the ability had all but disappeared, it made me feel like I was lost in the darkness. Lost and cold.

As moisture coated the windshield and twin stubby wipers whisked it away, I wished I could go back in time. I'd travel to just before The Great Humiliation, the incident that had cast me into this bleakness, breaking my spirit. Breaking my heart. Breaking me .

Actually, I wouldn't mind going back six months, maybe even a year. No, two years. That's when I'd stepped into the massive kitchen of the Southern Oaks Country Club, where I worked as a pastry chef and had first met Carson DeWitt, who'd just been hired on as head chef.

Knowing what I knew now, I'd make different choices. Avoid the pain. The embarrassment.

Some people, like my mother, thought I should have already put the heartbreak behind me. But then again, she was the same person who, only a couple of weeks after Carson left me at the altar, took one look at the misery I wore like the old, comfortable robe I'd been living in since being jilted and gave me a big hug, a kiss on my forehead, and told me enough was enough.

Mama had a big heart but little patience.

Then she'd added, "Don't go forgetting who you are and where you come from, Tessa Jane. Cobbs do not wallow."

She preferred to think of herself as a Cobb, her mother's family name, rather than a Wingrove. In fact, she'd rather be anyone other than a Wingrove. She and Granddaddy had never seen eye to eye, especially when it came to my grandmother, whom I'd always called Gigi.

Mama had adored Gigi.

Granddaddy… seemingly had not. They had their own bedrooms in different wings of their enormous house and barely spoke to each other. Not that they were contentious. They hadn't been. It was simply as though they'd led separate lives—while living under the same roof. For forty-some years.

I learned early on the term marriage of convenience , though it took me years to understand it fully.

From then on, I'd vowed to marry for love and love alone.

My throat burned with regret as I pictured Carson down on one knee, asking me to marry him. I gave myself a good mental shake to clear the image, wishing it was as easy to get rid of the memories. Wishing I could change the past.

"If you need inspiration to move on," Mama had said to me back in November, "just remember all the people who have it worse than you."

She knew firsthand the many ways in which others had it worse than me. Beyond her high-visibility career as a fundraising consultant, she'd forged a whole life—a secret life very few knew about—helping those people. The pristine, privileged image she insisted we present to the world was to protect them .

Wealth had the extraordinary ability to conceal both sins and salvation.

But even though, yes , I knew others had it worse, that knowledge didn't magically heal me. It only made me feel guilty on top of brokenhearted.

So I took to hiding my pain, stuffing it deep down, out of sight.

I pretended I was just fine working in the same kitchen as Carson after it became clear he was only quitting me , not his job.

I volunteered to help when he moved out of my condo.

I graciously offered to return all our wedding gifts, along with a handwritten note, on my own.

I'd handed back my engagement ring without so much as a sniffle .

But silently? I'd cursed upon him a million grease burns. Had hoped he'd slip off the condo's second-story balcony. I'd imagined cramming down his throat all the apologetic cards I'd written, thanking people for their gift-giving kindness. And when I'd handed back my engagement ring, I'd have loved to shove it somewhere the sun never shone.

In short, I'd turned into someone I didn't know.

Days seemed dimmer. Nights, darker. The stars stopped twinkling. Bright sides vanished. I couldn't see any inner lights—even my own.

With my nerves stretched wafer-paper thin, I knew I had to do something drastic if I wanted to find my way back to who I'd once been. To the person who cared . About myself. About others. I'd been debating on exactly what to do when I'd received the call from Aunt Bean last Friday about an emergency family meeting. At the tail end of our conversation, I'd made the split-second decision to ask if I could stay with her awhile beyond the weekend. Just a month, I'd added, telling her only that I wanted a change of pace, of scenery.

But really, I needed to return to the place where I felt most like me .

"Peanut," Bean had said in that booming yet loving tone of hers, "my home is your home. Stay as long as you'd like."

The farmhouse had felt like home, despite my visits being limited to long weekends, occasional holidays, and a few weeks every summer. It was always filled with a sweet vanilla scent and Bean's unconditional love—which by far overrode Addie's stoniness.

But as I'd gotten older, I realized it wasn't the farmhouse that had felt like home.

It was Aunt Bean.

I glanced at her now, my heart in my throat. It was impossible not to notice the rapid decline in her health since my previous visit at Thanksgiving. As I thought about her damaged heart and what that might mean for the future, I searched for even a spark of light. And I found a glimmer in the sound of Bean's delighted laughter as she swung the truck around another corner. I'd take a million death-defying rides with her if it meant I could hear that sound time and again.

Bean picked up the conversation, breaking the growing silence. "I can see why your boss wouldn't want to lose you, Tessa Jane, even if only for a month. Not after you were nominated for fancy pastry award last year. Such an honor for a chef so young. Remember, I told you about that, Addie?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, her tone neutral.

Aunt Bean had probably called Addie or sent a text message right after hearing the news. She'd always been our go-between when it came to communication, even when we were younger. As we aged, she openly told us that she reported Addie's goings-on to me, and mine to Addie unless we specifically asked her not to. She forwarded photos. Shared conversations and gossip and the everyday little things that only family would care about. Should care about.

As surely as I knew that Addie's favorite ice cream was pistachio, she knew mine was mocha chip. And as surely as I knew Addie had broken up with her last boyfriend because he'd been rude to a waitress, she knew how I'd met Carson, when I got engaged, and the disastrous way in which that relationship ended.

It was Aunt Bean's way of keeping us stitched together even though the thread binding us was so frayed it might snap at any moment.

"Did you tell Tessa Jane about the part you recently landed?" Aunt Bean asked her, trying so very hard to get her to engage. "A role in an animated movie!"

Everyone in this truck knew Addie most certainly had not told me. Just as everyone in this truck also knew Aunt Bean had already shared the news with me months ago.

But because Bean was making such an effort, a painful effort at that, I spoke up. "Wow! Congratulations!"

I tried to sound like I hadn't already known but somehow the words came out awkward and stilted.

Addie glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

I pasted on a smile.

If I didn't know better, I would've sworn it was humor that flickered in her eyes before she said, "Thanks."

Addie's talent for impressions and voices had started young. All her dolls had their own voices—some of which had been borrowed from classic TV characters like Bugs Bunny or Smurfette. She could mimic sounds and often used them to make people—especially Bean—laugh. And she also had unique voices for each of the household pets.

Addie had been ten when Daddy died and afterward, when she started to close herself off even more, Aunt Bean all but marched her over to the local theater group and signed her up. It's where Addie had met Ree. It's where she allowed herself to be free from the grief, if only for the little while she pretended to be someone else. But even on stage, she'd never been truly comfortable in the spotlight. Which was why voice work was such a good choice for her. A chance to act without people watching her every move.

Through the years, she'd voiced commercials, documentaries, audiobooks. She had bit roles in many animated TV shows, video games, and a few movies as well. Currently, she had the lead role in an animated TV show about a precocious southern bunny that had been so successful that a theme park attraction and a Broadway show were in the works.

And, of course, I only knew all this because Aunt Bean had told me.

It was such an odd feeling to know someone without truly knowing them at all.

A mile down the road, Aunt Bean slowed at a stop sign and resolutely steered the dormant conversation in another direction. "Surely y'all remember Tyler Underwood? It's his company that's handling the construction at the bakery."

Addie nodded and I shifted on the seat, saying, "Bug's got his own company?"

Aunt Bean smiled. "After working for years in construction down in Wetumpka, last summer Ty started up his own company and I hired him straight off. And he hasn't gone by Bug since about the time you were in grade school with him, having outgrown his childhood fascination with insects. Thank goodness."

Tyler Underwood. The last time I'd seen him was nearly a year ago while I'd been in Starlight visiting Aunt Bean. When he caught sight of me window-shopping on Market Street, he'd abruptly turned and strode off in the opposite direction so he wouldn't have to fake pleasantries.

His behavior hadn't been a surprise.

He didn't like me. Never had. Because I was a Wingrove.

There was bad blood between our families. More specifically, my grandfather had done the Underwoods horribly wrong.

Which also wasn't a surprise.

My granddaddy seemed to have done everyone around here wrong.

Aunt Bean said, "These days, he's a magnet for stray or wounded animals. All kinds. Some just show up at his door out of the blue, some he hears about from others. He always finds help for them, one way or another. Right now at his place he's got a puny possum with an injured arm that's waiting on an opening with a wildlife rehabber, a cat with six kittens, and a turtle or tortoise or some such that's taken up residence in his backyard. It's a protected species, so he can't even build a deck until the critter wanders off. He jokes about having his backyard declared as conservation land."

Once, when Ty and I were in third grade, he'd put a big grasshopper in my desk. One that jumped out and hit my face when I lifted the laminated wooden lid and reached inside for my library book. The class had howled with laughter, and my cheeks had burned while I recaptured the terrified critter. I'd carefully cupped it in my hands and carried it to a window to set it free, thinking the whole time that I'd have liked to stuff Ty in a desk, see how he liked it. So a few weeks later when he was locked inside the school gym's equipment closet while returning a basketball, I decided then and there that karma might just be real.

"Is he going to be at the bakery this morning?" I asked warily, scratching a sudden hive on my neck.

Aunt Bean downshifted. "Should be."

How wonderful. His animosity first thing in the morning was going to be great way to start the day. Couldn't wait.

As I felt myself tense with irritation, hopelessness nearly overcame me. Suddenly, it felt like the darkness in my life had made itself comfortable and was here to stay. The old me would never be so blithe, so sarcastic. The old me, the one who trusted blindly, who always believed there was good in people, would have tried yet again to convince Ty that I wasn't the enemy.

But right now I simply didn't have the energy, or the will, or the light , to deal with his bitterness.

"Fair warning, best y'all keep your guard up around him," Aunt Bean said. "He's always trying to pawn off his rescues on the tenderhearted."

I turned her way. "Is that where Lucy and Ethel came from?"

Aunt Bean laughed. "Sure is. My heart at the moment is at its most tender. I'm an easy mark."

At the mention of her heart, sadness panged deep in my bones. I sought a glimmer of hope, and when I didn't find one, I pulled a hand out from under my thigh and reached for my star pendant, a matching one to Addie's. Only to quickly remember I wasn't wearing it.

"Who are Lucy and Ethel?" Addie asked.

"They're Pekin ducks," Bean said. "Sassy as can be."

Addie hadn't yet noticed the new additions to Aunt Bean's household because after the family meeting on Friday, she'd driven back to Birmingham to tighten up the loose ends of her life in preparation for moving down here for a while. She'd returned late last night, which was when Aunt Bean told us that at first light we'd be going to see the renovations under way at the Starling Cake Company.

"When did you get ducks, Aunt Bean?" Addie asked, shifting ever so slightly on the bench seat.

Our sides were now fully touching, molding together. It was me, this time, who inched away, seeking to put a smidgen of space between us. Keeping her at a distance felt all kinds of wrong since for most of my life I'd wished that if she couldn't accept me as a sister, she'd at least be a friend. But now that she seemed to be letting me in a tiny bit, I couldn't help thinking it was for show. Surface but no substance. All I could think to do was protect myself. Put up a wall. Push her away. I could not deal with more heartache.

The mist turned into a steady drizzle as Aunt Bean said, "Ty came to me last week, all wide brown eyes and manly charm, saying a pair of ducks needed a new home, one with a pond preferably. Next thing I knew, I was hiring him to build me a quack shack."

There was lightness in Addie's voice as she said, "I hope he gave you a discount at least."

Her voice was mesmerizing, even more so when there was humor in it. It was no wonder she was in high demand for work. To be honest, though, I'd been surprised Addie had pursued voice acting at all. I'd always thought she'd stay in Starlight and become the next Sugarbird. She loved baking cakes.

Unlike me.

Cakes gave me nothing but anxiety, because no matter how hard I tried, they never tasted as good as Aunt Bean's. Despite all my training and my lineage, my cakes were simply ordinary instead of magical.

The only thing I truly loved to bake was cookies. Decorated cookies. Something I, as a high-end pastry chef, would never dare admit among my peers. I'd also never confess that I didn't love being a pastry chef. Another job, however, had never been an option. My career had been mapped out for me at a young age, my grandfather intent on me becoming the best baker around. The best Fullbright . And once he decided on something, it was best not to argue.

Bean slowed as she turned onto Market Street. "Ty isn't charging a thing except for any extra materials that he doesn't already have on hand. He's planning to start work on it soon, so don't go being surprised if you see him at the farmhouse."

I silently cursed the bad timing. I'd simply try to stay out of his way. I would not try to befriend him. Or apologize for my grandfather's behavior. Or even talk to him unless absolutely necessary.

Then I sighed, absolutely hating that disconnection was my first line of thought.

I might be having trouble with seeing bright sides at the moment, but I could see my shadow—what we called the dark side to our gift—just fine. It emerged when fear-based emotions, like panic and anxiety and insecurity, ran high.

When hope seemed out of reach.

Addie's shadow was that she had trouble keeping a secret.

Aunt Bean developed insomnia.

And me? My personality flip-flopped. I became unsociable and unfriendly. Cool and distant.

Shadows, in general, were often like passing clouds and didn't linger. But recently mine had taken over. I had hoped that being here with Aunt Bean in Starlight would help me find my way back to the light. Yet, here I was, inching away from my sister. And planning to outright avoid Ty.

Determined to fight for who I used to be, I forced myself to inch closer to Addie once again. And I told myself I'd simply be gracious to Ty. Nothing more, nothing less.

"How's his mama doing?" Addie asked.

The concern in her voice worried me. "Is something going on with Miss Ernie?"

"Bless her heart," Bean said, her voice full and round with affection as the truck ground to a stop at a red light. "Ernie was diagnosed with breast cancer last spring."

I hadn't heard about the diagnosis. But then again, I hadn't visited Starlight as often as I should've after meeting Carson—and certainly not in the final months before the wedding. The planning had taken up my whole world for a while.

"I'm sorry to hear it," I said.

I immediately wanted to send her a note and bake her some sugar cookies, which she'd always claimed to be her favorite. Ernestine Underwood had been a good friend of Bean's for forever—and surprisingly kind to me despite the fact that my grandfather had a hand in destroying her family.

Bean said, "Doctors are optimistic. Ernie just wants the chemo over and done with. She says the only bright side to the situation is that it's helped her overcome her fear of needles. Lately, she's been talking about getting a big ol' tattoo once all is over and done with. Some think she's joking, but I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she goes through with it."

"Has she been able to keep working?" I asked. Ernie was one of the finest glassblowers in Alabama. Maybe in the whole country.

The truck lurched forward when the light turned green. "She's slowed a bit but still gets into her studio one or two days a week. And because she's not her usual sprightly self, a couple of days a week Luna Gray helps her around the house, dusting and such. Luna, with her youthful energy, lights the place up, and personally I think that's been more beneficial to Ernie than anything."

I smiled, easily picturing the effervescent eleven-year-old with her dark hair and expressive blue eyes, who had also been a guest of Aunt Bean's at this past year's Thanksgiving dinner. But at the mention of the girl's name, Addie stiffened up again, pulling her arms in close to her sides.

It didn't take but a second for me to realize why. Luna's mama had been Addie's high school best friend, Ree, who sadly passed away only days after Luna's birth from a delivery complication. It was obvious Addie still felt the loss sharply. If there had been another snap on her jacket, I was certain she would've fastened it in order to tuck herself further into her protective shell. The one she used to hide her pain and grief.

I wanted to reach out, offer a consoling hand, because I knew how hard it was to keep my own pain hidden. But ultimately I kept my hands to myself and looked out the side window.

The town's main street was lined on both sides by two-story brick buildings of varying heights and rooflines. Awnings shaded windows. Lampposts dotted the sidewalk. Twinkle lights, which stayed lit all day long, sparkled in the trees, lending brightness to the dreary morning.

We drove by the swanky Celestial Hotel, the bank, the pizza place, the gift shop, the hair and nail salon. As we passed Gossamer, the fancy dress shop where I'd bought my wedding dress, the wipers creaked, and my broken heart nearly spilled out of my chest. I hated how the pain snuck up on me sometimes, delivering a sucker punch.

"The renovations at the bakery sure are a sight to behold," Aunt Bean said, her voice full of excitement as we passed the Stars Above bookstore, which anchored the east side of the business district. "Be sure you to take a good long look around the place, because it's the last time y'all will see it before the grand reopening. I want the finished result to be a surprise."

As we rolled past a quaint pocket park, I looked over my shoulder to see the mural painted on the side of the bookshop. It depicted the night sky, done in inky blues and blacks and purples, dotted with twinkling stars. Below the sky was a crater with an ethereal pathway that glimmered in blue, yellow, green, and silvery tones—the starlight aurora had been captured perfectly.

As I looked forward once again, I noticed a flock of silvery starlings landing in a crape myrtle on the edge of the bakery's parking lot. In our family folklore, the birds were departed loved ones who now acted as guardians. Mostly of the starlight field, protecting the buried star. Partly of us.

They had started as a flock of one shortly after one of my long-ago grannies, Clara—whose name meant light, bright, and clear—vanished the day the star had crashed into the field she'd been tending. And with each passing of a maternal ancestor, the group grew. Currently it was eighteen strong, and one glance was all it took to know these beautiful birds were far from ordinary. Their iridescent feathers were more silver than black and were able to shimmer even in the dimmest light.

However, seeing them now brought a slight quiver of unease—they only appeared this close when something unsettling was about to happen. Something that might require the reassurance of their presence or their guidance.

Or their intervention.

Like the time they'd saved my mother's life before I was born.

The last time I'd seen them this close was shortly after my grandmother's will had been read. They'd perched outside the lawyer's office window as Mr. Stubblefield informed us that it was true—Gigi had left nothing of the Cobb fortune to Mama or me and everything to Granddaddy. And that there wasn't anything Mama could do about it.

As we let the news settle, it was hard to ignore the talk going around that Granddaddy had strong-armed Gigi while she'd been unwell to change the terms. Or had even forged her name. I wasn't sure what the truth was. All I knew was that it had been her money to do with what she saw fit—and that I missed her dearly.

As Aunt Bean careened into the Starling Cake Company's parking lot, kicking up crushed stone, I tore my gaze from the birds. Behind two large blue tarps attached to scaffolding, the bakery was all but hidden except for the pitched roofline.

Two men stood on a platform at the top of the scaffolding. One of them was Ty, and at the sight of him I could feel more itchy blotches rise on my skin. Hives had plagued me most of my life, popping up when I was emotional or anxious or nervous or stressed.

As my guilty conscience raised welt after welt, I fidgeted to keep from scratching the wheals and glanced again at the mural. Then at the starlings.

Fullbrights were supposed to use our gift of seeing bright sides to bring light and happiness to others. But because I couldn't see past the darkness of my shadow right now, it made me feel like I failed my family. Failed the stars.

I had to do everything I could to find my way back to the light, even if it was only baby steps I was taking.

Which meant that it might be finally time to confess—and apologize—to Ty for locking him in that closet all those years ago.