Chapter 1

 

Perhaps denial is the mind’s way of protecting the heart from a sucker punch it can’t handle.Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe denial in the face of overwhelming evidence is amere byproduct ofstubbornness.

 

Whatever the reason, all I could think standing in the doorway, one hand on the latch andthe other trembling on the keys, was, This 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 blazeof 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 atthe end, cracking into jaggedpieces.

 

“No.” A hard, bitter tone sharpened the cutting edge on the word. It wasn’t aimed atDenise.

 

She knew that. “Nothing about this is all right. Not one singlething.”

 

“Yeah.” Resting against the doorframe, she let her neck go slack until her cheek touchedthe 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 kindthat only teasesyou.

 

Denise’s hair fell like a pale, silky curtain, dividing the two of us. We’d always beenat opposite ends of the cousin spectrum—Denise strawberry blonde, pale, and freckled, medark- haired, blue-eyed, and olive-skinned. Denise a homebody and me awanderer.

 

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

 

“I know. I know you’re right.” But still a part of me rebelled. All of me rebelled. Icouldn’t stand the thought of being bullied one more time. “I understand that you’re being logical. Andon top of that, you have Mattie to think about. And your grandmother. We’ve got to cut thelosses while we can still keep the first restaurantgoing.”

 

“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 countycommissioners, building inspectors taking backroom payoffs, deceptive construction contractors, and afire marshal who was a notorious good ol’ boy. They were all in cahoots with local businessowners who didn’t want any competition in this backwatertown.

 

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

 

But in eleven months, we’d been closed more than we’d been open. Every time wethought we’d won the battle to get and keep our occupancy permit, some new and expensive edictcame down and we were closed until we could comply. Then the local contractors did their partto

 

 

 

slow the process and raise the bills evenmore.

 

You’re not the one who needs to apologize, I wanted to say to Denise, but I didn’t. Instead,I sank onto one of the benches and surveyed the murals Denise and I had painted afterspending long days at Bella Tazza 1, in the next countyover.

 

I felt sick all overagain.

 

“The minute we have to give up the lease, they’ll move in here.” Denise echoed mythoughts 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 faultwe’d gone this far in trying to preserve Tazza 2. Denise would’ve surrendered to Tagg Harper andhis hometown henchmen long ago. Denise would’ve played it safe if only I’d lether.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Instead, there was Tagg Harper’s four-wheel-drive truck, sitting in the ditch down bythe road. Stalker. He was probably scratching his belly while sipping a brewski and smilingat 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’sdirection.

 

“Whitney, don’t get into it with him. There’s no telling what he’s capableof.”

 

My despair morphed into a feverish anger. I’d never hated anyone the way I hatedTagg Harper.

 

Denise’s hand snaked out and grabbed my jacket. “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.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 Soo Do karate,a pastime I’d given up after leaving the high school bullies behind, twenty years ago. I hadn’ttold Denise, but someone had been prowling around my cabin atnight.

 

As usual, my cousin was focused on the practical, on achieving containment. “We needto concentrate on digging out financially and keeping the first storealive.”

 

“I know.” The problem was, I’d been adding things up in my head as we’d made ourauction

 

 

 

list in the mill building. What we’d get for the supplies and equipment wouldn’t even takecare of the final utility costs here, much less the legal bills we’d amassed. With the flaggingeconomy and the need to absorb as many Tazza 2 employees as possible into the other restaurant, Iwasn’t

 

even sure we could make payroll. And we had to make payroll. Our employees were countingon it. They needed to pay their billstoo.

 

Guilt fell hard and heavy, settling stone by stone as I crossed the parking lot. If Ihadn’t moved back to Michigan five years ago and convinced Denise to start a restaurant with me,she would’ve still been in a nice, safe teaching job. But I’d been sailing off a big win afterquitting an upper management job, opening my own bistro in Dallas, proving it out, and selling it fora nice chunk of change. With three hundred thousand dollars in my pocket, I’d been so sure Ihad 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 single-handedly finance a household, take care of heraging grandmother, and pay for Mattie’s asthma care on a teacher’ssalary.

 

Denise, I had a feeling, had been hoping that our starting a business together wouldsomehow defeat the wanderlust that had taken me from culinary school to the far corners of theworld, opening top-of-the-line kitchens for a multinational restaurantconglomerate.

 

“See you in the morning, Whit.” A quick shoulder-hug and she disappeared into hervehicle, cranking the engine, then crunching across the leftover ice runoff of a polar-vortexwinter.

 

Rather than disappearing down the driveway, she stopped at the curb, near Tagg’struck. Through the cold-smoke, I could feel her watching, waiting to be sure I made it to theroad without spiraling into aconfrontation.

 

It was so like Denise to look after me. Since her long-ago days as my after-schoolbabysitter, she’d always been fiercely protective. Like the rest of Mom’s family, she’d worried that Iwas stuffing down the aftereffects of my father’s death, and that Mom was making a mistakeby exposing me to my grandmother on far-away Roanoke Island. It was no secret that ZilthaBenoit held my mother responsible for the untimely loss of herson.

 

Denise had silently understood all the things I couldn’t tell my mom, or anyone—thepainful inadequacy that had haunted my childhood, the sense that I could never be good enough,the ridicule in the exclusive private school across town, where Mom’s music teaching job camewith free tuition for me. The awkwardness of not fitting in with the silver-spoon kids there,even though my last name was Benoit. Denise had always been my oasis of kindness andsage advice—the big sister I neverhad.

 

Passing by her car on the way out, I couldn’t even look at her. I just bumped down thewinter- rutted drive, turned onto the road, and headed toward home, checking once in the mirror tomake sure Denise was out of the parking lottoo.

 

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

 

I wheeled around and pulled close enough to prevent him from wallowing out. Coldair

 

 

 

rushed in my window, a quick, hard, bracingforce.

 

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

 

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

 

“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 be recording on my cell phone, trying to secure proof of the threats,the bribes to officials and contractors, the constantharassment.

 

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

 

“It’s my parking lot, until this is all settled. We reserve the right to refuse service toanyone.

 

You’re not welcome here.” Don’t back down. Not this time. Don’t let him bully you. Grippingthe steering wheel tighter, I swallowedhard.

 

“Heard you were moving out early to save on the rent.” His breath drew smoke curls inthe frosted air. I smelled beer, as usual. “Expensive to keep a building for noreason.”

 

“Well, you heard wrong, because we’ve got a hearing with the state code commission insix weeks, and with that little bit of extra time to prepare, there’s not a way in the world wewon’t win ourcase.”

 

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 yourselfany deeper under . . . what with your other business to think about andall.”

 

What did that mean? Bella Tazza 1 was outside the county. There wasn’t anythingTagg could do to affect it, other than posting derogatory food reviews online, which he and hispeeps had alreadydone.

 

But he was thinking of something right now. That was clear enough. His tongue snakedout and wet his lips, and then he had the gall to give the mill building a leisurely assessmentbefore turning his attention to me again. “Guess I’ll wait until the carcass cools a littlemore.”

 

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

 

I sat alone in the moon shadow of my dying dream, once again feeling like the little girlwho would never be worthy of dreams, the Benoit name, or anythingelse.

 

No matter how far I traveled, no matter what I achieved, that girl remained just a fewinches beneath theskin.

 

Right now, she was telling me this was exactly what Ideserved.

 

 

 

Rounding icy curves as the headlights glinted against dirty mounds of leftover snow, I hadthe urge to let go of the wheel, close my eyes, and just stay wherever the car came to rest . . .until the cold or carbon monoxide put an end to all of this. In some logical part of my brain, Iknew that was an overreaction, but the idea of going broke and taking my cousin with mewas unbearable.

 

 

 

There has to be a way out. There has to be something I can do. . ..

 

Yet no miraculous possibilities came to mind during the thirty-minute drive home.Finally, the surface of Lake Michigan glinted through the trees, and I looked toward it seekingthe comfort it usually provided. This time, all I could see was a vision of myself, floating coldand silent beneath thesurface.

 

Stop. That. The words in my head were a reprimand, strong and determined like mymother’s voice. You are not yourfather.

 

But occasionally over the years, I had wondered—was there, inside me, the same demonthat had taken him from us before I was six years old, leaving me to remember him as a feeling,a snatch of sound, a mist ofmemory?

 

Could I, without seeing it ahead of time, come to a place where giving up seemed thebest option?

 

How was the thought even possible for me, knowing firsthand the pain a decision like thatleft behind? Knowing what happened in the aftermath when a person you loved entered thecold waters and swam out to sea with no intention of returning toshore?

 

Someone should tell the dead that saving the living isn’t as simple as leaving a note tosay,

 

It’s no one’s fault. For the living, it’s always someone’sfault.

 

Turning onto the cabin road, I cleared my head and felt the tears beginning to come,seeking to cleanse. Tears seemed like the only thing I had left. They swelled and pounded in my throatas I drew closer to the little lake cabin that had been home since I’d moved back toMichigan.

 

Fortunately, Mrs. Doyne, who lived in the house out front, kept her cabin rentals at 1950sprices. She was more interested in having responsible, long-term tenants than in making money offthe property.

 

Dressed in her nightgown and probably ready to turn in, she waved from behind apicture window as I passed by the house. One of her ever-present crossword puzzles dangled inher hand.

 

I had the random realization that even Mrs. Doyne would be hurt if I lost myself beneaththe lake’s quiet surface. Get your act together, Whitney Monroe, she’d probably say. Life goeson. Mrs. Doyne had survived the death of her husband of fifty years, her one true love. Sheworked in her gardens, volunteered all over the area, and mentored a Girl Scout troop. She had thebest attitude of any person I’d ever met and it went all the way through to the core. She wasfearless, always up for a newadventure.

 

There had been a time when I’d thought that if I kept up the facade long enough onthe outside, I’d become that on the inside, too. I’d opened world-class kitchens, driven others tokeep up the pace, never let myself get rattled when a newbie on a hot line scorched a sauce or awaiter dropped a tray. I’d dealt with corporate higher-ups who weren’t much different fromTagg Harper—bloated, self-important personalities bent on showing the world how special theywere. I handled things well. I had things undercontrol.

 

But what I’d never been faced with, what I’d avoided my entire adult life, was the verything that had been squeezing me dry these past months. I’d never allowed someone else’swell-being

 

 

 

to depend on my own. Even during a short marriage that had both begun and ended withdisaster, I’d maintained my own finances, kept my own life, and so had David. Both of us seemedto prefer it that way. I’d never been faced with the knowledge that my choices, my actions,my failure would destroy another person’slife.

 

Turning off the car, I rested my head against the steering wheel as the cold needledthrough the windows and the engine’s chugs settled to dull metallic pings. A sob wrenched the air andI heard it before I feltit.

 

A breath heaved inward, stung my throat. Another sob pressed out. I lifted my head, letit bump against the steering wheel, thought, Stop, stop,stop!

 

The knock on the window struck me like an electrical pulse, catapulting me upright.Beyond the blurry haze, I made out Mrs. Doyne’s silhouette against the security lamps, the fur-linedhood of her coat catching the light and giving her a fluffyhalo.

 

My emotions scattered like rabbits, leaving behind only two that I could identify—horrorand embarrassment. I didn’t want anyone to see me like this, least of all Mrs. Doyne. It wouldonly worry her. She’d been a godsend to me these past few years, and even though I’d tried tokeep my financial situation under wraps as Bella Tazza 2 imploded, she’d figured out that thingswere bad. She’d started bringing me casseroles and offering to wait for the rent if I needed herto.

 

Like everyone else in town, she wasn’t aware of the whole story. All she knew was thatwe’d had some trouble with the inspections on the new restaurant. I was careful not to revealmore.

 

The truth about Tagg Harper’s underhanded dealings would only hurt her. Mrs.Doyne’s deceased husband had been one of Tagg’s favorite uncles and ice-fishingbuddies.

 

Pretending to reach for my keys in the ignition, I wiped my eyes and then rolled downthe window, hoping she wouldn’t notice what a mess I was. Apparently it was obvious, even inthe dark.

 

“Oh, honey.” She touched my shoulder, and I clenched against another rush of tears. “Iguess you heard. I’m so sorry . . .” She seemed to leave the sentence unfinished, its meaning amystery. What was she sorry for? Did she know about the postponement of the code commissionhearing? Had she been in it with the rest of the Harpers allalong?

 

Even the question hurt. I’d come to think of Mrs. Doyne almost as a substitute for mymother. They enjoyed all the same things. They both loved music. They both played the violin. Theyhad the same Upper Peninsula accent. Being around Mrs. Doyne was like having my momback again. Mrs. Doyne was even a cancer survivor. Someone strong enough to defeat the diseasethat had taken Mom five years ago. It was after her funeral that Denise and I had reconnectedand spent a long night talking about life, dreams, and Denise’s struggle to pay Mattie’s medicalbills after her ex-husband refused to keep up the child support. Suddenly, the unexpected offer onmy restaurant in Dallas had made sense. All of it seemed meant tobe.

 

“Come on inside.” Mrs. Doyne’s hand circled my arm as if she meant to forcibly lift meout the window. “You look like you need a spot of hottea.”

 

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy. I just wentalong.

 

Inside, the house smelled of cats, baseboard heat, and plants in fresh pots. When thisyear’s

 

 

 

rebellious spring weather finally warmed up, Mrs. Doyne’s garden would be half-grown inthe sunroom. How could anyone who lovingly nursed the tender shoots of new life be in onTagg Harper’s dirty dealings? The bullies were getting the best of me again, making me paranoid.I couldn’t let someone like Tagg make me lose hope in other people. Good people likeMrs.

 

Doyne.

 

“Sit,” she said, leading me to a sofa space between three curled-up cats. “Let me put thewater on.”

 

Sinking down with my cold fingers tucked between my knees, I let my head fall back,closed my eyes, tried to think. A cat crawled into my lap, nestled there, and toyed with the zipper onmy coat, its soft purr a lull ofcomfort.

 

“I tried to call you earlier when I got the message.” Mrs. Doyne’s voice seemed faraway.

 

Another month . . . can we hang on another month? There has to be some way to getthe money. . ..

 

Options and options and options cycled through my mind, ending in brick wall afterbrick wall after brick wall, and then the biggest one of all—the fact that if we went any further withall of this, we risked losingeverything.

 

You can’t do that to Denise. You can’t do that to Denise and Mattie and GrandmaDaisy.

 

You never should’ve come back here. You never should’ve involved them in all of this.It’s your fault. It’s all yourfault.

 

“I say . . . I tried to call you on your cell phone when the messagecame.” Mrs. Doyne’s words pressed for aresponse.

 

“Message?”

 

The teapot whistled, the high, shrill sound causing the cats tostir.

 

A spoon clinked, the refrigerator door opened and closed. Cream and sugar. Mrs.Doyne knew. We’d shared more than a few cups of tea these past fewyears.

 

“It sounded as if the man had no idea who else to call. He left a message on the recorderwhile I was at the market. I suppose he found your cell number and reached youdirectly?”

 

Her slippers shuffled against the wood floor as she reentered the living room and handedover my tea. The cup was warm, comforting, its chamomile scent sinking in. “I left my phone inthe car all afternoon.” I didn’t tell her I’d done that to avoid the constant flurry of billcollectors.

 

Mrs. Doyne delivered a perplexed look, settling into her recliner. “I know it isn’t the sortof news you need right now, what with your restaurant struggles.” Her headinclined sympathetically, her eyes compassionate behind thick glasses. “Are youclose?”

 

“Close?”

 

“To your stepfather.” Frowning, she looked into her teacup, as if she might find theanswers there. “I assumed not, given that the neighbor had so much trouble contactingyou.”

 

“My stepfather?” The words struck like a ricochet baseball, drilling some unsuspecting fanin the head. I hadn’t seen my mother’s late-in-life husband since herfuneral.

 

It was no accident that my stepfather’s neighbor had trouble finding my number amonghis belongings. The man wanted nothing to do withme.

 

 

 

“Mrs. Doyne, I’m completely lost here. I haven’t heard from my stepfather in almostfive years. There’s no reason he’d be getting in touch, believeme.”

 

“Oh . . .” A hand-to-chest look of surprise. “When I saw you crying in the car, I justassumed the message had gotten through to you. I’m sorry to be the deliverer of such news. The callwas from your stepfather’s neighbor on the Outer Banks of North Carolina . . . Roanoke Island,I believe he said. He thought you should know of the situation. Apparently your stepfather is inthe hospital. He took a fall in the bathroom . . . and he laid there for nearly four days beforeanyone foundhim.”

The Sea Keeper's Daughters
by by Lisa Wingate

• Genres: Christian, Christian Fiction, Fiction
• paperback: 448 pages
• Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
• ISBN-10: 1414386907
• ISBN-13: 9781414386904