Christina Skye - The Accidental Bride

Grace rolled her knitting up slowly. “Where was she when you two last spoke?”

“Working at her restaurant. Where else?”

“Silly question. Okay, I’ll book a flight. I can be in Arizona before bedtime.” Grace stood up and stretched. “The idiot is probably off in a peach orchard taking soil samples, completely oblivious to the time. You’ll see.”

“But I thought you and Noah were going to spend this weekend together in San Francisco.” Caro studied her friend’s face. “You’ve been planning the trip for ages. Is something wrong?”

Caro watched her friend turn, looking south past the old dock, past the restless sea wall. Grace rolled her shoulders but didn’t answer.

“Grace? Tell me what happened.”

“He was called in to work,” Grace said slowly. “Another day, another emergency.”

“Can’t he get time off?”

“Apparently not. When you’re good, everyone wants a piece of you,” Grace said flatly. Then she forced a smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll go on our trip. But it won’t be this week.”

Something was very wrong here, Caro thought. Grace was acting too cool and trying too hard to be convincing. This was more than a simple trip cancellation. “Are you okay about this, Grace? You were so excited when you told me you and Noah were going on this trip.”

Grace shrugged and then slid her knitting bag over her shoulder. “I’m almost used to the last-minute cancellations,” she muttered. “But I’d better go. I’ll call you when I get to Arizona.”

Clearly, she didn’t want to discuss her problems with Noah.

“You have the address for Jilly’s new restaurant, right? She just moved into that new building.”

“Got it.”

Neither woman questioned that Grace would go to Jilly’s restaurant and not her apartment. Chances were slim to nil that their driven friend would be anywhere but working. They would have to do something to correct that, Caro decided. “As soon as you hear something, let me know. I’m just sorry I can’t help more.”

“Let me handle the Barefoot Contessa.” Grace cleared her throat. “You’ve got plenty to do with this renovation. Not to mention the baby to care for.”

Caro was certain she heard a wistful note in her friend’s voice.

So Grace was thinking about a family. That was interesting, since she and Noah had only recently confided that they were engaged. No wedding date was set as far as Caro knew.

Caro hadn’t seen Noah since the spring and he’d only been in town for two days. He was supposed to be moving to a less demanding job, Grace had explained then. Something without constant emergency calls.

Given the cancelled weekend, that didn’t seem to be happening.

Caro still had no idea what Noah did, beyond it being difficult and very secret. But she knew that Grace worried terribly about him.

More problems to sort out.

Caro gave her friend a hug. “Say hello to Noah. Tell him I’m still waiting for the Ukrainian Welcome Bread recipe from his mother.”

“I’ll get it for you.” Grace slid her yarn and her knitting needles into her bag and forced a smile. “And stop worrying. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”

Scottsdale, Arizona

JILLY WATCHED THE PARKING LOT fill with silver Hummers and black Range Rovers. Only sports figures, celebrities and the very rich came to this private clinic in the high desert above the sprawl of Phoenix. Jilly had only gotten in thanks to one of her restaurant regulars. When Jilly hadn’t been at her usual spot, buzzing between the tables and the kitchen, he had learned about her collapse and arranged to have her transported. But she had received the same cold diagnosis here that she had received in the small emergency room near her restaurant.

Jilly closed her eyes.

Her heart.

Why now, when she was on the verge of a huge career leap? Her restaurant was booked out for weeks. She had plans for a cookbook, and she had just received two offers to buy her signature line of organic salsa, Jilly’s Naturals. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, everything had fallen apart on her.

No more sixteen-hour workdays, the cardiologist had warned.

Not even three-hour workdays until her tests were done.

She would need at least half a dozen procedures plus a battery of lab tests before the total picture was clear. Something was wrong with her heart, starting with an arrhythmia that triggered a counter beat when she was under stress.

But when wasn’t she under stress? Maybe during the first few minutes of waking, when her big white Samoyed puppy was curled up at her feet and she had the whole day ahead of her, with all its possibilities. Reality always swept in too soon, carrying in a flood of calls, emails and text messages.

Produce deliveries to inspect.

Employees to placate.

The magic of food had called to Jilly ever since she was twelve. Cooking was the only thing she had ever wanted to do, her first and only dream.

Her fingers opened, massaging her chest above the spot where her problematic heart waited to stammer and skip, sending her back into oblivion.

Did she have a family history of heart disease? Had any relative suffered a heart attack very young? The thoughtful cardiologist had quizzed her for twenty minutes. Were there parents or siblings with heart defects? Any relevant family incidents that she could remember?

Jilly’s fingers closed to a fist above her heart. What parents? What siblings? Her genetic profile was a total blank. She had been found red-faced and howling beneath a cheap blue flannel blanket in a packing box on the steps of the local fire station. Less than three months old, the Summer Island doctor had estimated. Healthy. No problems beyond a little dehydration. Just wrapped up and left behind, discarded like an old newspaper.

Jilly closed her eyes. So what if she was alone? In the end you were always alone. You couldn’t take anything or anyone with you when you died, and you couldn’t trust anyone with your deepest hopes and secrets while you lived.

You did it by yourself or it didn’t get done.

Now the future was in her hands. She had to change, and she would work on that. Yet how could she possibly replace the job she loved? Cooking had given her an anchor when nothing else could.

She didn’t hear the light tap at her door. She was too busy searching the bright corridor of dreams that had been her compass since she was old enough to understand what orphan, foundling and abandoned on the firehouse steps meant.

“You idiot. ”

She jumped when she heard the familiar voice, rough with concern. Then her oldest friend’s strong hands slid around her and gripped tight.

“Why do you always have to do everything alone, stubborn as a rabid mule?”

It was a timeworn joke between the four friends. When I need help I’ll ask for it. It was Jilly’s oldest answer to any question. And of course she never asked.

She whispered the familiar words now, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“You should have called us! I could strangle you.” But Grace’s hoarse words were full of love and support, despite their anger. “What happened? Were you burned?”

Jilly took a raw breath. No way to lie. Not to your oldest friend. Not to Grace, whose face held worry and irritation and complete, unqualified love.

“It happened at dinner. It was right after the tortilla soup and the wood-grilled salmon. I had a beef tartare entrée coming up. The Wagyu beef was perfect, with little marblings that—”

“Forget the food. What happened, Jilly?”

“It was—like a fist at my chest. Nausea. Straining to breathe and dizziness. I lost it. Just plain lost it. The doctors say that … it’s my heart. There’s some kind of atrial valve malformation. And when you factor in the stress of my work, plus the physical demands and the long hours …”