Page 1 of Always Meant for You
Chapter One
MABEL
The first thing grief takes is your appetite. The second is your patience for tuna noodle casseroles. I shake the suds from my fingers and stare out the window above the sink. Farmland stretches in every direction—golden, still, and endless.
Once upon a time, it soothed me.
When I was a girl, this place felt like a living painting. Spring softened the earth with muddy greens. Summer blazed bold with sunflowers, wet hay, and lavender in the air. Autumn lit everything amber and gold, and winter snow swept it clean.
Every one of nature’s colors and moods fed my soul.
Now it only reminds me he’s not out there. He’s no longer a part of this world.
The last plate in the sink drifts through the cloudy water. I fish it out and dry it with the dish towel that’s been here longer than I have.
More guests mean more dishes. And as much as I hate dish duty, hiding in here is easier than facing the condolences. The tight-lipped smiles. The murmured sympathies.
If one more person tells me Jamie’s in a better place or that he’s resting alongside my mother, I might scream.
My heart’s in pieces. Can’t they see that?
An angry tear slips free. I swipe it away and press the plate onto the stack. They’re still damp. My dad would’ve made me wash them again. But I don’t care. Not today.
I wipe my hands and survey the space.
The kitchen table is crowded with tin-foiled casseroles lined up like offerings.
I detest the sight.
Why casseroles? Why does grief always come baked in cream of mushroom and topped with crackers?
I see his boots by the door.
I bite down on a sob, willing it back.
My older brother Jamie died on my twenty-first birthday.
Nothing makes sense anymore, and the house is filled with tuna confections. It sounds ridiculous—that something so final could be followed by foil and polite smiles. But that’s exactly what happened.
I peel back a layer on one of the chipped dishes and immediately regret it. Whatever’s underneath has turned the color of old pennies. I fold the foil back before the urge to launch it through the window wins. The goats or chickens might get into it. Or Duke, Jamie’s Great Pyrenees. The last thing I need is to spend the night mopping up dog vomit. And that big, loyal boy has already been through enough.
Welcome to Elverna, Illinois.
Population: 895.
Two and a half hours from Chicago to the north and St. Louis to the south, Elverna’s the kind of town where gossip moves faster than traffic.
Well, my business, anyway. I’ve kept the busybodies flush with rumors for years.
I didn’t care. They never mattered.
Only one person did.
My brother.
No, that’s not true. There was another, and then he shattered my heart.
Now, I’m alone. Utterly alone in a town that never lets me forget I don’t fit the farm-girl mold.
