www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Acknowledgments

      It is an author’s job to take the kernels of truth everyday life offers up and spin them into a compelling story that somehow takes us beyond daily life. The details and plotlines bubble up from an author’s imagination, but the stories that touch us most do so because they spring from people and situations we all know. As such, this story belongs to all of us who have lost our parents, wrestled with an estate and come out stronger for the struggle.

      First and foremost, my thanks must always go to my husband and children, for they are on the front lines of my daily life. They endure the crankiness and the rapidly multiplying stacks of paper that invade our house, and hear me continually talking about book characters as if they were real people. Although you told me I was “calmer for this one,” Jeff dear, I doubt that made it an effortless task. For the many times you’ve walked beside me as I trudged through first drafts and rewrites, thank you. For my children, Mandy and CJ, whose choruses of “Allie Pleiter, Famous Writer” are the best cheering section any mom could hope for—may I someday live up to the moniker with which you’ve blessed me. My special thanks to you, Mandy, for saying “Yes, Mom, you’ve GOT to buy a tiara now!”

      To my friends and extended family, who continue to offer up gobs of support whenever needed. Had I a crate of tiaras, you’d all get one of your very own…and may still.

      To Karen Solem, my agent and wise counsel, who has been advising me to write this book for years before my muse finally kicked it out of me.

      To my editor and instant friend, Krista Stroever, for believing in me from the first ten pages, and for loving Friendly Fribbles as much as I do.

      To the city of Cincinnati, and its lovely people. You lured me once years ago, and rekindled the affection again as I returned to write this book. I hope I have done you proud—and not botched too many of the local details. My thanks to Bill and Lorraine Downing at the Grace and Glory Bed and Breakfast, who were my gracious and encouraging hosts during a frenzied writing-and-research visit.

      To Len Harrison at LVM Capital Management, who patiently answered far too many “what if” questions, and to several attorneys at Huck, Bouma et al. who did the same.

      And finally to God, for the gift, the grace and the guidance. Without those, I am nothing but a clanging cymbal. May the words You have given me draw others closer to You.

      Contents

      Chapter 1: Chocolate, Grease & Diet Coke

      Chapter 2: The Twelfth of Never

      Chapter 3: Little Orphan Heiress

      Chapter 4: Comfortably Drastic

      Chapter 5: The Paul Hartwell Memorial Parking Lot

      Chapter 6: Heiress Lessons

      Chapter 7: The Torture Man Cometh

      Chapter 8: Loose Ends on the Loose

      Chapter 9: Joan of Arc, but with Hot Dogs

      Chapter 10: Ain’t Nobody Here But Us Chickens

      Chapter 11: Taking Everythings Personally

      Chapter 12: It's Never Just a Ball

      Chapter 13: God is in the Details

      Chapter 14: All the Way Home

      Chapter 15: It’s in the Cards

      Chapter 16: The Stuff of Legend

      Chapter 17: Anyone Worth Their Salt

      Chapter 18: Fluffheads under Fire

      Chapter 19: Hens with Antlers?!?

      Chapter 20: Pithy But Engaging Holiday Greatings

      Chapter 21: 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and Down in the Kitchen…

      Chapter 22: Just the Tiniest Bit Willing

      Chapter 23: Every Woman Should Own One

      Chapter 24: The Oreos of Life

      Chapter 25: Advanced Discipline for Rambunctoius Upstarts

      Chapter 26: Little Boy Blue

      Chapter 27: The Evil of Unemployed Elves

      Chapter 28: The Virtues of Kooky But Amazing

      Chapter 29: The Snazziest New Customer

      Chapter 1

      Chocolate, Grease & Diet Coke

      Cincinnati, Ohio

       September 15, 2001

      “Lovely man.”

      “Such a waste. Sixty-five is still so young these days.”

      “I’m sure his faith was a comfort to him.”

      Platitudes—sincere and otherwise—were flying fast and furious in the narthex of the Ohio Valley Community Church. One woman spent a whole ten minutes telling Darcy Nightengale what a pillar of the community her father had been. The next woman smiled as she told Darcy how the universe now welcomed her father in his new state of pure energy. After that last “unique” remark, Darcy’s husband, Jack, softly hummed the General Electric theme, “We bring good things to life” in her ear. It made her laugh. A small laugh, but it was a gift none the less.

      Somehow, the fact that a joke could still be made—in the current state of both the world and the family—was a foothold of hope. The Tuesday of this week, September 11, had been a day of national tragedy. Thousands lost their lives. Darcy had lots of company mourning a loved one.

      For Darcy, though, September 11 was more still. September 11 was the last day she saw her father’s eyes. The last day he spoke. For a man who’d been dying for months, Paul Hartwell chose a really lousy last day on Earth. It was like a cruel afterthought to lose her father in the early hours of September 12. The day after the world shook on its foundations. Darcy remembered looking up from the hospice center bed in the roaring, breathless silence, and wondering if anyone would even notice.

      But they had. The church was crowded with friends offering their sympathy. It had been a rough day. Between the ceremonial pressure, the endless handshaking and the spurts of intense conversation, Darcy was running on adrenaline. After the months of dying, Dad’s death felt more like the finish line of a long and weary marathon than any kind of mourning. She had stood beside Dad and seen him through to the end. Literally. When she dared to be honest, Darcy admitted that woven in through all the grief was a clear gleam of relief. Jack put his hand on the small of her back, as if holding her up, as an older woman told tales of Paul’s kindness to her little dogs.

      “That’s the last guest,” came a deep voice behind her. Ed Parrot was the epitome of a funeral director, subdued and dignified. Except that he had a voice like Darth Vader and a body just as large. The fact that he always wore a black suit just intensified the effect. It made for a creepy image every time he spoke to her—as if the telltale Vader breathing sound effect would kick in at any moment. He took her hand in his with an experienced clasp. With an exhale he looked into her eyes and said softly, “It’s over.”

      Over. What a potent choice of words.

      His expression told Darcy that he meant both the best and worst of it. Here was a man who knew how grueling the