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Day By Day
Delia Parr
Mills & Boon Silhouette
Three grandmothers bound by one common threadBarbara lost her son, a single dad, to senseless violence. Judy's daughter fell into a black hole of addiction. Ginger's girl threw away motherhood for money, status and materialism. And the grandmothers had to pick up the pieces….Miraculously, they found one another, a mismatched trio with no common history, yet with so much to share. Together they found wisdom, strength and courage–and rediscovered the true meaning of faith.
Praise for
Delia Parr
and her novels
“The heartwarming story stars three middle-aged sisters dealing with the ordinary ins and outs of life…. Parr is to be commended for her character development; each sister is well differentiated. The novel is also tightly plotted…another strong offering from Steeple Hill.”
—Publishers Weekly on Abide with Me
“Readers will immerse themselves in the lives of these three women in midlife whose Christian roots help them overcome life’s challenges and rejoice in its joys. With a homey feel reminiscent of Jan Karon’s ‘Mitford’ series, this initial entry in a new trilogy is recommended.”
–Library Journal on Abide with Me
“Realistic issues with concrete solutions will keep readers engaged.”
–Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Abide with Me
“Parr’s writing is fresh and original.”
—Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel on The Minister’s Wife
“Written in the tradition of LaVyrle Spencer, Parr’s books are beautifully written in elegant prose…. The characters’ faith is always a big factor in their growth and triumph.”
—Tina Wainscott, author of In Too Deep, on The Promise of Flowers
“Always one to break the rules and craft intelligent, thought-provoking romance.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Sunrise
“Very few writers today are on a par with Delia Parr.”
—Affaire de Coeur on The Ivory Duchess
Day by Day
Delia Parr
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedicated to
Peg O’Hara,
My Summer Friend
in Ocean Gate
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Afterword
Cinnamon Bubble Wreath
Acknowledgments
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
H ot, humid days and sultry nights each summer slowed the pace of everyday life in Welleswood, a small suburban town in Southern New Jersey. Despite the renaissance that had breathed new life into this once-dying town, many families fled the suffocating heat and escaped to nearby mountain retreats or beach resorts for a few weeks at a time. Others remained to take advantage of townwide recreational and cultural events organized by an old-fashioned network of women who worked together to make Welleswood a good place to live, even in the throes of summer.
Within the predictable cycle of summer this year, however, the early days of July would bring heartache and tragedy, as well as new challenges to grow in faith and love, to three very different women in Welleswood.
“Daddy can’t come.”
At the sound of her granddaughter’s voice, Barbara Montgomery looked up from the travel brochures that littered the dining room table. Her husband of thirty-four years, John, was standing in the doorway holding their twin granddaughters, one in his arms, and the other at his side. “Jessie! Melanie! What a surprise!”
Barbara pushed back from the table, rose to her feet and quickly set aside all thoughts of the sailing adventure she and John were planning two years from now when they launched into retirement as members of a crew on a two-year sailing trip around the world.
“Daddy can’t come,” Melanie repeated. Her little six-year-old face was strangely solemn, and she held tight to her Pappy’s shoulder.
Jessie tugged free from his hand. The eldest by all of three minutes and the more dominant by leaps and bounds, she folded her hands on her chest and stomped her foot. “Daddy had to go away, and Pappy says we can’t go with him, but I want my daddy. Why can’t me and Melanie go? You’ll take us, won’t you, Grammy? You know the way to heaven, don’t you?”
“Heaven?” Confused, Barbara looked up and studied her husband’s features. She froze the moment she saw his tearstained cheeks and the grief that shadowed his gaze. The world stopped for a moment. Time stood still. Her heart pounded against a wall of denial that refused to be cracked. Their son Steve was in heaven? Steve was gone? No, that couldn’t be true. Impossible. Not Steve. He was only thirty years old. He was a health fanatic. He had these two precious little girls to raise—little girls whose mother had deserted Steve and abandoned her babies shortly after their birth.
No. Steve could not be in heaven. Barbara had just talked to him this morning. She locked her gaze with her husband’s, praying he would put her worst fears to rest. “John?”
Fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. “Our Steve’s gone. He’s been…murdered,” he croaked. “Our boy has gone Home, and the girls…the girls need us, Barb, now more than ever.”
Pain seared the very essence of her spirit. The look of absolute grief in her husband’s gaze melted the wall of denial protecting her heart, and she rushed to embrace him. With one arm around Melanie, she pulled Jessie against her, too, as her soul clung to her faith in God—faith that would somehow have to sustain them all.
Late Saturday afternoon, Judy Roberts quickly scanned the empty beauty salon and searched for signs of any cleanup task she might have missed. Satisfied that all was ready for Tuesday morning when her shop would reopen, she flipped the light switch and watched each of the green neon letters in Pretty Ladies sputter and flicker into darkness.
She let out a sigh and arched her back while every muscle in her legs and feet protested against each of the fifty-seven years she had spent on this earth, especially the decades she had spent as a hairdresser turning other women into pretty ladies. “Time for this pretty tired lady to drag herself home,” she mumbled. She opened the door, turned, and locked the door behind her, stepping from the relative comfort of the air-conditioned shop into a never-ending wall of hot, humid air.
Fortunately, home was only a few blocks away. She worked her way down Welles Avenue and eased through the influx of Saturday-night diners who crowded the brick sidewalk en route to a host of new eateries that were part of the trendy “new” Welleswood. There were some families out tonight, but mostly couples and mostly strangers to her, she noticed, and quietly turned off the avenue toward the row house she called home.
Row house. She chuckled to herself. Newcomers called the vintage row houses built during the Great Depression town houses now, but more than the name had changed. Prices of these homes had nearly quadrupled in the years since she and her husband, Frank, had purchased theirs some thirty-five years ago. With Frank gone four years now, God rest his soul, she was barely able to afford the taxes, but she did own the house, free and clear. Any plans she had for spending her golden years comfortably, unfortunately, had died with him, along with the hope she might one day be reconciled with their only daughter, Candy, or see her grandson, Brian. She stopped at the corner to let the traffic pass and patted her thigh. “Looks like I’ll have to struggle through, best as I can on my own. Don’t need much for myself. Good thing, too,” she mumbled before crossing the street.
Dog tired, she got a boost of energy as she started down the block where she lived and thought about taking a shower. A long, refreshing shower. Then a quick bite to eat and off to bed where she could fall asleep watching television, but only after she had set the alarm so she would not oversleep and miss Sunday services. Walking against the glare of the late-afternoon sun, she could just make out her row house on the corner at the end of the block, and it appeared that one of the neighborhood children was using the railing on her front porch like a balance beam.
Again.
Another boost of energy hastened her steps, and her purse swayed faster as she hurried toward home. She loved the neighborhood children. She did not mind if they played on her front lawn or climbed the backyard fence to retrieve a lost ball. She even let them skateboard in the driveway along the side of her house, since she could not afford the insurance for a car and the driveway served no real purpose for her.
Her front porch railing, however, was definitely off-limits. Visions of one of the children falling off the railing now and getting hurt sent her scurrying as fast as her tired legs could carry her. From behind, the boy only appeared to be five or six years old. Didn’t anyone keep track of their little ones any more?
“You there! Get down! You’ll really get hurt if you fall,” she cried as she passed the front of the house next door.
If the boy heard her, he ignored her and continued his daredevil antics by leaping from the front railing to the side one. He landed hard, bobbed a bit, then pitched headlong off the railing toward the driveway below.
Shock halted her steps and her heart skipped a beat, but instead of a scream of terror or the horrible sound of his little body striking the asphalt driveway, she heard a man’s harsh voice. “Do it again, and this time, try harder so you don’t fall!”
Her eyes widened. Her pulse quickened, and she charged past her front lawn, ready to give a good tongue-lashing to the idiot of a man who was letting the boy use her front porch like an old-fashioned playground. She rounded the corner of the yard and faced the man who was lifting the boy back up to the railing, but the diatribe she had planned died before she could utter a single word.
The man was indeed an idiot.
He was also her son-in-law.
Was the boy with him her grandson, Brian? She had not seen the boy for four years, and he had only been a few months old when Duke and Candy had first moved to California with him. Her heart leaped with hope. Was Candy here, too? Was she inside, ready to reconcile, or at least explain why she had gone back to California after that terrible scene at Frank’s funeral?
“Duke?” was all Judy could manage to say.
At the sound of his name, he turned his head, gave her a relieved smile, and pulled the boy down to stand on the ground beside him. At six foot four inches and weighing close to three-hundred pounds, Duke was a massive man. His arms bulged with muscles covered with tattoos that stretched to his knuckles, and he sported half a dozen earrings in his left ear. In the distance, at the far end of the driveway, he had parked his Harley.
He nodded at her. “Me and Brian been waitin’ awhile. Just drove cross-country, and I’m plain tuckered out.”
She swallowed hard and tried not to imagine her son-in-law driving her grandson cross-country on a motorcycle. She approached her grandson and crouched down to gaze at him face-to-face. A layer of dirt and grime covered his features and the dark curls on his head were matted, but the blue eyes twinkling back at her were the same color as Frank’s. “Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“You’re Grandmom,” he answered, squaring his little shoulders. “Dad told me.”
Duke nudged the boy with his knee. “Go on. Give her a kiss hello, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”
