Where Grace Appears (Book 1)

Book 1 in The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast Series.

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Ashamed of being duped by her handsome psychology professor, Josie Martin returns to Maine too proud to admit her foolishness to those closest to her. As the one-year anniversary of her father’s death approaches, she seeks solace in an old friend, Tripp Colton, and a new business venture that will prove to herself and her loved ones that she is still capable of success despite her overwhelming failure.

When Josie announces she will not return to school to finish her graduate degree but wishes to remain in Camden to help her mother achieve a lifelong dream, the entire family gets behind her idea to open and run a bed and breakfast inspired by Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House. Even Tripp gets excited about restoring Josie’s great-aunt's Victorian home for the purpose, but when Josie’s unexpected news is revealed, their friendship and the new feelings blooming between them are threatened.

As summer gives way to fall, Josie struggles with decisions regarding her family’s future, dealing with past mistakes she cannot run from, and her feelings for Tripp. When the opportunity for grace comes along, will she take it? Or will she continue to allow her failures to define her worth?

A contemporary twist on the well-loved classic, Little Women, readers will fall in love with the Martin family—Maggie, Josie, Lizzie, Bronson, Amie, and their mother Hannah—each trying to find their own way in the world and each discovering that love, home, and hope are closer than they appear.

 Chapter Two

If my hometown of Camden was the jewel of the Maine coast, as so many claimed, then its library was the jewel of the town. Perched on a hill overlooking the harbor, the historic building boasted just enough old charm to be considered unique and just enough modern-day essentials to be considered practical. I couldn’t count how many times I’d sprawled on a bench overlooking the naked masts on the harbor or perched on one of the stones that made up the generous backyard amphitheater with nothing but a book and my imagination to pass the time.

While my father’s throne had been his study, my mother’s was the library.

But to imagine the library without my mother was almost as painful as imagining Dad’s empty study chair. And a bookshop? How had I not been told of such a major decision? So much was changing, and changing fast—yet I couldn’t pretend my life wasn’t among them.

I turned onto Atlantic Avenue to park, but not before glimpsing the orchards in bloom behind the massive Victorian home just around the corner on historic High Street. I’d always been drawn to the place, dubbed Orchard House, with its wide wraparound front porch, its many gables that hid secret rooms and hiding places, the historical mysteries that clung to the curves of its turrets.

Too bad I couldn’t say I felt the same draw to the home’s solitary resident.

Still, I should visit her soon. The peppery octogenarian could be a trial, but my great-aunt Pris made it possible for me to attend NYU. Even if paying for my college was her attempt to make restitution for past wrongs. While I admired my great-aunt’s independence, I could have done without her blunt opinions and irrational finagling in the lives of her great-nieces and nephew.

I parked my beat-up Honda Civic and crossed the street to walk the pavers, carved with bookish quotes, to the library’s front entrance. The large-domed windows illuminated chandeliers and walls lined with books and people—many people—within. It looked as if the entire town had come to pay tribute to Mom.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushed off the notion that I should have accepted Tripp’s offer to accompany him, and pulled the door open, suddenly conscious of my empty hands. I should have brought Mom a gift, or at least picked up some chocolates or a bouquet of flowers at French and Brawn Market. As usual though, my good intentions lagged behind my actions.

I stepped into the building. Small groups of people congregated throughout the large room, some sitting in chairs and at tables, others standing in clusters. The delicious scent of books mingled with that of food and various colognes and perfumes, making me dizzy. I searched for members of my family but spotted only unfamiliar heads of hair and a few of the library staff. I squeezed against a bookshelf before feeling a hard poke in my side.

I whirled to see the rubber end of a cane in my face. I was convinced Aunt Pris carried it around more for the jabbing than for balancing. The top of her coiffed white hair barely reached my shoulders, yet what she lacked in height, she made up for with her commanding presence.

“About time you showed up, girl.”

“Nice to see you, Aunt Priscilla.”

“Have you seen that brother of yours? I’ve been after him to help bring some boxes over to the house for me.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, I just got into town.” I turned my attention to the small toy poodle perched inside her large pocketbook. I didn’t think dogs were allowed in the library, but I doubted anyone would question my great-aunt. I held my hand out to the fat, spoiled pooch, hoping for a different response than I’d received in our previous encounters. “Hey, Cragen.” Aunt Pris was a big Law & Order fan. “How’s things?” My attempt at conversation earned me a sharp, yippie snap. I snatched my hand back. “Same as Christmas then, huh?”

Aunt Pris eyed me. “Hmph. You done with school yet? Still, don’t see how a fancy degree is going to help you make something of yourself.”

I was four the first time I met Aunt Pris. Sometimes—okay, all of the time—I didn’t understand how Dad and Aunt Pris were even related, no matter how distantly. Not for the first time, I wondered why Aunt Pris hadn’t taken my father in after her sister died while giving birth to him. I wondered if Dad would have turned out differently—more rigid and hard instead of the softhearted man I knew. Perhaps I should be extra thankful for Dad’s adoptive parents, who died in a house fire before I ever knew them.

Maybe deep beneath my aunt’s crotchety exterior lay a generous heart to go with all that gumption. She’d certainly helped Dad out of a financial pickle more than once, even though Dad’s adoption as a baby hadn’t connected us with his birth mother’s sister until later in his life.

I breathed deep and opened my mouth to defend my chosen study to my great-aunt. Surely helping people, digging deep into the human psyche, and promoting internal healing was of more worth than a career that would bring in bucket loads of money. Not that I had an aversion to bucket loads of money, mind you. But some things were more to be treasured, Dad always said. Despite the often fleshly temptation to think otherwise, in the end, I couldn’t help but agree.

Aunt Pris raised her eyebrows. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me how that degree is going to benefit you? Unless you met a rich city man, Josy-phine…that would be the most worthy news this family has heard in a long time. Especially after your sister’s…choices.” She jerked her head to the corner of the large room where my oldest sister corralled two young boys with a plate of cookies.

“Oh!” I turned to Aunt Pris. “Do you mind? I haven’t seen her since Christmas.”

Aunt Pris waved me away. “Go on, I got my quilting club over yonder there.” She waved her cane at a group of silver-haired ladies who for some mystical reason, enjoyed my great-aunt’s company.

“Maggie!” I called, waving and tripping over my own feet as I made my way toward her.

My sister lifted her dark head after setting the cookies down, her delicate pretty features made all the more so by the pleasant look of surprise on her face. She threw her arms around me in a tight embrace, and I sank into them, clinging tighter. For the first time since those two little blasted pink lines showed up, I felt that everything was going to be okay. Somehow, like a storybook ending, it all would be right in the end.

We parted, and I discreetly brushed the wet corners of my eyes.

Maggie dipped her head. “My Josie—crying? Are you okay?”

I sniffed, nearly swatted her hand away. “Just glad to be home.”

“Well, I thought you were going to leave us forever the way you never returned my calls.”

A tug at the hem of my blouse caused me to turn to see five-year-old Davey. “You remember me, Aunt Josie? You took care of us when Daddy and Mommy went mooning.”

I stifled a laugh and wrapped my nephew in a hug, inhaling the scent of maple syrup and soap. It had been too long. “Of course, I remember you, you silly goose.”

Maggie ruffled his hair, smiling. “It’s called a honeymoon, Davey.”

Indeed. For certainly the idea of my sweet, responsible sister mooning the neighbors was nearly as preposterous as Aunt Pris getting emotional over a Hallmark movie.

I turned to my second nephew, who stuffed his face with a sugar cookie. “Isaac.” I wrapped him in a hug. “It’s good to see you, little guy.”

“You too, Aunt Josie,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

“Oh,” I dug in my small purse. “I have something for you guys.” I pulled out two little plastic packs of LEGOs I’d seen at a Walmart back in New York a couple weeks ago. One was a helicopter, the other an airplane.

The boys let out whoops and thank you’s before collapsing to the floor to empty and assemble their loot.

My heart swelled. “How’s it going with…everything?” My older sister, as prim as a China aster, had surprised everyone by getting knocked off her feet by a whirlwind romance to a man ten years her elder—a widower with twin boys, no less. To be honest, we’d all been hesitant to jump on board with the idea. Too much baggage, too much room for hurt—and all too fast. But after we’d lost Dad, what was really important rose to the surface. Josh and his parents had been such a help to us, particularly to Mom in handling the details of the will and life insurance. In truth, we couldn’t help but fall in love with the high school teacher as Maggie had. The two had been married last summer just before I returned to school.

Maggie blew her hair out of her face as her gaze lingered on the boys. “It’s good. Great, actually.” She leaned toward me. “In fact, Josh and I talked about it just this morning and we’ve decided to start trying.”

I stared at her as I sought to comprehend her words.

Maggie’s laughter bubbled up, and she bumped my shoulder with her own. “Oh, Josie. You know, the birds and the bees?”

I stared at her, uncomprehending.

“A baby, silly. We want to have a baby.”

I grasped for words. A baby. But of course. “I—that’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you, Mags.” I gave her another hug.

“Well, I suppose it could take some time, but I think I’m ready. I think we’re ready. I can’t believe how fast Davey and Isaac have stolen my heart. It’s not always easy, of course. Some days are hard. Really hard. But when I think about growing up in a big family like we did—well, I can’t imagine it any other way for my own.”

“You’re a great mother.” And she was. How many times had I been on the phone with her last fall while she led the twins through bath times or uncomplainingly stopped a brotherly quarrel from escalating into a wrestling match? She was the one who should be popping out babies, raising them to be functional, caring human beings. My sister was made for such things. I, on the other hand, was made for runs on the beach, getting lost in a library, writing dry research papers only twenty people read in an obscure psych journal, maybe even scribbling down a secret murder-mystery once in a while.

I was not made to be a mother.

We chatted a few more minutes about the possibility of a new baby for Maggie before I couldn’t take it anymore. I searched the room for Mom, guessing her petite frame to be lost somewhere in the crowd. “So, Mom retiring, huh? That was sure a surprise. And what’s this about a bookshop?”

Maggie bent to wipe chocolate from Isaac’s mouth. “If you returned my calls or read my texts the last several weeks, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

I winced. “I-uh…” Yes, I hadn’t been great about returning calls, but I always read my texts. Vaguely, I remembered a couple of particularly lengthy texts I’d ignored the week my life collapsed around me. But hadn’t I skimmed them? I wouldn’t have missed such an important detail as the Martin family opening a bookshop, would I?

Then again, that week—the week my plans and future were crumpled up and torn—nothing had seemed to matter except my pain. Even my precious classes had fallen by the wayside. The dinging of my texts had filled me with hope—a hope never realized—for each time I’d spotted Maggie or Mom or Lizzie’s names and not Finn’s, I’d put the phone down, allowing the messages to drag me further into despair.

Maggie pushed a stray hair from Isaac’s face, the move natural and without thought. Gracious me, she was a good mom. “Don’t sweat it, Sis. I know you’ve been busy. I’m just glad you’re here now. I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine. Really.” My voice practically squeaked.

She narrowed her eyes at me, but didn’t push, for which I was thankful. As my closest friend, I couldn’t deny that I’d taken her marriage hard. And so soon after Dad died. Maggie had gained a new family in only a day, and I’d felt my world shift, felt that everything I held dear was being taken from me. But being with Maggie now, I could only feel grateful. She was still here. Unlike Dad, I could still talk to her. Yes, things changed. This new dimension of my sister—the wife and mother dimension—didn’t take away from who she was, it only added to the already beautiful person I was proud to know. If I ever worked up the courage to tell her my secret, which I’d have to sooner or later, I hoped she might have wisdom to offer.

After she got over her initial disappointment in me, of course.

Even now, at the thought, prickles of heat speared my pride. Shame and embarrassment surged forth. Maggie, Mom, my entire family, even Aunt Pris…I’d let them all down. I was the driven one, the determined-to-grab-the-world-by-its-horns-and-wrangle-success-from-it one. And I’d always kept my principles in line.

I tortured myself further by thinking of Dad. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over me. I’d give anything to have him back, and at the same time I was so very glad I wouldn’t have to see the look of displeasure on his face when I finally shared my news. That it involved Professor Finn Becker, a man he had extended charity and fellowship to during my growing up years, would have been the ultimate betrayal.

“Josie.”

I blinked, shook my head. “Sorry.”

Maggie put a hand on my arm. “We need a girls’ night. Bad. And you’re going to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours and what happened in New York, you hear?”

I sniffed, nodded. “I’m free until September.”

And maybe even past then.

My sister took out her phone, started tapping. “I’m heading up the spring fundraiser at the twins’ school. Dinner at Mom’s with the sibs Friday night. Twins have a t-ball tournament on Saturday. Oh, and I’ve got to finish up the last few Bible study lessons for the women’s group. John has track meets on Mondays…” She looked up at me, guilt drawing out her features. “Could you do next Wednesday night?”

Six days away. I suppose I’d take what I could get. I’d basically ignored my sister the last couple of months, after all. I was lucky to get anything. “Sure. That sounds wonderful.”

I stood on my tiptoes, searching out Mom. While I’d always been closer to Dad, I felt a sudden, childlike need for the woman who’d always bandaged and kissed our boo-boos, fed us peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, and in short, simply made everything better. While I admired Dad with a fierceness I couldn’t explain, it was Mom who had always been there for us. Mom who could be counted on.

“So she’s really going for it, huh? Their dream? Tripp mentioned she was thinking right downtown. You know where?”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You saw Tripp?”

“Just at the house for a minute.” I tried to brush her off.

She nodded. The brushoff seemed to work. This time.

“There’s a place for lease on Main. Right near The Smiling Cow.”

“That’s a great spot. I’m glad to see Mom going after her dreams, even with…” My voice trailed off. The words Dad gone stuck in my throat. Apparently, a year battling grief wasn’t enough for me to voice the obvious. A year working through the stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. 

Yet knowing the stages and studying them in classes didn’t make them any easier to live through. I wondered where I fell on the spectrum. For the first time since I decided on a career in psychology, I doubted the neat little compartments we attempted to slide grief into. 

“Dad’s dream, you mean.” Maggie shifted from one foot to the other.

“What?”

“A bookshop was Dad’s dream. A book-inspired bed and breakfast was Mom’s.”

“You’re right,” I whispered, remembering now the many B&B magazines Mom had collected over the years, the large scrapbook of clippings she’d carefully tended during my elementary years.

But somewhere along the way, the scrapbook hadn’t come out as much. Instead, she’d poured herself into her family, coming alongside Dad at every turn with new projects that benefited the community or helped those in need. I didn’t remember the scrapbook sitting on our living room coffee table at all by the time I’d reached high school. I was ashamed to admit I hadn’t thought anything about it until now—until I faced the possibility of my own dreams being crushed.

I’d always known I wouldn’t think of marriage or family until I’d reached my career goals. But now, for the first time, I saw how a woman could be swallowed up by a man—how intoxicating that could be. I wondered if that’s how Mom felt about Dad. True, she’d been able to finish her degree in the last months of her pregnancy with Maggie, but had she wanted more for her life? While there wasn’t a doubt in my mind she’d do anything differently, I wondered if she ever wished they’d handled their money differently. If they’d saved a little more for rainy-day dreams instead of giving so much away.

“She should open her bed and breakfast,” I said.

Maggie shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “That’s good of you to say. I thought the same, but we went over the numbers. The life insurance she received from the college was just enough to pay off the last of their debts. Mom doesn’t want to go back there now that she’s free of the burden.”

My father’s varied interests had run us in the red over the years. If only he’d been as good at fundraising as he’d been at philosophy. As a part-time theology professor at the local community college, Dad was also on staff at our church as a counselor. It was no secret he volunteered more than his part-time hours demanded of him. Add in a start-up soup kitchen, a charity ball for the historical committee, free grief counseling, and even a kid’s camp. All worthy, beautiful endeavors…that we didn’t have money for.

Even the bookshop Dad dreamed of was intended to be a non-profit launched in Portland to empower and support vulnerable teens and young adults—those in the foster care system, those involved in court, or those out of jobs. I wondered if that’s what Mom planned on doing. If so, would she be able to support such an endeavor long term, particularly in our privileged, relatively crime-free town of Camden?

I still heard Dad’s voice, reciting the value of treasures in heaven over earthly treasures. And though it was hard at times for me to see past the nonexistent college fund, lack of money for guitar lessons for Lizzie, and Bronson’s second-hand clothes, I never questioned my father—and deep down believed that maybe the five of us were even better off for his rather radical views. But now, with Mom alone and Dad gone, shouldn’t she at least make an effort to go after her dreams—and support herself in the process?

“What if she sold the house?” I asked.

“Wow, I’m surprised you’d suggest that. Believe it or not, she actually considered it. But it would only be enough for a decent piece of Camden property, not enough to renovate or build, not to mention all the startup costs a B&B would take.”

“She could take out a loan. It’s not unheard of, after all.”

“On the single income of a librarian? I’m not sure she’d get what she needs. Besides, she says she never wants to owe money again, is dead set against it. And I think she’s scared a bed and breakfast wouldn’t take off, that she’d get behind on the loan, and be in the same boat she and Dad have always been in.”

“It would take off. We’re in Camden. This is like the B&B capital of the country.”

My sister put a hand on my arm. “She’s excited about the idea of the bookshop, I think. It’s okay. Some dreams are just not meant to be, I guess. And the bookshop—it’s a good thing. A noble project for Mom, a worthy contribution to the town.”

Something welled up within me, something fierce I couldn’t name, couldn’t voice to Maggie. I tried to push out a half-hearted, “I guess,” but it wouldn’t come forth. 

Were some dreams not meant to come to fruition? I’d never believed that, not with my father’s endearingly optimistic attitude as my champion. But maybe that belief lacked practicality and wisdom. Maybe, as I grew older, I saw the cracks in the foundation of such a belief. Looking at my life the last several months…well, maybe my sister was right.

“Hey, when’d you show up?”

I turned at the sound of my youngest sibling’s voice. Blond hair braided and piled on her head, large rust-colored earrings shaped like leaves, pretty face with tastefully applied makeup, and white flowing pants. Everything about Amie spoke of both confidence and a flashback to the sixties.

I hugged her tight, relishing the feel of her in my arms. No doubt, she was the most challenging of my siblings, the one hardest to get along with, the one with a temper to match my own, the one least likely to embrace the values Mom and Dad tried to instill in us. Then again, Amie wasn’t the one who’d been knocked up by her college professor.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” A deep voice came from behind me. I released Amie to hug my only brother, Bronson. His dark looks and broad shoulders—not to mention his amazing mind—had to leave the college girls drooling. I hoped he used that amazing mind to be smart around them.

“I thought guys stopped growing at twenty? You keep it up and we won’t be able to see anything but chin stubble and nose hairs pretty soon.”

“Josie,” Maggie admonished.

“Me next,” piped a small voice behind me.

“Lizzie.” I clutched her tightest of all. Though we were complete opposites, we went together like Cheerios and milk, water and sand. And though her sweet, quiet, sometimes anxious nature as well as her scary bout with thyroid cancer when she was fifteen left me a bit protective of her, I didn’t mind the job one bit. While Maggie had always looked after Amie, I’d willingly taken up for Lizzie over the years. All of us fawned over Bronson enough that he could never feel left out—quite the opposite, in fact.

From somewhere in the corner of the large room, Marianne Norbert, head librarian, proud member of Aunt Pris’s quilting club, and the tallest woman in town at six-feet, counted down to singing For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow. The crowd parted and there was Mom, the candles on the cake lighting her delicate features, so like Maggie’s. Though the lines around her eyes and mouth ran deeper than last time I saw her, she looked happy. A bit tired, perhaps, but content, her chestnut hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, her eyes scanning the crowd in appreciation.

Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe the bookshop was a good thing, even if it wasn’t her original dream. Maybe dreams took different forms, shifting and shedding and growing into something more suitable, better even.

Mom blew out the candles, then opened her eyes, her gaze landing on me. Her mouth formed my name against the applause and she rushed toward me, arms outstretched.

I sank into her embrace, willed the tears not to come. For though I was just shy of twenty-four, if there was ever a time I needed my mother…if there was ever a time I needed to be in the embrace of everything home, it was now.