LITMIR.BIZ

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

      LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Osborne

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

      All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

      Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

      First Electronic Edition: May 2018

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0807-7

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0807-8

      First Print Edition: May 2018

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0810-7

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0810-8

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For Judith Simmons, who gave me a reason to write

      and

      Sarah Shope, who taught me how to do it

      Acknowledgments

      Sometimes it takes a small city. I am very grateful to the people who have made me a better writer through their unique contributions. They include Ellen Albanese, Judy and Bill Alden, Larry Allen, Deb Ayer, Philip Bechtel, Linda Benanti, Lyn and Wayne Brown, Sally Byrne, Marjorie Bufkin, Sue Eliason, Jayne Farley, Mary Louise Klimm, Jeanne and David Lee, Kathy Mosesian, Linda Newton, Lynne Rosa, Margo Schmidt, Kathy Shands, Ann Specht, Virginia Taylor, Patrick Todoroff, Jean Wentzell.

      My deep appreciation to John Scognamiglio, who has been a pleasure to work with and who gave me my ticket into the world of published authors.

      My love and thanks to Dan and Alix who encouraged me and gave me the space and time to write.

      Chapter One

      Nothing warned me that my world was about to tilt on its axis and never tilt back again.

      Early spring in Atlanta was a magical time, and this morning was no exception. A few cumulus clouds drifted overhead, the temperature was near seventy, and my garden was already in bloom. I got up with the sun, so I’d already made cinnamon rolls, some of which might actually last until the next day, Saturday, when I could take them to work. I planted myself on the open porch of my Virginia-Highland home to drink in the scent of my gardenia bush and watch my tulips sunning themselves. No work for me today, just pleasure.

      Hermione, my half German shepherd, half collie bodhisattva of a dog, put her head in my lap, partly to say she loved me and partly to see if she might get a bit of cinnamon roll. I gave her what I had left and sipped my coffee. I would not let this perfect morning be ruined by the hit-and-run visit of my brother. Tommy came when he wanted something and always left me with collateral damage. This time the visit had been on his way to work to see if I’d finally agree to sell the family farm in Iowa.

      “We could make millions in condos,” Tommy said. For him, everything was about the dollar sign. No, I told him. I hadn’t changed my mind and wasn’t likely to. The dairy farm had been in our family for generations. We had a good tenant. While I didn’t love the farm, our mother had. It might have been the only thing she really had loved. Tommy left in a huff, driving over my Texas bluestar on his way out.

      I did my best to breathe new life into my half-flattened plant and then sat on the porch musing about the future. Was it time to leave Atlanta? I’d stayed in this city longer than most that I’d lived in. First for medical school and residency. Later for a job in a refugee clinic. I loved my work, but as a pediatrician, I could work anywhere. Why had I come back? To try once again to mend fences with Tommy? Clearly that was not going to happen. Was it because I loved being near my best friend, Lurleen? She and I kept up through Skype and visits wherever I landed.

      I really didn’t need to stay any longer.

      The desire to roam was getting stronger. I could feel it like an itch that I couldn’t quite scratch. Sure, I loved my garden, my house, my work, Atlanta. But there were other homes and cities I could love just as well.

      “Ditie?” someone called. I stood up. No one but my closest friends called me that.

      My dad called me Aphrodite, Ditie for short, because he thought I was beautiful. My mother said that was absurd. She christened me Mabel Brown after her hard-working grandmother. “You’re no Aphrodite,” she told me later, “and it’s a sorry day your father put those thoughts in your head.”

      I looked up and down my tree-lined street. I lived in the perfect neighborhood on a street that had little traffic. I saw no one.

      “Ditie. It is you!” someone called again.

      This time I saw her emerging from behind my neighbor’s dogwood tree, running toward me, arms outstretched. Ellie! Tall, slender, her magnificent blond hair swirling around her face, her deep-set blue eyes the color of the Gulf of Mexico. It was how she always appeared. Out of nowhere. Unexpected.

      She threw her arms around my round body, squishing my head against her ample breasts. The last time I’d seen her was two years earlier when she’d called for help with a bad-news boyfriend—getting away from him, that is. Eleanor turned up when she was in trouble and not much in between. I’d learned to accept that, sort of, but it was hard.

      Ellie was the

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