LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      ROSA FRANCO CLOSED her eyes and lost herself in the design plan: walls bathed in rich ivory, the subdued elegance of the marble that would edge the fireplace, matching sofas adorned in buttery, cream-colored fabric set off by jewel-toned pillows. It was the pillows that would really put the sprinkles on the sundae, so to speak. They murmured, “Stuffy library? Not at all. Come and sit. You’re finally home.”

      Home. It was the heart of every great room design, to capture the essence of home in the most beautiful way possible. She’d done it with this library. The graphics that scrolled on the laptop in front of her and the paper mockups were just a taste, of course, confirmation of something she already knew.

      Spot on, Rosa.

      “Miss Franco?”

      The voice seemed to come from far away. She was still gripped by the magic of her design.

      “Yo, sis?” Her twin brother Cy’s wild head of dark blond hair swam into view as she snapped back to the present. He was wiggling his fingers in front of her face, as if trying to free her from a hypnotist’s spell.

      Mr. Charles Frasier, a highly regarded estate planning lawyer, looked extremely uncomfortable perched in a wingback chair in the Dollars and Sense Design showroom, a painstakingly decorated oasis in the charming house Rosa and her brother rented for use as a business and their residence. The lovely old home in Danville, complete with small kitchen downstairs and a cramped living space upstairs, was expensive, but the location was well calculated. One of the wealthiest suburbs of Oakland and San Francisco, Danville was a town that screamed “affluent” and “quaint.” It was also convenient to a major freeway and had a median annual income of $129,000 for crying out loud. A suburban haven filled with people like Charles Frasier. The lawyer picked at a dot of lint on his immaculate suit pants. “The design is fine.”

      Fine? Rosa resisted the urge to correct him. It was more than fine. It was perfect, down to the rich wood bookcases and sleek brass lamp that would occupy a cozy corner. “I’m glad you like it.” She flashed him a brilliant smile. “When shall we get started?”

      He stood. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain.”

      She stood.

      Cy stood.

      Baggy, the frightening doglike creature that Cy had dragged home the week before, stood and peeked out from his favorite spot behind the curtain. Fortunately, Mr. Frasier did not see him.

      They all stared at each other.

      Rosa had the inkling that somehow, something had gone terribly wrong.

      “We are not going to get started, Miss Franco. Sorry.”

      “We’re not? Why aren’t we? What would be the reason for not?” She was babbling. Cy shrugged his wide shoulders, giving her a “Who knows?” look.

      Frasier checked his watch. “Yes, well, the design for the library is fine, as I said. That is not the problem. Violet and I have decided to sell rather than remodel. It’s a seller’s market, and our home in Atherton will do.”

      His words made sense, they all had the appropriate number of vowels, consonants and such, yet she found she could not comprehend. She’d spent hours. His wife, Violet, loved Rosa’s design ideas. It was the big moment for Dollars and Sense, the job that would put them on the map.

      “You will be compensated for your time. Good luck.” Frasier turned on his Florsheims and walked out the door, leaving a whisper of Drakkar Noir behind.

      In shock, Rosa tottered after him, down the front steps.

      Danville was filled with people like Mr. Charles Frasier. People who could discard homes as if they were used socks. People like Mr. Frasier, she was convinced, had not spent their childhoods searching for that elusive paradise. Not like Rosa, who had been mesmerized by those strange and wonderful families that stayed in one precious place, decorating their homes with a wash of memories and embellishing odd corners with bits of family history that gave meaning to every last nook and cranny.

      She watched Mr. Frasier climb into his pristine Mercedes SL550 Roadster and drive away.

      As she sank down on the front step, Baggy snuffled his crooked nose into her thigh, leaving a wet smear on her best pair of pants. He stared at her with his one steady eye, the other wandering off to admire the view somewhere else. She never should have let Cy take that night job at the pet store. So far, they’d collected a dozen unwanted goldfish, an unnaturally angry cat who’d run away the day after Cy brought it home and now Baggy, a dog that was, quite simply, the ugliest animal she’d ever clapped eyes on. It didn’t matter to Cy. Ugly or not, nothing helpless would ever be abandoned on his watch.

      Maybe that’s why Cy stays with you. The thought gave her a stab of pain. Cy was everything she was not, his hair fair and curly where hers was stick straight and black. Softhearted where she was driven to succeed. Athletic. Resilient. Forgiving.

      Rosa was a different design altogether. She thought about her father and the last time he’d called. She’d refused to speak to him. Cy had gabbed on just as if the man had not betrayed them on the cusp of their sixteenth birthday. She had no time for their father’s excuses. All that mattered was making her business thrive, to show herself and the world that, this time, failure was not an option.

      “I can’t understand this,” she said to Baggy, who had insinuated his ten-pound body under her elbow. “I made a business plan.”

      Cy stuck his head out the front door. “What should I make for dinner? Or do you want takeout?”

      “We can’t afford takeout,” she grumbled. “I’ve got the marinara reheating on the stove. I started it before Mr. Mercedes canceled us.”

      “Oh, huh. Marinara.”

      “What’s wrong with my marinara?” The answer was quite simple; their mother wasn’t alive to help her make it. The memory of those glorious pots of sauce bubbling on the stove were almost tangible, the smell of the crushed rosemary that had grown in a cracked terra-cotta pot seemed to permeate the air even now. Frank Sinatra music had usually played in counterpoint to the gurgling of the sauce, and more often than not, her father’s deep baritone warbled a harmony.

      Rosa put Baggy down, supporting the awkward creature until he got all his legs working in unison. “Do you remember how Mom used to plop the tomatoes into boiling water and they’d sort of pop out of their skins?”

      Cy nodded.

      “I tried that, but it didn’t work.” She swallowed against a sudden thickness in her throat. “I squished them with my fingers.”

      “That’s okay,” Cy said, joining her. “Mom wouldn’t mind.”

      “And I didn’t have any fresh garlic so I used a lot from the jar.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And I left out the wine.”

      She could still hear their mother adding a splash of red to the marinara and a much bigger splash into her own glass. One glass, followed by another.

      She hadn’t realized she was crying until Cy embraced her, the only other person in the world who could understand. “Cheer up, kiddo. Not everyone is gifted in a culinary way.”

      Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she gently elbowed him away. “Our business is failing, we have rent due at the end of the month

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