Page 1 of Worthy of Sunsets and Second Chances

1

Kendra

Iloved my nana’s house, but we never simply called it “a house.” We always affectionately referred to it as her cabin . . . and it wasn’t hers anymore. Technically it was mine.

When Nana passed in the springtime just over six years ago, she left it to me in her will. The small two-story house sits in a quiet, safe neighborhood in Fox Grove, Virginia. Large trees canopy the road, making it feel like you are walking through a storybook setting instead of a common street. Cedar shakes, dark green paint, window boxes spilling over with bright flowers, natural-looking stained rocking chairs on the porch, and a deep rust-colored front door have my soul sighing with the recognition of home and safety every time I see it.

Stella Clark, my maternal grandmother, created a haven for me within her walls, and it’s not the same without her. I miss our traditions and the rhythm we had when we moved through the world next to each other. It has taken me just as long to slowly make the cabin my own; claiming one room at a time, allowing myself to have permanence in a place that’s always been my temporary sanctuary. I’m a whirlwind in most other aspects of my life, but reworking the house at a pace akin to a garden snail feels right. Nana is gone, but her spirit sweeps through the halls in the most comforting ways. Memories of my summers spent here as a child and teen pop up, and instead of feeling sad, I feel embraced.

Setting my loaded-down, fabric grocery totes on the clean, antique, eat-in kitchen table, I take in a deep breath. This kitchen is supposed to be my next big project. I have been saving up my money and dreams for years . . . but now that the time has come to actually make something happen, I’m very hesitant. Out of all the rooms in the cabin, this is where I spent the most time with Nana. Every summer she dedicated hours upon hours teaching me to make her favorite meals, bake her yummy cinnamon rolls with the perfect amount of icing, and putting sun tea in the window so we would never run out.

There are elements of the kitchen that I want to preserve, like the eat-in table with its bench on one side and chairs on other, the high-back wooden stools with ripped leather seats that I spent hours perched on at the counter, and the cozy feeling that the soft blue walls give off.

However, there are other things that I absolutely cannot ignore anymore. Hazards like that frustrating oven that doesn’t heat evenly; the microwave that started smoking and needed to be removed immediately a couple months ago, leaving an empty spot in its absence; and finally the ugly, dropdown, paneled ceiling with the one light that flickers no matter what I do, new lightbulbs be damned.

Even with the flaws I find while being the sole owner responsible for the cabin, nothing can dim the peace I feel here. I’ve been heartbroken so many times, in so many ways in the past twenty-eight years, but this is the one place on Earth that has allowed me space to breathe, to grieve, to be myself—to start healing time and time again.

As I put the final box of noodles in the tiny pantry, one of the many flaws I intend to remedy in the kitchen makeover, I hear a hammering sound coming from next door. Odd since the older couple that lives there, the Savellis, are normally so quiet. They are in their seventies, have lived in that house their whole marriage, are very Italian, a tiny bit nosey, and loved my grandmother like one of their own relatives . . . therefore they love me like one of their own relatives. Nicola Savelli brings me a meal and a phone number of someone she deems an eligible bachelor every two weeks, while her husband Dom happily grins at her back and shakes his head.

The July air feels sticky as I step out onto my front porch to investigate. The Savelli house is similar to my own, two stories, but has an extra bedroom, a larger family room, and a slightly bigger backyard. Their house is painted a crisp white, with pretty blue shutters, a wooden front door with inlaid stained glass along the top and a brass knocker underneath. Their front porch has flowers and rocking chairs just like mine, a perfect place to sit and people watch the neighborhood. Not much has changed about the Savelli house—except right now there is a giant post being pounded into the middle of the deep green lawn, a For Sale sign squeaking on the swinging hinges.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, dear,” Nicola says, dabbing her eyes with a tissue and passing me one of my own, as I sit next to her and her husband on their porch. “We made the official decision last week, and we didn’t want to put it off. Our Realtor, admittedly, is moving faster than we expected.”

“It’s okay, Nicola. I understand.” I let loose a shuddering breath, trying not to allow the sob that wants to overtake my body out in front of them.

“Alexander is so excited about the baby, and we don’t want to miss a moment being so far from him and Lauren.” Dom fists his hand over his heart, talking about his only son, his only child.

My own heart aches, holding so many conflicting emotions at once. “You should be there with them! They’re so lucky that you are willing to pack up everything here, everything you’ve known, to live in Arizona with them.”

“It will certainly be an adventure.” Nicola hums. “But I promise, my dear, we will be back to visit.”

I nod my head and hug them both tightly, knowing deep in my gut that it’s a nice sentiment, but untrue. A bandage to press on my aching heart at the sad news, but ultimately understanding that these people, ones that I have gotten so used to having right next door as a fixture in my life, won’t be back to Fox Grove.

My week did not improve after the news that the Savellis dropped on me out of the blue. I had two of my clients at the salon that I work at, Dip and Dye, no-show. Then when I was working in my pottery studio—my detached garage at the back of my property—I was greeted with a huge disappointment. I opened up my kiln, excited to see the new pieces that I fired, to find half of them cracked and unusable. Having to start over that entire set of mugs for my contract with my friend Sutton Brooks, who owns the amazing shop Brooks and Books in town, is definitely going to set me back. I hate feeling unorganized and rushed, especially when it comes to my pottery. When I create, the artwork gives me an outlet to be chaotic and messy, to let my artistic nature flow into each thing I make while at the same time lean into my controlling side because I get to dictate the flow, colors, shape, and feel. When it falls apart, I feel like a failure, leaving my skin feeling prickly and soul unsettled until I can go back and fix the mistakes.

Tonight I have plans to go to Sutton’s house for dinner, and I’m looking forward to smushing her almost-one-year-old daughter, Kinsley, in a perfect baby hug, smelling the top of her head and letting her baby essence calm my wavering nerves. I love that little girl to pieces, and I take being an honorary auntie very seriously. She and Sutton deserve all the extra love and spoiling possible, especially after the loss of Sutton’s Navy SEAL husband, Derek, last year.

I have known Sutton and her brother Remington, Rem to everyone but his fiancée, for a long time. Having spent summers with Nana at her cabin, I didn’t go to school here, but I was on the fringe of kids that grew up in Fox Grove. Always knowing just enough each summer to get by, having only one very close friend, forgotten enough by everyone else to need some reintroduction sometimes, and painfully aware of certain people that I couldn’t help but want to be around when I was visiting.

Sutton was one of them. Beautiful, nice, a bit older, but always felt right out of reach. That was until my current best friend, Lainey Quinn, started to date Rem and we all formed an unbreakable bond. Our girl group is solid, life-giving, and filled with so much love. Now we are inseparable, spend most of our free time together, and I even help out at Sutton’s shop when she needs an extra hand.

As I pull into Sutton’s neighborhood and along her cul-de-sac, I groan when I see the white truck already parked in her driveway. Rem’s black truck is missing, so I know he and Lainey are not here yet.

I could just sit in my car and wait for them.

I could drive around the block a few times.

Fuck that . . .

Eli-freaking-Hargrove doesn’t deserve my trepidation or the way my heart trips every time I know I’m going to have to see him, interact with him, look at his stupidly handsome face. With those midnight-blue eyes that I want to drown in and that dimple on his olive skin that absolutely does not make me want to kiss him.

Ugh.

I park my little red sedan next to his mammoth truck, slam the door harder than necessary, and bobble the hot, covered dish of scalloped potatoes that I’m balancing carefully. I wish I could say that he drove that thing around to make up for having short man syndrome and trying to overcompensate . . . but he’s six-four, has the biggest ego of anyone I have ever known, and melts the panties off just about any woman he meets. Disgusting.

Get it together, Kendra. You are tough as nails. That man is nothing compared to the challenges you have faced before this. You hate his handsome guts, but spending time with your actual friends is more important than avoiding him.

Planting a huge grin on my face, I swing open the front door, exactly the way Sutton insists. All her close family and friends have copies of her house keys, and nobody is allowed to knock anymore—not after the day those death notification officers knocked on her door, delivering the worst news of her life just over a year ago.