Step into the sunlight, p.1
Step into the Sunlight, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Quote
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Inn at the Lake by Mary K. Tilghman
What’s next on
Step into the Sunlight
MARY K. TILGHMAN
CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP
Step into the Sunlight
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Published by Champagne Book Group
712 SE Winchell Street, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.
~~~
First Edition 2024
eISBN: 978-1-959036-26-5
Copyright © 2024 Mary K. Tilghman All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Robyn Hart
Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.
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Version_1
For Ginger, Mary Lynn, Laurie, and Ken…
All my hammered dulcimer-loving friends.
Let’s jam!
“If this is what you want
to spend your life doing,
then it’s good.
But if you have other plans…”
Chapter One
Charlie Fever
The steamy air was fragrant with the heat of Old Bay, the sweetness of sweating onions, and the freshness of basil. On the stove, red marinara sauce bubbled beside a large skillet of peppers sizzling with garlic and parsley. From the wall oven, the buttery aroma of baking biscuits announced they were ready to come out.
A timer went off and Ava handed her mother an oven mitt to retrieve the biscuits. Brigid, short and wiry, rose on her toes to reach the baking pan. Then after twirling to slide the large tray to a waiting rack, she crossed the floor to the opposite counter to roll out the next batch of quarter-sized biscuits.
A dusting of flour dimmed the shine of the stainless-steel counters, the only upgrade Brigid had made to the cramped apartment kitchen, and that was thanks to Brigid’s catering business which took off a few years before. The rest of the kitchen still looked stuck in the 1970s. The maple cabinets were out of style. The stove was scorched and the ovens creaked on pale yellow walls.
Ava’s fingers itched for a pencil or crayons to sketch the beauty of the moment. She longed to capture the curve of the slight smile that lit her mother’s face or her hands, quick and agile, as she rolled, stirred, and chopped. Brigid lived for moments like this. The kitchen was her studio, the place where she turned everyday ingredients into the perfect French fry—or a feast for an entire town.
She’d taught Ava some of her culinary choreography in the past twenty years but, try as she might, Ava didn’t love it the way her mother did.
While Brigid dreamed of tempting dishes and mouth-watering menus, Ava dreamed in color, watery greens and blues, sunny yellows, and fiery reds. More than taste or aroma, she appreciated the symmetry of Brigid’s rows of tiny biscuits straight as a brigade of soldiers or the pink curves of perfectly steamed shrimp. What inspired her was the spark of passion coloring her mother’s face.
Ava watched her mother cook from the time she was old enough to take her place behind the French fry stand and pour sodas for the line of customers that stretched down the Boardwalk. Now she took her place at her mother’s side, the heir apparent of a cooking kingdom she didn’t want.
She glanced at the clock. Only 7 AM. She had plenty of time before she had to go to the post office. She put aside thoughts of art to pick up a big metal spoon.
The sizzling vegetables needed a stir before she added tomatoes to the skillet and stirred again. For now at least, art was a hobby. Cooking was her job.
Once the last of the biscuits were in the oven, Brigid pulled her ponytail tighter and reached for the coffee pot. Which was empty.
“Do you want more? I can make another pot.” Ava put down her spoon to grab the bag of coffee.
“Did we drink an entire pot already?” Brigid collapsed onto a kitchen stool by the back door.
“We’ve been at this since five.”
“I guess we have.” Brigid pushed aside the curtain with a frown. “Freezing rain isn’t a good sign. I hope they don’t cancel.”
“You know Elizabeth. She wouldn’t let a minor thing like weather get in the way of a good party. She even figured out how to open restaurants that summer when we had the pandemic.”
Aunt Elizabeth—though no relation, she was Brigid’s best friend and Ava’s godmother—was the town manager. She’d been running the oceanfront city longer than any elected politician. That old saw that goes when Elizabeth says jump… No one had to ask her how high. She told them in no uncertain terms.
“You’re right. So yes, I’d like another pot of coffee.” Her mother held up the brown handmade mug Ava made long ago in pottery class at the local art center. It was the only cup she used, despite its uneven bottom, misshapen handle, and chipped lip.
Soon the earthy aroma of strong coffee was wafting on the already redolent air. It was enough to bolster her sagging energy. She and her mother, a couple of hired waiters, and a dishwasher would still be on their feet in the convention center’s commercial kitchen until the mayor bid everyone good night and the partygoers went home.
Fortified by their shot of joe, Ava and her mother went back to work. Ava focused on layering the lasagna for its bake later, then moved on to browning the chorizo for the paella. Her mother formed tiny crab balls before peeling a mound of pink steamed shrimp.
It was nine o’clock when Ava wrapped up the casseroles of lasagna and put a lid on the pan of paella. It needed to mellow a while before she added the mussels and clams.
“Mom?” She wheeled around, wiping her hands, then untying her apron. “I need to run an errand. I’ve got to get those packages into the mail today or they won’t arrive before Christmas.”
“Sure. Go ahead.” She didn’t even look up from the ham she was studding with pineapple and cherries. “We’re in good shape. Thanks, Ava. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Ava went into her bedroom for her coat and handbag, along with a pile of mailing tubes and cardboard mailers. Only half of the sketches and watercolors she had sold were ready to be sent. She had plenty more waiting to be packed for shipment later.
In fact, to her delight, everything she posted online had been snapped up, except one portrait. That was a personal piece, so she didn’t mind that it didn’t sell. She planned to keep it for herself if it wasn’t purchased by next weekend.
It took a few trips to pile all the packages into the trunk of her beat-up hatchback. These packages represented her growing source of joy. Her art and someday, she hoped, her career.
Returning to her mother’s domain, she breathed in the warm, fragrant air. The smells of the kitchen always gave Ava a sense of comfort, as if everything was going to be all right.
With a peck on her mother’s cheek, Ava promised to be back in a half hour. Her mother was counting on her, just as she had since Dad had died in a car accident over a decade before. “I couldn’t do this without you” was a sentence her mother said a lot. Meant to be grateful, it pierced Ava like a knife—and prompted her to put aside her dreams of an artist’s life a while longer.
She grabbed an umbrella and rushed outside. Though the sky was a leaden gray, the rain had stopped, leaving no trace of ice. Humming “Jingle Bells” off-key, she climbed into her car for the short trip down the empty highway into the post office’s parking lot.
Once there, she collected the packages now scattered all over the trunk and tucked them under her arms and chin to carry them to the front door. Her hands full, she stood at the front door in a quandary about how to open it.
The door opened as if by magic, and an old high school classmate, Paul, smiled when he saw her. “Ava.” Seeing her struggle, he folded the envelope he carried and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he rushe d to take some of the packages from her. “Let me help you.”
“No thanks. I got this.” One false move and she’d drop everything.
Nodding, he opened the door wide as it would go but she misjudged the space, bumped his elbow, and packages went flying. She raced first for the tube rolling toward the damp and dirty gutter, hoping the original painting inside wouldn’t be ruined. She caught it just in time and exhaled heavily. Paul scrambled for the rest, stacking them in a pile.
“No harm done.” He leaned against the open door, cradling her treasures as if he valued them as she did. “This is a lot of Christmas presents.”
“These?” She beamed at the stack, the results of half a year of drawing and painting, then lifted the mailers she carried. “All of these represent sales. I sell my sketches and watercolors on Etsy.”
“Watercolors? Are you still interested in art? What do you paint?”
She started to take her mailers from him, but he gestured for her to go ahead. With a quick smile, she went and they both carried the packages inside and piled them in front of the waiting clerk.
“Hi, Clarice. Most of these are staying in state.” She tapped on part of her stack. “The others are going…everywhere. All U.S.” Then she answered Paul. “Yes, I paint whenever I can. Sunsets and seashells, crabs and fish, the usual beach stuff.”
“Do you sell them in town?”
She lifted a brow at his interest. She hadn’t talked this long about her painting to anyone but Aunt Elizabeth. “There are a few hanging in City Hall. Aunt—Miss Elizabeth offered to display them. Occasionally a tourist will buy one, but I don’t think anybody local ever noticed my signature on the corners of the paintings.”
“Now I’ll have to check you out online.”
“Wait a while until I can post some more work. Right now, I’m sold out.” She handed over her credit card to pay for the shipping and took the receipt. “Thanks, Clarice. See you in a couple of days. I have more that need to go out.”
Ava was surprised to find Paul waiting for her when she started to leave.
“You say they’re still hanging at City Hall? I’ll have to take a look. Seems like I’m always going by the mayor’s office these days.”
Yes, of course he was, now that his father was the newly elected mayor. His interest in her art touched her. “Aw, that’s nice. Yes, but it’s my older stuff.”
“Still worth a look though, right?” He held open the door to the blustery winter weather.
“Thanks. I guess. I haven’t thought about those pictures in a long time.” Wasn’t he nice?
Ava’s face cracked into a smile for the first time in a week. Since graduation in early December, she’d been so focused on getting her paintings done by day and catering office parties by night. This was the first time she’d been able to take a break long enough for a smile.
She’d always thought Paul could be boring, so serious and focused on things like science and math. The man before her now was definitely more charming. Or was that charm there all along?
His smile was sweet, encouraging. “Here I thought you were planning to help your mother run Ocean City’s finest fast-food outlet, and now I discover you have hidden talents.”
She shook her head in spite of the compliment. She couldn’t deny his interest pleased her. “It’s just a hobby.”
“From the size of that pile of mailers, it seems like maybe the world needs your art.”
She brushed off the notion. Her future, like it or not, was set. If only… She changed the subject. “What about you, Mr. Oceanographer? Have plans after graduation?”
A gleam of pride sparked in his big blue eyes. “I have a summer fellowship at Woods Hole, then I’ll be starting on my masters in oceanography at MIT. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Good for you. I always expected—the way you care about water quality and climate change—you’d find a way to protect the environment.” She unlocked her car door and paused, awkwardly.
There seemed to be something he wanted to say. He kept taking that envelope out of his pocket and putting it back in, like he wanted to show it to her. But, no, it had to be something else.
Hoping to ease his worries, she asked an innocuous question, “Are you going to the party at the convention center tonight?”
Of course he was going. This was the mayor’s party so she presumed attendance was mandatory for his twin sons.
A frown tugged at his lips. “I’ll be late. I have a Christmas concert at the nursing home in Berlin.”
Intrigued, Ava moved a half-step closer. “Concert? Do you sing? Play the piano?”
He gestured to the back seat of his tiny hybrid. “Hammered dulcimer. My grandmother taught me when I was a child. The instrument was hers.”
A maroon canvas bag in a shape she’d only seen before in geometry—was it called a trapezoid?—filled the back seat. It figures. While the rest of their high school class was going to the football game, he was perfecting his golf swing. When their fellow classmates hung out at the beach, he was poking around in the marshes on the other side of the barrier island. When they were playing band instruments or piano, he was figuring out how to play this curious instrument.
Paul always followed a different path. She used to think that made him weird. Maybe as out of the mainstream as her. Now, it made him more interesting.
He leaned into the car to zip open the canvas case and ran his hands along the multitude of brass wires stretched across the warm maple-stained soundboard. “It’s not a well-known instrument but it has a beautiful sound.”
He plucked a few of the strings, their harp-like vibrancy muffled by the canvas cover.
Even if she didn’t want to be interested, she heard herself saying, “I guess someday I’m going to have to hear you.”
As he zipped the case, his sparkling eyes hinted at his passion for music. She could tell this was just as important as his love of the environment and all the science he studied. It was a side of Paul she’d never seen before, and to her surprise, it drew her to him.
“What kind of music do you play?” Ava didn’t dare check her watch though she was sure her mother was starting to wonder where she was. She was enjoying the chance to catch up with an old classmate, to appreciate his kind face and gracious soul.
“Mostly old folk music, Irish ballads, reels and country dance music.”
He was still talking when a shiny black pick-up rumbled into the parking lot. Her heart beat out a new rhythm at the arrival of Paul’s twin brother.
Tall and muscular, Charlie wore his hair in golden curls that brushed his broad surfer’s shoulders. His overconfident expression came from knowing he could stop traffic with those looks—and slay every female in his path—as he had done since their days at Stephen Decatur High School.
Paul was saying something about a new tune, but his words faded away once Charlie slammed shut the truck door and glanced at her. “Hi, Ava.”
She wasn’t sure she’d ever breathe again once he said her name. Until that moment, she wasn’t even sure he remembered it. Despite years spent in the same class, despite working across the Boardwalk from one another since they were acne-plagued fourteen-year-olds, he’d never spoken to her.
“Hey, Paul.”
When he focused his mesmerizing baby blue eyes on his brother, Ava’s heart restarted and her breath filled her lungs. How could twins look so different? Both had blue eyes. They were the same height, but Charlie had filled out beautifully, with sun-gold hair and freckles across his nose.
“Dad wants to talk to you before the party tonight.” Then, without waiting for his brother’s reply, Charlie returned his gaze to her. “Will you be there?”
The question astonished her. She first dreamed of his falling madly in love with her the summer he stopped being an awkward kid with braces.
Just after freshman year, she figured. After…no, she couldn’t think of that day.
Ava had to clear her throat to answer. Smooth, girl. “Yes, but I’ll be in the kitchen. Mom’s catering.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think you could take a break and dance with me?”
