Meant To Be Hers. Joan Kilby

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Meant To Be Hers - Joan Kilby Mills & Boon Superromance

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with a fitting send-off.” Frankie nodded at a plate of blueberry muffins on the counter. “Hungry?”

      “I had a huge breakfast at Rhonda’s café with Finn.” Carly drifted to the counter anyway, irresistibly drawn by the warm scent of fruit and vanilla.

      “I made them this morning,” Frankie said. “Think of them as breakfast dessert.”

      “Is that a thing?” Carly took a muffin and bit into a moist crumb bursting with blueberries. “Mmm. If it’s not, it should be.”

      “That Finn sure can play the piano,” Brenda said.

      “Not a bad looker, either,” Frankie said, winking. “If I wasn’t happily married...”

      “Didn’t you and he go together years ago?” Brenda asked Carly.

      “No.” There was only that one kiss. Things might have progressed if they’d gone to the party afterward instead of him running out of the concert. But that was water under the bridge. And she didn’t want Brenda and Frankie jumping to false conclusions. Her thoughts about Finn were jumbled enough as it was.

      “Where is he, anyway?” Brenda asked.

      “He had things to do.” Carly turned to Frankie. “Irene told me how you and she used to exchange recipes.”

      “Yep, we bonded over baking.” Frankie slid the bucket along the floor and mopped under the table. She’d stacked the chairs on top for easy access.

      “Would you like to have Irene’s sourdough starter?” Carly asked. “She’s kept it going for decades. I hate to throw it away.”

      “Oh, honey, she gave me some long ago.” Frankie blew a wisp of damp hair off her forehead. “All her friends have a bit. I tried making bread but sourdough is an art and keeping the starter alive takes commitment. I’ve got three kids and a husband plus I work part-time at an aged care center.” She smiled cheerfully. “If I had to nurture one more thing I’d probably sit and cry.”

      Carly turned to her cousin. “Brenda?”

      “I can’t keep a cactus alive.” Brenda pulled the plug to empty the sink then grabbed a towel to dry her hands. “Throw it away and don’t look back. It’s not like you’re putting down a sentient creature.”

      “I know but...” Carly licked blueberry off her finger. “It meant so much to Irene.”

      “You can’t keep her alive by holding on to her stuff.” Brenda’s blue eyes turned gentle. “Dad and I went through this when my mom passed two years ago. The sourdough is only the beginning. You’re going to have a difficult enough job clearing out her things. You have to learn to be ruthless.”

      “But... Irene’s estate will pass to your father, won’t it?” Carly said. “As her brother, he’s her closest relative.”

      She would be happy to help her uncle Larry dispose of Irene’s personal effects but didn’t relish deciding the fate of her aunt’s collection of art objects and furniture.

      “I don’t know.” Brenda shrugged. “It’s not like he needs it. He made a pile of dough when he sold his tech company.”

      “The reading of the will is next week,” Carly said. “Maybe you should be there since your father can’t.”

      “Sorry, I really do need to get back to Portland,” Brenda said. “Let me know what happens and I’ll pass it on to Dad.”

      “Sure.” Carly nodded. “Have either of you seen Rufus? He went missing last night. Finn and I searched the whole neighborhood this morning.”

      “No, I was wondering where he’d got to,” Brenda said. “That’s terrible.”

      “I haven’t seen him, either.” Frankie straightened to wring out the mop. “Have you called the animal shelter?”

      “Not yet. I’ll do that.” Carly pulled her phone out of her hoodie pocket and flicked it on to find a dozen messages. Her father; Althea, a friend in New York; Herb, her boss; a celebrant she’d contacted but not used in the end. She would reply to those TEXTs later. Finn’s message she opened and read aloud, “Checked the animal shelter. Rufus hasn’t been brought in.”

      “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Never knew that dog to miss a meal.” Frankie took the bucket and mop out to the laundry room. When she returned she glanced around the clean kitchen and nodded, satisfied. “I’ve got to take my son to soccer. ’Bye, Brenda. Nice to meet you.”

      “Likewise. I wish it had been under different circumstances.” Brenda turned to Carly. “I’m going, too. Sorry I can’t stay and help some more.”

      “It’s fine. Thanks again.”

      Carly walked them out, leading the way down the hall to the foyer. While Brenda ran upstairs to get her suitcase, Carly gave Frankie another hug. “I’m glad I got to talk to you last night. Now I know why my aunt liked you so much.”

      Frankie squeezed her shoulders. “Come over any time for coffee. How long are you staying in town?”

      “Not long,” Carly said. “A few more days.”

      “With Irene’s passing I don’t suppose you’ll come west as often.” Frankie started down the steps. At the bottom she turned and looked up at the house, a wistful expression softening her pointed features. “I’ll miss hearing the music. In the evening, after her students had gone, she would play the piano for hours.”

      “I remember.” Carly leaned on a post, smiling. “When I was young and had to go to bed early, I would lie awake, listening.”

      “Mom!” A boy of about nine in a soccer uniform of a white jersey with green shorts and socks ran out of the house next door. “I’m going to be late.”

      “Coming!” Frankie waved goodbye to Carly and hurried down the sidewalk.

      Brenda bustled out, wheeling an overnight bag. “Take care and keep in touch, okay? You have my email. My cell number is in Irene’s address book next to the phone. Call me any time.”

      “I will.” Carly hugged her and waited until Brenda had driven off in her rental car. Before she could head inside, a red Mini packed to the roof with overflowing boxes pulled out of the parking spot Brenda had vacated.

      The door opened and a tall young man unfolded his thin limbs and emerged. In his midtwenties, he had dark blond hair neatly combed from a side part and wore thick glasses. His blue cardigan looked hand-knit and the pocket protector in his cotton shirt bulged with pens, a small ruler and a calculator.

      He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and consulted it, looking up at the house.

      “Can I help you?” Carly asked.

      He wiped his palms on his pants and approached the open gate in the picket fence. “I’m Taylor Greene. It’s April 30. I’m a day early. I hope that’s okay.”

      “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

      He

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