Lyra tried to explain to the woman that the books were worth a great deal of money, but she didn’t seem to care. In fact, she screamed at Lyra that, if the books weren’t taken, she would build a bonfire and throw them all in. Appalled, Lyra sifted through the stacks and took as many as she could to her car.

On the drive to her grandmother’s, Lyra struggled to decide what to do with them. Until she could come up with an answer, she would have to store them in a safe place. These were valuable editions, and she couldn’t risk anything happening to them. Gigi’s house was small, and Lyra felt it would be an imposition to ask her to keep them there. The apartment she shared with Sidney was also out of the question: it was already packed to the rafters with books and clothes. There simply wasn’t room for more. That left the family ranch in Texas. Lyra and her two brothers had inherited the fifteen-thousand-acre spread from their grandfather.

She pulled off at an exit and called the housekeeper to tell him that she was shipping a few boxes of books. They should arrive within the next week, and would he please put them in her bedroom.

Lyra finished the call, then turned into a McDonald’s parking lot and used her GPS to find the nearest pack-and-mail store. As she was unloading the books, she saw the box of DVDs and CDs. She’d forgotten she’d picked them up as well. Not wanting to take the time to sort through them all now, she decided to ship them to the ranch, too. Forty-five minutes later, she was back on the highway and the books, CDs, and DVDs were on their way to Texas. One problem solved. Now on to another.

Gigi lived in a quiet community north of San Diego. Her neighborhood, a row of eleven houses painted in bright pastel colors, had been lovingly preserved from another era and had escaped the ravages of progress. The homes, lined up on the east side of the street, had unobstructed views of the ocean. The pier was less than a mile away, and so were the shops. A coffee shop, a grocery market, and a flower and fruit stand were all within walking distance.

Gigi’s garage sat behind her house, and the only way to get to it was from the side street. Lyra pulled in, parked the car, and walked between the houses to get to the gate of the picket fence surrounding her grandmother’s tiny front yard.

Lyra had a key, but decided to knock. Her grandmother opened the door seconds later.

“Lyra Decoursey Prescott, what on earth are you doing on my porch?”

Trying not to smile, Gigi was obviously pleased that Lyra was home, though she wasn’t ready to admit it just yet. She stepped back so her granddaughter could get past her and asked, “Did the phone company go bust? Is that why you couldn’t call ahead and tell me you were coming?”

Lyra kissed her grandmother on the cheek. “I know, I should have called.”

“Then why didn’t you? If I had known you were coming, I would have made your favorite seafood chowder.”

“Any chance you still could?”

Before Gigi could answer, Lyra carried her bag and laptop upstairs to her bedroom. When she came back down, her grandmother was in the kitchen rummaging through her pots and pans.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Lyra asked.

“Of course I am,” she grumbled. “We’ll have to go to the market first thing in the morning. I’ll need fresh fish for my chowder. I’d better make a list, or I’m sure to forget something. There’s iced tea in the refrigerator.”

“Sweet tea or regular?”

“Regular.”

Lyra poured herself a glass and sat down at the table. “This is good,” she said.

Her grandmother found the big pot she was looking for and put it on the stove. “I always add a hint of lemon to my tea. Why are you here, Lyra? You haven’t gone through your trust fund so soon, have you? No, of course you haven’t. Your grandfather would roll over in his grave if he thought you were frittering that money away.”

Lyra laughed. “I haven’t touched my trust fund,” she said. “And I don’t need any money.”

Gigi nervously wiped her hands on a towel. “Then it’s your school, isn’t it? What’s happened? You were doing so well …”

“I’m not having any problems with my classes,” she assured her. “I’m doing fine.”

“How many more weeks do you have? Three? Four?” her grandmother asked as she opened a drawer, took out a pink notepad and pencil, and sat down across from Lyra. “I’m out of potatoes, and if I don’t write it down now, I’ll forget. I know why you’re here. It’s your father, isn’t it?”

“You mean your son.”

“And your mother,” she continued as though Lyra hadn’t interrupted her. “They’ve upset you again, have they?”

“No, they haven’t upset me,” she answered. “I haven’t spoken to those people in quite a while, and I don’t intend to anytime soon.”

Gigi smiled. “Dear, you really should stop calling them ‘those people.’”

I was being kind, Lyra thought. She could come up with a lot worse to call her ungrateful, pretentious, greedy parents.

“Father Henry called me.”

Gigi put her pencil down and let out a sigh. “He’s a bit of a tattletale, isn’t he? Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice man,” she hastened to add, “but he gets so worked up over every little thing. He’s going to end up with heart problems if he doesn’t learn to relax. Stress can kill,” she added with a nod.

“Grandmother, you’re the one who’s causing him stress! Father Henry is very unhappy with you.”

Gigi scoffed at the notion. “Taking a little water isn’t hurting anyone. And I always replace it. I don’t leave the tub empty.”

“It’s not a tub, it’s a font,” she corrected. “And what do you mean, you replace it?”

“I take a couple of big bottles of Perrier with me, and after I’ve helped myself to what I need, I pour in the Perrier.”

“You pour sparkling water—”

“That’s right, dear.”

The priest wasn’t going to like hearing that one bit. “When you talk to Father Henry, it might be a good idea not to mention the sparkling water.”

“When I talk to him?”

“I’ve invited him over to the house tomorrow. Perhaps he could join us for dinner.”

“I like to be sociable, and this is your home, but I would like to know why you invited him.”

“Gigi, you know very well why.” Threading her fingers through her hair in frustration, she said, “I’m hoping he can talk some sense into you. He’s warned you before about stealing holy water. Why do you keep doing it?”

“Stealing is such an ugly word. I’m taking the holy water. Taking,” she emphasized. “The answer to your question is outside. Stand on the porch and look over at Mrs. Castman’s yard. Pay particular attention to her flower beds and her planters. Compare her yard to mine.”

“But Gigi …”

Waving her hand, she said, “Go on now.”

Arguing was pointless. Lyra went out on the porch, checked both minuscule yards, then walked back into the kitchen.

“And what did you observe?” her grandmother asked.

“Mrs. Castman’s flowers are blooming, and yours aren’t.”

“Hers are thriving, Lyra, and mine are withering away,” she corrected. “Same thing happened last year and the year before. This spring I decided I would buy exactly what she did and water just as often. And look at the results. My yard gets as much sun as hers,” she added. “Then I saw her coming out of church one Sunday with a big plastic jug of water. I knew where she got it. I followed her home, and low and behold, she sprinkled the holy water all over her planters and her flowers. And that, young lady, is why I’m taking holy water.”

How did one argue with such logic?

Lyra was not looking forward to the priest’s visit tomorrow. If Father Henry stayed for dinner, would he make it to dessert without storming out in frustration?

SIX

FATHER HENRY HAD A LOVELY EVENING. HE’D CALLED AHEAD to tell Lyra that he’d arrive at the house after saying five o’clock mass. His intention was to have a stern conversation with Gigi Prescott and be back at the rectory by six-thirty to eat cold leftovers, but the spicy aromas wafting from Gigi’s kitchen made his stomach grumble, and it took very little coaxing to get him to stay for dinner.

The meal Lyra’s grandmother prepared was fit for a king. It was all part of her master plan to disarm the priest. With Lyra’s help she served spinach salad, prime rib with Yorkshire pudding, her special eight-thousand-calorie potatoes, and fresh asparagus. For dessert, she offered homemade apple pie with cinnamon ice cream.

Father was tall and slender, yet this evening he ate enough for three lumberjacks. Lyra couldn’t figure out where he was putting it all. Gigi had decided against making her chowder in favor of red meat, arguing that all men liked beef, or at least most did. The priest was obviously a fan. He had two extra helpings.

Gigi served Father Henry coffee in the living room, then suggested they go out on the porch and sit in the wicker rockers while they discussed the holy water “situation.”

Lyra stayed inside. She didn’t want her grandmother to feel that she and the priest were ganging up on her. Because of their soft voices and the rising wind, Lyra couldn’t hear any of the conversation, but she did hear Father laugh, and thought that must be a good sign. When Father Henry called out to Lyra to say good-bye, she decided to walk with him to his car. She wanted to find out how the “situation” was resolved.

“Your grandmother has given me her word she’ll leave the holy water alone. I suggested alternatives … several, as a matter of fact,” the priest said.

“And?”

He shook his head. “She explained it wouldn’t be the same.”

“But she did promise not to take any more holy water from the font?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, but if anything else involving my grandmother should occur, will you call me, and only me? I don’t think it’s necessary to involve any other family members.”

“She gave me her word,” he reminded her.

Yeah, right, Lyra thought. “And I’m certain she has the best intentions,” she said.

He was catching on. “I’ll call you.”

“Thank you.” Relieved, she smiled.

He opened the car door, paused, then said, “If she should slip up again and take a little more holy water, ask her not to replace it with sparkling water. It was still fizzing when Bill Bradshaw, one of our parishoners, happened by. He thought it was a miracle. If the pastor had seen that, he would not have been amused.”

Lyra didn’t start laughing until Father Henry’s car had turned the corner. As she was walking up the porch steps, her eye caught a slight movement of Mrs. Castman’s curtains. Lyra smiled to herself. The neighbor’s curiosity must be killing her. Lyra went into the house and carried the dishes from the dining room to the kitchen. While she was loading the dishwasher, she heard laughter coming from the living room. She peeked in to find Gigi entertaining a couple from down the street. By the time Lyra finished cleaning up, Gigi’s company had increased to six. Earlier Lyra had wondered why her grandmother had made two pies. Now she understood. Friends and neighbors often dropped in to visit, and Gigi always fed them. She was a wonderful hostess. When Lyra was a little girl, she would sit on the stairs, out of sight, and listen to her grandmother tell the most wonderful stories. From an early age, Lyra wanted to be just like her. And no wonder. To Lyra, Grandmother Prescott was the epitome of the genteel southern lady.

Born Lyra Colette Decoursey in Alexandria, South Carolina, a charming little town an hour from Charleston, Gigi was raised as the privileged child of Beauregard Decoursey, owner of Alexandria’s single industry, the Decoursey Textile Mill. She attended the finest boarding schools in Europe, and one month after her return home at eighteen, she met Tobias Christopher Prescott, a man her father called an upstart oil baron from the uncivilized state of Texas.

A year later, she married Tobias in the most lavish affair Alexandria had ever seen. Gigi told her namesake years later how she promised to love and honor her husband on that day, but she deliberately left out the word “obey” from her vows. Obeying a husband was just plain nonsense. Her grandmother was stubborn even back then, but Grandfather Tobias must not have minded his wife’s attitude, for their marriage was strong and happy and lasted forty-two years.

Lyra knew she would never find a man like Grandfather Tobias. He was bigger than life. She doubted there were even any men like him around these days. The men she dated were self-centered, money-loving, sex-addicted chauvinists who expected to hook up with a woman two hours after meeting her. Needless to say, they were disappointed and a little shocked when Lyra said no and went home alone.

Love wasn’t for her, she supposed. She was so tired of dating jerks, it just wasn’t worth it. She was happy being single. Why change what worked?

It was after eleven when Lyra went downstairs to make sure the doors were locked and to say good night to her grandmother. Gigi’s bedroom was tucked in the back of the house on the main floor. Her door was open, and she was tying the belt of her robe.

She saw Lyra in the doorway and said, “It was a nice day, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Lyra came into the room and sat on the side of Gigi’s bed. “Do you get that much company every night?”

“No, of course not, though the Parkers—they’re the couple who live two doors down in the pink bungalow—like to check on me.”

“I’m glad they do.” Lyra’s eyes settled on the framed photo on the dresser: her grandparents arm in arm standing in front of two horses.

“Do you ever miss the ranch?”

“Oh, yes, of course I do. It was my home for most of my life.”

“I sometimes think you left there to get away from my parents.”

Gigi looked sheepish, and deftly dodged the issue. “I love California. The move has been good for me.”

Lyra smiled. “Do you miss Grandpa Tobias?”

“Yes, I do. I liked being married,” she said.

“Ever think about getting married again? Grandpa Tobias would want you to be happy.”

“No, no, I could never marry again. I believe you only get one, Lyra, and Tobias was my one.”

“One what?”