Prologue
12 Years Ago
“The day your mother was born was the worst day of my life. Do you want to know why? I’m going to tell you.”
My grandfather worked behind the huge industrial stove, his eyes meeting mine next to the order wheel. He was cooking today rather than holding court at the coffee counter, because my uncle had called in sick. Days when my grandfather mastered the griddle were both the worst and best days to work.
They were the best because he insisted waitresses not wash dishes so they wouldn’t dirty their uniforms. When my uncle was in charge, everybody had to help with the dishes — and it sucked. My grandfather, however, believed in looking professional above all else. That was a minor treat, though. In exchange, the days were the worst because he told endless stories (and occasionally threw bread when things didn’t go his way). I couldn’t have a single moment to myself as he insisted on spinning yarns that I’d heard at least fifty times each during the course of my sixteen years. I’d heard at least thirty variations of this particular story.
“It was the worst day of your life because it also happened to be the first day of deer season,” I answered without thinking. “It was snowing just enough for you to be able to make out tracks, but not so cold you would’ve frozen your nuts off — which was probably a good thing for all your other kids, huh?” I flashed a smile that I didn’t really feel. “And, of course, she was a girl and you wanted a boy. Missing deer season for a girl is simply unacceptable.”
Grandpa met my gaze with a dark one of his own. “I’m going to tell you the story the way I want to tell it,” he snapped. “And, just for the record, I was fine with your mother being a girl. If she says otherwise, she’s lying.”
I knew better. Grandpa had gotten drunk a time or two and admitted that he had melted down about missing deer season for the birth of a girl. Apparently he would’ve been fine missing it for a boy, but a girl was something else entirely. I liked to think karma was listening that day, because the baby that was born the following December — forcing him to miss another deer season opener — was also a girl.
“Uh-huh.” I tapped the counter next to the ticket I’d given him minutes ago. “Do you have my eggs and bacon?”
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed. Charles Archer hated being rushed. “I’m working on it.” He turned his back was to me and focused on the griddle. It was a busy morning at the Two Broomsticks Gas & Grill in Shadow Hills, Michigan. The leaves were just starting to fall, signaling our busy season was right around the corner. Given our location in northern Lower Michigan, we had exactly two seasons to make money: summer, when all the golfers came to town to hang out at the neighboring resorts, and winter, when the skiers and snowmobilers flocked to the surrounding hills and trails. Sure, people visited in the spring and fall, but two seasons could make or break every business in the area.
“You know what your problem is?” Grandpa called over his shoulder.
“Yes, I’ve been waiting for my bacon and eggs twice as long as necessary,” I drawled, rubbing my forearm against my forehead and glancing at the clock on the wall. My shift ended in an hour. I had a paper due for English class and I hadn’t even started it. I should go straight home after my shift and hit the writing. That wasn’t going to happen, though. My boyfriend Hunter Ryan was picking me up so we could hang out for a few hours. I had been looking forward to that more than anything else all shift, including no longer smelling like a grease trap thanks to my proximity to the deep fryers.
“Your problem is that you’re exactly like your mother,” Grandpa shot back. “Why do you think she named you Stormy Breeze Morgan?”
I’d been wondering that very thing for most of my life. “I think she secretly hated me for twenty-five hours of labor and that’s how she paid me back,” I replied without hesitation.
“Wrong. She was always going to name you Stormy. I tried talking her into giving you a normal name, but she was having none of it. Do you want to know why?”
He was big on asking questions to which he provided his own answers. It drove me insane at times. “I just told you why.”
“And I told you that’s not why. Listen.” He reached through the order window and flicked the spot between my eyebrows before I realized what was happening, earning a yelp and a glare for his efforts. “Your mother named you Stormy Breeze to irritate me.”
Oh, well, this was a new variation. “Really? She saddled me with this stupid name because of you? How so?”
He looked around, perhaps to see if anybody was listening, and lowered his voice. “She’s a hippie.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure how to respond. “She’s a hippie?” I asked, amusement and annoyance warring in my busy brain. Seriously, why couldn’t he just cook the eggs and bacon? Why was I being forced to listen to this when I wanted to think about other things ... like homework and Hunter (although not necessarily in that order)?
“She’s a hippie,” he confirmed, bobbing his head. He said it in a manner that indicated he thought it was a big deal. “She left the family business. You know that.”
I was thrilled about that little development. Working with my grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins was difficult enough. Working with my mother on top of everything else would’ve sent me over the edge. “I’m well aware she left the family business,” I said dryly. “She didn’t like being a waitress.”
Grandpa’s expression darkened. “Yes, even though that business is the reason she had shoes on her feet and clothes on her back the entire time she was growing up.”
And here it was. He just wanted to rant about Mom quitting the diner. No matter how many shifts we worked together, the conversation always turned to Mom and her lack of appreciation. It was frustrating — and sometimes funny, because I enjoyed complaining about my mother almost as much as he did. “She doesn’t want to be a waitress,” I said, tapping the open ticket again for emphasis. “Cook my eggs.”
“I’m doing it.” He glared at me. “What’s wrong with waitressing? You’re a waitress and you’re happy.”
“I’m not happy being a waitress,” I argued. “I don’t mind the money. And I can tolerate smelling like French fries five days a week because Hunter thinks it’s better than perfume. But it’s not as if this is my dream job.”
“Oh, really?” Grandpa folded his arms across his stained apron. “Just what is your dream job?”
That was a good question. “I think I want to be a writer.”
Grandpa looked horrified at the prospect. “A writer? Like, a reporter?”
I shook my head. “I want to write books.”
His expression twisted. “That’s not a real job.”
“Says who?”
“Um ... everybody who has ever tried to be a writer. I don’t like the idea of you sitting around writing sex scenes for those stupid bodice-rippers all the women read.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “You know that women can write different sorts of books, right? Just because Grandma likes her romance novels on the kinky side doesn’t mean there aren’t other things to write about.”