“Probably not,” Maisie said. He would have ensured Maisie fought for her dreams too.
Laurel gave a firm nod of agreement. “All I’m saying is, your sisters have their dreams. They’ve always been close like that. Made plans together. Done everything together, like we do everything together. But don’t forget about you and your dreams.”
Maisie threw her arms around Laurel, always feeling like Laurel understood her when no one else did. “You always fight for the best for me. Thank you for that.”
Laurel squeezed back tight, resting her head on Maisie’s shoulder. “You don’t need to thank me, babe. I love you like crazy, and you’d be saying the same thing to me.”
“I love you too,” Maisie whispered.
Those words echoed in the air for a moment, and suddenly, the warmth seeping from Laurel’s hold began to vanish…replaced by something dark…something cold.
She blinked, realizing she was not standing outside with Laurel anymore. She tried to remember how she got back inside her house but failed miserably. Hayes was not sitting in his car waiting for her best friend to return to him. Laurel’s soft voice, her smile…gone. The sun had disappeared, bringing a dark, eerie night. Maisie pressed her hands flat against the cool hardwood floor in the foyer of the house, barely able to drag in breaths. Screams blasted against the walls, until she realized the sounds of pure agony came from her mouth. Her pile of vomit lay next to her, some soaking her nightgown.
She’d just been with Laurel today. They had just talked. Just hugged.
Maisie forced her gaze up. Hayes stared down at her, his expression unreadable, his whiskey-colored eyes were dead…empty. His mouth was moving, but the screams from her mouth wouldn’t stop, the roaring in her ears too loud.
Hands suddenly grabbed her, and Maisie had enough sense to recognize it was her sisters, dragging her away from her vomit.
People began yelling, panic and confusion ripping through the house. Mason stood on the staircase sobbing before Clara ran to him, her nightgown fluttering with the movement.
Time no longer existed, not for Maisie, as Hayes turned and strode out of the house, leaving the front door wide open. He became a blur of navy that faded into the night. Only then did she fully process what he had said.
“Murder. Robbery gone wrong. Laurel…she’s gone.”
1
Two years later…
Maisie’s paintbrush swept across the canvas, mixing the darker green paint in with the lighter, creating depth to the trees of the forest. The sun’s beams warmed her face, the wind swishing the long grasses behind her, while her painting of the sweeping meadow flowed easily. “Not Picasso yet,” she noted, leaning back to admire her work. She caught a hundred things wrong with the painting, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed at home. Few things made her feel content, but replicating the beauty in the world was one of them.
The slight heaviness in her eyelids from waking up at the crack of dawn was worth the spike of happiness painting gave her. She wiped off her paintbrush, tucking her supplies into her tote bag with COOL AF ARTIST written on the side, a present from her sisters for her birthday last year. The last letter from her grandfather peeked out from the bag. She reached for it as she heard the flapping of wings overhead. She unfolded the piece of paper and revealed the quote by Michelangelo: The greatest danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it.
Even after two years, Maisie still didn’t know what Pops meant by this or why he’d chosen this quote as his very last thing to say to her. She’d never asked what Pops wrote in her sisters’ letters, and neither Clara nor Amelia had offered the information up.
Thinking of her sisters, and knowing she had a mile-long to-do list today, Maisie checked the time on her phone that rested on a fallen log next to her.
“Shit!” She jolted up, grabbed her bag and canvas, and took off running. The alarm she’d set to remind her about work hadn’t gone off. Her footsteps were muffled in the grass, but a squirrel ran away from her as she charged up the small hill. When she reached the top, she spotted the long driveway that led to the house and the black barn—now turned into a brewery—off to the right of it.
Prepared for a lecture, Maisie stopped at her MINI Cooper and deposited her tote bag and canvas onto the passenger seat before she hurried into the barn. Rows of huge steel tanks filled the space, with a main walkway that led to a room in the back for tastings. Some days the brewery held a metallic scent. Other days, it smelled earthy. As Maisie sucked in a breath, she realized today, it smelled fruity.
As she made her way through the tanks, she caught sight of Amelia, bent over the rim of a tank. Maisie held her breath and tiptoed past. Amelia must have been brewing last night and was now cleaning out the tank. She’d gotten into the habit of brewing Foxy Diva—their top-selling beer that had won over the locals—at night, since the brewery was part of local tours for travelers during the day.
“I see you,” Amelia called.
Maisie stopped dead and said in a ghostly voice, “I’m a figment of your imagination.”
Amelia laughed, straightening up. She had grain covering her ugly yellow apron with matching latex gloves. “Nice try,” she said, wiping the sweat beading on her forehead with her covered arm. “You better hurry before Clara sees you’re late. Again.”
“What do you mean, late?” Maisie asked, fluttering her lashes. “I’ve been here for an hour already. You need sleep, Amelia. Seriously, you need to take better care of yourself.” Before Amelia could respond, Maisie booked it, walking faster now. Clara only understood punctual. Maisie missed that gene.
“Hey, Maisie,” Amelia called, just as Maisie reached the door to storage room. “You’ve got paint on your cheek.”
Dammit. Maisie went to swipe away the paint when she walked straight into something hard. She bounced back and glanced up into something harder. Clara’s stormy blue eyes. “Hi,” Maisie said with a tight smile. “Oh, you look so pretty today.”
Not falling for it, Clara frowned, crossing her arms over her lacy blouse. “Three festivals. That’s what you’ve got on your plate for this week.”
Maisie nodded. “Yup. Got it.”
She slinked away when Clara’s cold voice stopped her. “You know what these festivals mean for us? This is our chance to take Foxy Diva and actually make something happen. If we screw this up, we need to start all over. You get that, right?”
Again, Maisie nodded. “Yes, I know how important the festivals are. Don’t you worry one bit. Everyone will know Foxy Diva’s name by the time I’m done with the festivals.” It took two years for Amelia to perfect their grandfather’s homemade brew. Maisie had come up with the name and the logo, which at least fed Maisie’s creative side, but now, she was expected to go on a road trip through Colorado to give their beer exposure. “I’ve got this handled. Promise. And I’m sorry I was late.”
Clara swiped at Maisie’s cheek, pulling away with a green finger. “You were painting again.”
It wasn’t a question. “A little, but the sunrise today was absolutely gorgeous. Besides, blame this one on my phone. I set my alarm to get here on time, but it didn’t go off. This time, it’s not my fault.”