Chapter1
Moira
My mornings are complete chaos. Actually, my whole life is a bit of a circus. Being a single mom of three boys has me scrambling around like a house elf on crack. You’d think it would be easier now that the kids are old enough to do things for themselves. And it would be, except for my compulsory need to prove that I can be mom, dad, and sole provider—all with a carefree smile on my face. A smile that probably looks like I’m fighting—and losing—a battle against constipation.
Brushing back my overgrown dark bangs, I sigh while mentally trying to schedule some time for a big, fat cry. Can I make it ’til Thursday?
My husband, Everett, died seven years ago while I was pregnant with our twins, Colton and Ash. His crabbing boat was hit by a freak storm. Normally, a storm wouldn’t have been a problem, but Everett’s penchant for deferring maintenance on his boat was the deal breaker. The motor conked out before he could make it to shore.
According to his crew, Bob and Fareek, after dropping anchor to ride out the squall, my husband was washed overboard by a monster wave. My guess is there was some drinking going on.
While very much in love when we got married, Everett and I were not in the best place when he died. We’d just bought a house in need of major repairs, we had a toddler who refused to sleep and was into everything, and I was pregnant with twins. Life had started to feel like we were competitors in the Hunger Games instead of husband and wife.
Grabbing ahold of a scorching hot, cast-iron skillet, I yell, “Son of a …”
My oldest, Wyatt, walks through the door and completes my sentence for me. “Bitch!”
“Butterfly,” I correct him sharply, rushing to the sink to cool off burn number three this week. Note to self: hot pads are your friend.
“Yeah, son of a butterfly,” he laughs. “Good one, Mom.” He pulls out a creaky wooden chair from the table before plopping down and filling his plate with pancakes. “You know, we could just come with you and eat at the diner. You don’t have to make us breakfast at home.”
“You eat too many meals there, especially in the summer.” After the twins were weaned, and I’d made peace with my new lot in life, my brother, Digger, and our Grandpa Jack gave me the money I needed for the down payment on the only diner in Gamble, Alaska.
With the help of my grandmother’s extensive recipe collection, and Lloyd, my amazing and reliable cook, I’ve built a business that will allow me to raise my kids in relative comfort. Meaning I keep a roof over their heads, food in their stomachs, and shoes on their feet. There are precious few extras as Everett and I didn’t have any life insurance. No one ever thinks they’ll die young.
“Moooooooooom, Colton stole my Spider-Man T-shirt and won’t give it back!” The twins come tearing into the kitchen like their britches are on fire.
“Sit down and eat your breakfast,” I tell them. “Colton, you wore yours yesterday which means you’ll have to wait until wash day. You can’t just take your brother’s.”
“But he’s wearing my Hulk Underoos!” Colton whines.
I purse my lips at the absurdity of this conversation. “Really?”
Shrugging, he says, “Yeah, but it’s not like anyone will see them.”
What difference does that make?Nope. Not asking. I do not have time for kid logic right now. “If you’re wearing his Underoos, he can wear your shirt. But after today, you both wear your own clothes. And I mean it. Now, eat up. Mrs. Turner will be over in a minute to keep you from killing each other.”
“Geesh, Mom, we don’t need a babysitter anymore. You treat us like little kids,” Ash complains.
“I treat you like three boys who nearly burned down the shed last month.” I shoot him my fiercest “mom” glare.
“How did I know there were leftover firecrackers in that box?” Colton demands. Then he turns to his twin and nudges his arm. “That was the coolest, wasn’t it?” Ash nods his head vigorously.
“You’re only seven,” I tell them.
“Wyatt’s ten,” Ash reminds me.
“Wyatt’s the one who thought it was a good idea to catch field mice and raise them in his room without a cage.” I didn’t find out about it until there were mouse droppings all over the house. It took months and a very expensive exterminator to finally get rid of their extensive progeny.
“You’re gonna have to trust us some time,” Wyatt says while shoveling an enormous forkful of pancakes into his mouth.
“Hopefully, by the time you’re eighteen I’ll be able to leave you alone.” I’m only semi-teasing.
I untie my apron and grab my purse before reminding them, “We’re having supper with Uncle Digger, Harper and the kids tonight. I’ll meet you up at the lodge after closing.” Or, you know, after I go home and have a hot bath and a glass of wine in an empty house.
The house erupts into boy cheers as the front door slams behind me. I say a quick prayer that they don’t do any real damage until our neighbor arrives. Edna Turner has been a lifesaver. When Everett died, she practically moved in with me to help me adjust to my new lot. Her husband, Ed, comes over any time I need something fixed, plunged, or WD-40’d.
After shutting the door to my Jeep, I crank an old Soundgarden CD and inhale deeply. A memory of more carefree times washes over me as Edna appears on her front step, dressed in a bright green pantsuit à la 1976. She waves to me as I pull out onto the road.