Last Waltz in Blossom Inlet: Blossom Inlet Series, #2

By Sandra Bass Joines

Welcome to Blossom Inlet, Where Memories are Made and Secrets are Protected

 

Izzy Van Leer did not choose a life without love. Blossom Inlet decided that curse for her, much like it had for her mother and grandmother.

 

Sixty years after Teddy Tindle shattered her teenage heart, he returns, professing enduring love and begging for a second chance. Wary of reopening old wounds, Izzy has no intention of entertaining his pleas, but Teddy insists on sharing all the letters and messages he sent, revealing a truth she never knew.

 

As the weight of past heartbreak and resentment resurfaces, Izzy confronts the wedge that drove them apart—her controlling mother. Amid conflicting emotions, she faces a pivotal choice: embracing the possibility of love by granting Teddy a second chance or perpetuating a loveless existence by sending him away. But, it's never too late for love.

 

Last Waltz in Blossom Inlet is a later-in-life, second-chance story of love, loss, and forgiveness, following Izzy's teenage years to present day life.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sunset Tide Press, LLC
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223863144

Book preview

Van Leer Family Tree

CHAPTER 1

Izzy - Present

If I’ve learned one thing in almost eighty years living on this earth, it’s that life isn’t about where we began or where we’ll finish up. It’s our journey that matters—what we have overcome and how our decisions will continue to affect the lives of others.

We all have secrets we try to keep hidden away in the dark hollows of our souls. The Van Leer women have mastered burying the truth. Ivalyn Jane, my grandmother, was the first of our family’s secret-keepers. And, yes, hers was a doozy, a skeleton in the cupboard so horrific, she swore it had cursed Blossom Inlet. Perhaps it had. Wouldn’t it be easy to blame my mistakes on a curse instead of my actions? I refuse to let myself off that easily and will continue to own my transgressions.

My mother, Leora Jane, had a scandalous secret of her own, and I have no idea how she kept it buried. I knew nothing about nothing until I read her journal after she passed. I suppose I’m now the family secret-keeper. From experience, I know it’s a lot easier to let the rooster out of the bag then get it back in.

I’ve wondered, more times than I’d like to admit, if I had told the truth way back then, would my life have been different? My daughter’s life? I wasn’t truthful and thank the stars above that my lie hasn’t blown up anyone’s life. Yet.

Heavens to Betsy, I can’t change the past. All I can do is shake my head, try not to spill hot coffee all over myself, and think about my granddaughter’s reaction when she reads the journals after I’m gone. Poor baby’s in for an awful shock.

The sky is still dark, like my mood. Stars twinkle like a million fireflies, and the soft waves spark neon green at the water’s edge from the light of bioluminescent creatures. When I was young, Mother told me that the iridescent light comes from mermaids’ lanterns, much more enchanting than a word most people can’t pronounce.

I take another sip of coffee, tuck my legs under me, and allow the swing’s rhythm to lighten my mood. Every morning, I sit on the front porch and contemplate my life. Overall, it’s been good. Ha. That’s a big fat lie. Sure, there have been plenty of wonderful times, but I’ve had my share of awful, gut-wrenching events that tore me apart. If I could choose to shut my mind down, I could enjoy the morning peace. Instead, I think, and I feel, and I regret.

My mother had all the answers. "Quit fretting, Izzy," she’d say. Shove those feelings in a box and avoid dreadful worry lines between your eyes. I did, and I have lots of boxes tucked away in my noggin. Happiness. Love. Sadness. Loneliness. Pain. Anxiety. Fear. Believe me, there are plenty more boxes with different labels. I’m an old woman, for mercy’s sake, and wise enough to let my feelings land where they will and not bide in silly containers. So why don’t I? I rub my fingers over the lines between my brows. For someone who was always right, or so she thought, Mother was dead wrong about the art of avoiding worry lines.

Of all the boxes, it’s the one with the word love flashing bold and bright that has the least inside. Oh, well. I pull the blanket over my shoulders to ease the morning chill. No need to dwell on imaginary boxes and an unfulfilled heart. In a few hours, guests will take over the kitchen and dining room, eager for hot coffee and breakfast before heading out on excursions. I palm my cheek. How could I forget? This weekend is all mine. No guests. No Sophie. I have three entire days alone, something I schedule occasionally to help maintain my sanity—what little is left.

Soph—that’s what I call my friend—went to Carrabelle to help a great-niece. Could be a great-great-niece for all I know. Everyone expects Aunt Soph to help when babies are born. She’s known as the baby whisperer around these parts. I swear that woman can calm a colicky baby like nobody I’ve ever seen.

My dear Soph. We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember, and you wouldn’t believe what we’ve been through together. She moved in to help me when I opened the bed and breakfast some twenty-two years ago, which benefited both of us, I might add. She’d been her daddy’s caregiver for a few years and had to sell his home to pay off medical bills after he passed. That woman has been a blessing. Without her, the inn would not be the success it is. I must admit, though, time apart does us both a world of good. I nod, validating my thoughts.

My slippers scuff over the hardwood floors on my way to the kitchen to top off my coffee. I amble to the back porch to watch the sun creep up over the distant pines, another morning ritual I love. The sweet scent of honeysuckle catches in my nostrils, and the soothing songs of the birds fill my ears. Over Blossom Inlet Lagoon, a veil of pink blends with the morning sky, and soon morphs into magenta and orange as the sun rises. It always reminds me of blending red, yellow, and blue food coloring into cake batter and watching shades swish and swirl together.

Jasper the crow lands on a post and stares with his beady eyes. He has this peculiar way of twisting his head in jerky movements that creeps me out. I play our silly game and glare back, as I do every morning. That bird’s smarter than a lot of people I know. He’ll get sunflower seeds soon, but not before he listens to me talk about my feelings or what I have planned for the day. Jasper always listens, never interrupting or contradicting like Soph does. Sometimes when I listen to him cawing and mewing, I think he’s telling me what’s on his mind.

In a short while, the morning chill will pass. The brilliant sunrise will become a dusty blue sky, and the summer sun will heat things up with a vengeance. It’s July, the dog days of summer, when the heat is unbearable and the humidity is so thick, you can cut it with a knife. Later, thunderheads will form over the Gulf of Mexico and an afternoon gully washer will blow through. If you think a downpour will cool things off, you are dead wrong. Mother Nature will send in dark billowing clouds, accompanied by flashing lightning, booming thunder, and an enormous amount of rain. Afterwards, steam will rise from the oyster-shell drive and the asphalt road, smelling tangy and dank. That’s the yellow flies’ cue to sharpen their stickers for the next blood-sucking ritual. Dreadful vampires.

When I hear the mailman, I hurry down the drive, wave, and open the box as he drives away. Hugging the letter to my heart, I turn back toward the inn, stopping to adjust the sign that often gets twisted by the wind. I run a finger over the letters. Blossom Inlet Bed & Breakfast. Izora Van Leer, Proprietor. In Business Since 1993. That’s me. Izora Leora Van Leer, the third Van Leer woman blessed, or perhaps cursed, to own and run this large estate.

I pour another coffee and head for the front porch swing. It takes three cups of caffeine to get this body going.

The gulf’s beauty never ceases to amaze me. I take a few minutes to thank Mother Earth for the privilege of having the gulf on one side and the lagoon on the other.

With my hand on the letter, I whisper, Please, Leora, tell me you’re coming home.

Goodness. Mercy. Gracious. What am I to do with my granddaughter? She’s left Costa Rica and that wonderful Estevan. I thought he might be the one to get her to settle down with him on his coffee plantation and have babies. On the other hand, if she married him, she would never come back home where she belongs. But once again, she’s hightailed it out of Dodge, so to speak. It never fails. Every time she gets the least bit interested in a man or attached to one of her students, she vamooses. Another assignment always awaits. I’ll be dead and gone before she deals with her commitment issues and builds a meaningful life for herself. If I had my rather, she’d come home.

I sniff Leora’s letter, hoping to catch her scent. No such luck. The envelope smells like paper and travels and words, so I tuck it in my bra.

I’d planned to turn the inn over to her by now, but she’s off saving the world, one child at a time. I admire her, really, I do, but one day she must stop running, come home, and face the demon who keeps her from committing to anyone or anything. That demon would be Leora’s mother, Violet, and a whole other story for a whole other day.

Why can’t Leora come home where she belongs? Live here like I do. Like the Van Leer women before me. My grandmother, Ivalyn Jane, built this magnificent place in 1911 after she came over from Amsterdam, unmarried and pregnant. After that, my mother, Leora Jane, took over running the estate and then passed it on to me. That’s what Van Leer women do. We continue the family legacy.

Leora is kind and giving and loving and smart, everything her mother is not. Violet showed up on my doorstep when her baby was three days old. She handed a tiny bundle to me and left. I had no clue whatsoever my daughter was pregnant. Doesn’t say much for me as a mother, does it?

I’ve dealt with my share of big stuff, just as my mother and grandmother did. I’ve run the bed and breakfast and managed a seafood business, commercial buildings, and residential rentals. This was accomplished without the help of my cheating, alcohol-addicted, rotten-to-the-core husband, Raymond Pike.

I slap my face harder than expected, swatting at the darn gnats that slip through the screen and head right for my nose and mouth. Now, what was I saying? Raymond. He wasn’t around that much, so he wasn’t the worst of my worries. But Violet? That girl tested me all day, every day.

Mother often said, Sometimes bad begets good. She was right when it came to my daughter. Funny how a messed-up woman could produce a perfect daughter like Leora.

My Leora. She and I had a wonderful life here at the Blossom when she was a child. That doesn’t mean we didn’t have some bizarre challenges. Like a family of skunks living under the front porch, a cauldron of twilight bats invading the house because a smarty pants kid left the back door wide open, and a summer of attacking crows, high on fermented pears because old lady Jones decided not to make preserves that year. We’ve boarded up for hurricanes and shielded ourselves with a mattress to keep flying glass from slashing us to pieces. We’ve gone for days without electricity, water, and phone service. We once had a fugitive stay for a few days. I know you’re wondering why we allowed such a thing. We didn’t know he was a wanted man until his photo popped up on the news a short while after he’d left. He was the nicest fellow, like so many of our guests who have made the sweat and tears and heartaches and heartburn worth it.

Speaking of guests, by this time of day, Soph and I are typically changing sheets and cleaning like two crazy women to turn things around for the next visitors. We have a lady who helps, but her husband is in the final stages of lung cancer, so she is home with him now. Guests are required to check out by ten. Check-in time is three. There are always those who arrive early, expecting their rooms to be available before we’ve had time to prepare them.

Regulars understand it takes time to turn the rooms around and respect our strict no-early check-in policy. Many new arrivals leave when they see the chain across the drive, especially when they read the sign.

CHECK-INS AFTER 3:00. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Why do some people think rules are only for others? They bang on the doors and even trample through the flowerbeds to tap on windows, expecting us to stop what we’re doing and welcome them with open arms. For the benefit of those privileged guests, we hung a sign on every door.

ABSOLUTELY No Check-ins Before 3:00.

People should get it, right? But there they are, plastering their hands and noses on the glass we’ve just cleaned and peering in with a confused look. We ignore them and continue working. Some walk to the beach. Others mosey around the grounds for a while before they return, calling out and banging on the doors again.

I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but after years of running a bed and breakfast, I’m bone tired. Soph and I aren’t spring chickens. I turned eighty-two in March, and my long-time bestie, as the young people say, is close behind. Our patience isn’t what it used to be. But people aren’t who they used to be, are they?

There’s plenty to do while the inn is closed. Like calling in someone to perform a thorough cleaning. Searching Pinterest for new decorating ideas or recipes for Soph to try. I could even go through the clothes that have been hanging in my closet for decades. Most likely, I’ll relax. Read a book. Walk on the beach. Do whatever I darn well please.

I stand from the porch swing, thinking a cold glass of sweet tea will quench my thirst and get Leora off my mind. A piece of Soph’s blueberry pound cake sounds awful nice. I remove Leora’s letter from my bosom and tuck it in the desk drawer on the way to the kitchen. Out the window, birds catch my attention, flapping around to beat the band. All that commotion is over Soph’s blueberries.

A heartwarming memory dances through my mind. A hot, humid day when sweat and sand stuck to my body. Picking blueberries. Tossing them at my boyfriend. Him throwing them at me. Mother fussing because we wasted fruit. And my boyfriend’s hair glowing like spun gold in the sunlight.

I wash down the cake with a swig of tea when I hear oyster shells popping under car tires. Someone looking for a room, most likely. The closed sign hanging on the door should send them on their way, but some idiot who can’t read pushes the doorbell. I inch the curtain back slightly and peek at the stranger who has rung the bell three more times and then knocked—more like hammered—on the door.

I’ve had enough and yank open the door. The man stares. I stare back. His hair shines in the sunlight like threads of silver, and his suspenders suggest a little extra baggage around his middle. Why would someone wear a starched white dress shirt and a tie in July? That leads me to believe he has little in the smarts department, is experiencing heat stroke, or is selling vacuum cleaners or something else no one needs.

What can I do for you? It would not be polite to blurt, "Can’t you read the friggin’ sign?"

Something about his eyes causes me to clamp my jaw shut before saying another word. Even through his glasses, I see his smoky gray eyes, a color I remember from many years ago. Eyes that had changed from smoky to shimmering pewter when I gazed into them. A smile bigger than life stretches across his face, and when a dimple pops out next to his left jowl, I know who stands on the other side of the screen door.

CHAPTER 2

Izzy - Present

Theodore Thomas Tindle, is that you? I pat my chest, jerking my hand away when I realize I must look like a haggard woman in shock who’s about to faint.

His white straw hat rests against his thigh, and his hand trembles. I remember that smile and how it used to spread across his face until it stressed his dimple.

"Izora Leora Van Leer, you look