Page 3 of Solstice

“But that’s not the real reason, is it?”

He shrugged. “Would you really want to stay, Ms. Stewart? Our titles fly in the face of everything you so openly believe in and practice.” He handed her an envelope. “A month’s severance. It’s more than generous. Good luck, Ms. Stewart.” He scooped her box of belongings off the counter and shoved it into her chest, leaving her no choice but to take it or let it fall to the floor. Then he clasped her elbow, turning her toward the elevator, and reached past her to push the button.

“You can’t do this,” she said. Useless, but all she could come up with.

“I just did.” The doors opened. He nudged her inside and stood there until they closed again. “Goodbye, Ms. Stewart. Have a nice life.”

Chapter One

ONE YEAR LATER

A few days before Winter Solstice

“Hey, Dori, hon, you gonna get over here and fill this coffee cup, or do I have to climb over the counter and get it myself?”

“Keep your pants on, Bill.” Dori set down the tray full of dirty plates, grabbed the coffeepot and hurried to fill the man’s cup. Mort’s Diner in Crescent Cove, Vermont, was decorated to the max for the holiday season: wreath on the door, fake green garland looped everywhere, cinnamon- and candy-cane- scented candles burned and holiday music played constantly.

Jason was there, sitting in a corner booth, enjoying a sandwich and a cup of cocoa. Watching her and pretending not to. He was there a lot, more often than seemed reasonable. Then again, she didn’t suppose there was much work for the police chief of a small, quiet town like this. Hell, maybe it was vain of her to think he came around just to watch her waiting tables. It had been more than a decade, after all, since he’d held her. Since he’d kissed her.

There was nothing between them anymore.

Dori sighed in relief when she heard the jingle bells over the door and saw Sally walk in. After setting the coffeepot back on the burner, she reached behind her to tug her apron loose as Sally came behind the counter.

“You’re an hour late. Again,” Dori said.

“I’m sorry, Doreen. Little Amy had a doctor’s appointment, and I only just got her back home.” She pulled her apron around her and tied it in place.

There was always a reason. And it was always a good one. You couldn’t get mad at a woman with a small army of children. “It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m out of here, though.” Dori tossed the apron down, snatched her coat off the rack and went into the back room to collect her sorry excuse for a paycheck from the owner.

But she paused near the door as she heard Bill say, “Damn. You’d think she’d have come down off that high horse by now, wouldn’t you?”

Dori stood still, listening.

“It was a hard fall,” Sally said. “Going from a penthouse in Manhattan to her uncle’s log cabin on the lakeshore. From a high-powered job to slinging hash for lousy tippers like you. Hell, she probably used to earn more in a month than she’s made here in...how long has it been now since Dori came running back here with her tail between her legs?”

Bill didn’t answer. Jason, the grown up version of her teenage boyfriend did. “Eleven months, three weeks and two days.”

“Think she’s gonna stay for good this time?” Bill asked.

“Wish to hell I knew,” Jason said. And there was something in his voice—something kind of pained.

Dori moved to the swinging door, peered through its porthole-shaped glass. He was still at his table in the corner, staring at the sheet of pink notebook paper he held in one hand. It was old, had been folded so long the creases were darker colored. It looked worn thin. As she stared at it, wondering, he lifted his gaze, and Dori backed away from the door.

“She belongs here,” Sally was saying. “Don’t you worry, Jason. She’s gonna realize that by-and-by.”

Now, why was she saying that? As if Jason had any stake in what Dori decided to do with her life. She’d broken things off with him ten years ago—in a Dear John letter....

Written on pink notebook paper.

Holy crap.

Something knotted in her belly. She told herself she was being ridiculous, snatched her paycheck from the slotted mail holder on the wall and decided to go out the back door rather than walking through the front of the diner again.

Tugging the hood of her parka up over her head, she trudged through the snow to her car and rolled her eyes when she realized she would have to spend a few minutes brushing snow off it before she could go anywhere.

She missed her Mercedes—the remote starter, the heated leather seats, the warm, snow-free garage where she used to keep it parked. But she pulled her mittens from her pockets and thrust her hands into them. She opened the door to start the engine, grabbed the snow brush and slammed the door hard enough to knock some of the snow off. Then she began brushing. A thin layer of ice lay beneath the two inches of snow, and that required scraping. She hated scraping ice.

An old woman walked past the parking lot, waved at her and called, “Cold enough for you?”

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