Angel Lane Read online

  Acclaim for the Novels of Sheila Roberts

  “Roberts’s witty and effervescently funny novel will warm hearts. Realistic characters populate the pages of this captivating story, which is a great escape from the hustle and bustle.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews (Top Pick)

  “Hilarious . . . a fun and festive debut; for all women’s fiction collections.”

  —Library Journal

  “Roberts writes compellingly about the issues faced by women in different stages of life.”

  —Booklist

  “The funny novel is all about love . . . and friendships. But, most of all, it’s about learning to love yourself before you can love anyone else.”

  —The Columbus Dispatch

  “Roberts manages to avoid genre clichés and crafts a heartfelt novel with nuggets of life truths.”

  —Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin

  “Roberts’s sweetly vengeful dig at do-nothing husbands follows a small-town knitting club of wives who are sick and tired of toiling over elaborate Christmas preparations. . . . By the end of this gently feminist send-up, each side learns to be grateful for the other’s efforts.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A fast, fresh, fun, and funny story by a major new talent.”

  —Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling

  author of Just Breathe

  “Sheila Roberts makes me laugh. I read her work and come away inspired, hopeful, and happy.”

  —Debbie Macomber, New York

  Times bestselling author of Christmas Letters

  “Hands down, this has to be the best Christmas book I have read. The characters are so meticulously developed, I had to double check to see if it really was a work of fiction.”

  —J. Kaye’s Book Blog

  “Fans will relish the adventures of the three amigas as all kinds of relationships blossom.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A heartwarming story of women, friendships, and the bond between sisters. It is told with some humor even though it focuses on subjects that are close to every woman’s heart. . . . A great read.”

  —BookLoons

  “Roberts effectively knits these troubled but kindly characters together.”

  —The Seattle Times

  ALSO BY SHEILA ROBERTS

  Love in Bloom

  Bikini Season

  On Strike for Christmas

  ANGEL

  LANE

  Sheila Roberts

  ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  ANGEL LANE. Copyright © 2009 by Sheila Rabe. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Roberts, Sheila.

  Angel lane / Sheila Roberts. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-312-38482-1

  1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.O31625A85 2009

  813'.6—dc22

  2009012524

  First Edition: October 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR MARLISS,

  the queen of the good deeds,

  AND THERESIA,

  who takes generosity to a

  whole new level

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have made some great new friends in the process of writing this book, and I’m indebted to the following people for giving me a glimpse into their lives as shop owners and busy women. Thanks to Mona Newbauer, the owner of 1 Angel Place Chocolate Bar in Langley, Washington, for sharing with me a day in the life of a chocolatier. Mona, your truffles are to die for, and if I had to get up at the crack of dawn like you do, I would die. Huge thanks also to Valerie Wood at Material Girls Quilt Shop in Silverdale, Washington, for showing me how much is involved in running a quilt shop. What a labor of love! And speaking of labors of love, huge thanks to Helen Ross, überquilter, for her patient explanations of the complexities of quilting. Thanks, too, to Kathy Nordlie and Maria Parra-Boxley for the wonderful candy recipes you contributed. Thanks to the Bainbridge Island Brain Trust (Susan Wiggs, Suzanne Selfors, Elsa Watson, Carol Cassella, and Anjali Banerjee) for their invaluable input. And, finally, thanks to Paige Wheeler, my agent, and Rose Hilliard, my editor, and all the wonderful people at St. Martin’s Press who continue to make writing such an enjoyable adventure.

  ANGEL LANE

  ONE

  Another day in Mayberry, Jamie Moore thought as she waved the last two customers of the day out the door of the Chocolate Bar. A gust of autumn wind slipped in as the old women left, tickling the chime hanging in the window: little chocolates nesting in pretend paper cups dangling from a pink, heart-shaped chocolate box. They looked good enough to eat, just like the vast array of temptation Jamie kept on trays behind the glass counters. Except Jamie’s truffles and fudge and other chocolate concoctions weren’t simply good enough, they were great, to die for. That was what all her customers said anyway.

  Jamie watched through the window as the two women started their snail-paced progress down the sidewalk, the late October wind whistling under their skirts. On the other side of the street another gust playfully stripped blushing leaves from the big maple on the corner. They danced off, swirling onto the sidewalk. The swirling leaves made Jamie think of fairies, and that made her smile, something she’d done a lot lately. Maybe it was Heart Lake, maybe it was the magic of chocolate—whatever it was that she’d found here, it had given Jamie back her smile. Her struggles in L.A. were behind her now and she had a new business and a new life. She had come home, stepped back in time, and found herself again.

  Jamie hadn’t found a fortune, though, at least not yet, so that meant only part-time help, low-rent living, and a beater car. But the low rent was on a lakefront cabin that her aunt, Sarah Goodwin, had found for her. And the beater was a Toyota that gave her pretty good gas mileage. So it was all good.

  She turned the sign on the door to CLOSED, then hurried through her closing chores, cleaning the espresso machine, wiping down counters, and washing dishes. Her final chore was to jot down her grocery list. She bought her chocolate from a supplier in Seattle who had it shipped from France, but for her other supplies she shopped locally. Tonight she needed to get cream, a necessary staple for really good truffles. She also needed some more strawberry liqueur, which Tony DeSoto at Bere Vino was holding for her.

  Tomorrow she’d be in the shop by five, making truffles. Her part-time help would join her at ten and man the counter. Wednesdays were always busy thanks to a walking group, the local MOPS moms who came in after their weekly meeting, and Lakeside Realty, who always bought truffles to serve at their realtors’ open houses every Wednesday. And that was only the morning customers. Just thinking about tomorrow made her tired, but that was nothing compared to how tired she felt when she thought of Fridays, when half of Heart Lake came in searching for hostess gifts, shower presents, and a little something to help them celebrate TGIF. Tired is good, she reminded herself, it means your business is growing and you can pay the rent.

  By the time Jamie stepped outside and locked the chocolateria door behind her those gusts of wind were spitting rain everywhere. Look at all the cars parked out here, she thought, surveying Valentine Square as she prepared to make a dash to her Toyota. Who’da thunk it?

  When she was a kid, downtown Heart Lake had been a slow, lazy place, with an occasional old lady browsing a few shops on a long stretch of cement. Vern’s D
rugs, with its narrow aisles and slightly off-kilter hardwood plank floors, had been the popular destination spot for friends in search of some gossip as well as kids on the hunt for penny candy. The town had grown up all those years she’d been away. Vern’s still occupied the same spot on downtown Lake Way, the main drag, but now it was crowded on all sides by new shops. And the downtown district had spilled over into nearby streets like this little U-shaped one, where her shop sat along with a card shop, a jewelry store, a lingerie shop (of course, they’d all chosen Valentine Square on purpose), and an old brick two-story Tudor that housed a divorce lawyer on the ground floor and a romance writer on the top. This street wasn’t too crowded, but Lake Way was getting ridiculous. When Jamie had gone to Vern’s the week before looking for aspirin she’d had to park clear at the end of the street.

  Just two quick stops, she promised her tired self as she drove up Alder, headed for Lake Way. Then she could go home and snarf down the leftover lasagna Sarah had sent her away with after their dinner together the night before.

  Poor Sarah. Tomorrow her daughter left for the East Coast. She’d be ready for a chocolate bender when they got together after work for their weekly confab with Emma Swanson.

  At the four-way stop where Alder intersected with downtown Lake Way she found herself in a mini rush hour. “What’s this?” she muttered. Cars never used to line up for this stop sign coming even one direction, let alone all four.

  The car conga line inched toward the stop, each driver reaching the intersection and barely waiting for the next in line to zip across before jumping his or her vehicle forward like a racehorse out of the gate. And there stood her two little old ladies, clutching their Chocolate Bar goody bags and hovering over the crosswalk, afraid to put out so much as a toe. The short, plump one clutched her wool coat tight to her chest and huddled next to her friend as if for protection. Some protection. That woman was taller, but her legs looked like matchsticks. Her thin lips puckered in a frown and she was holding her felt hat down as if she were afraid the back draft from some rushing car would whoosh it right off her head.

  Jamie understood that everyone was anxious to get home for the night, but couldn’t somebody spare even a minute to let the old ladies cross the street and get out of the rain and back inside their senior housing? If they were still stuck on the curb when she reached the stop sign, she would.

  Four more cars bolted across the street and the women remained rooted to the corner, looking uncertainly at the passing vehicles, probably thinking they’d never see Senior Gardens again. Jamie pulled up to the stop and waved them across. They stepped out nervously, linking arms and looking right and left at the other cars, probably mentally begging the drivers not to squash them. Once in the crosswalk they hobbled for the other side like contestants in a slow-motion three-legged race. After a millennium they safely reached the corner. The plump little one smiled at Jamie and blew her a kiss.

  She smiled back and waved. That had felt good. And it only took a minute to be nice. People should always be nice. She started to take her turn only to have a red Mustang holding two high school Britney Spears wannabes bolt across the street right in front of her, gobbling up her warm, good Samaritan moment with a squeal of their wheels.

  “Excuse me?” Jamie laid on the horn and one of them flipped her off. Well, of all the . . . She caught sight of their bumper sticker. ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE. “And driving lessons,” she muttered. What a couple of little beatches.

  Oh, well. Every town had ’em, probably even Mayberry had one or two. Somewhere. Hiding off camera.

  Even though the angle parking downtown was clearing out she failed to find a spot close to Bere Vino. By the time she walked through Tony’s door she was a cloud with legs, dropping water everywhere.

  Tony DeSoto wasn’t old enough to be her father, but almost. He was divorced and hungry for sex, and before Sarah took Jamie into the shop to introduce her to him, she had warned Jamie that Tony imagined himself a cross between Sylvester Stallone and Leonardo DiCaprio. He was very fond of blondes, and he’d been known to sing under windows when there was a full moon. The last thing Jamie needed was an Italian-lover wannabe serenading her at the lake, so after Sarah had introduced them Jamie told him how much she and her partner were enjoying their new home. And did Heart Lake have a Gay Pride week? The drool on his chin had dried instantly. Now Jamie and Tony were just business pals, and every once in a while when she came in she’d catch him looking at her sadly and shaking his head.

  “That will get around faster than free caviar. Now every man in town is going to think you’re a lesbian,” Sarah had chided her when they left the shop.

  “And the problem with that is?” Jamie had retorted. Like she wanted a man in her life again? Ever? The day her ex broke her jaw was the day she swore off men.

  “My God, you look like a drowned cat,” Tony greeted her, eyeing the puddles forming at her feet. The first time she’d come into his shop he’d slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair and sucked in his gut. Now the hair stayed untended and the gut hung over his belt, a hedge of untrimmed fat.

  “I feel like one,” Jamie said.

  “Well, I got just what you need to take the chill off: a new liqueur. You’re gonna love it.”

  Tony always had a new something she was going to love. She’d spent a fortune on wine and cheese since she moved back. “Yeah?”

  “Blackberry,” he said, holding up a little bottle with a gold-foil label.

  She walked over to the counter like a fish swimming to the lure.

  “Take it home, try some in your truffles, see what Ginger thinks.”

  Ginger, her imaginary girlfriend. “Thanks,” she said, taking the bottle and examining it. Blackberry with white chocolate—that could prove to be a deadly combination.

  Tony had set aside her other liqueurs and was now ringing them up. “You should go home and get a hot bath,” he advised. “You’re going to catch your death. And you’d better buy an umbrella and a warm parka. We’re gonna have a nasty winter. My bad knee is already acting up. Football injury,” he added, in a moment of macho. “If it does what it did last year, we’re gonna have some pretty bad snows.”

  “I hope not,” Jamie said. “My candy is good, but I can’t see people coming out in the snow for it.”

  “Around here people don’t come out in the snow for nothin’,” said Tony. “But rain? That’s another story. I was swamped all day. Everybody getting ready to go home and tuck in with a nice bottle of wine and some cheese.”

  Actually, that sounded like a good idea. In addition to what she came in for, she left the store with a bottle of white wine, some brie, and a little box of sesame crackers.

  At the Safeway store, she dashed from the parking lot, but hordes of icy little drops still sneaked under her jacket collar to torture her with every step. Ugh. That was the one good thing about L.A. Less rain.

  But more cement and less green. She’d take Heart Lake and its lush woods any day.

  She was chilled and miserably aware of her wet jeans rubbing against her skin by the time she got to the express lane. Where a middle-aged woman cut in front of her. Okay, Jamie obviously hadn’t gotten the memo. Today was National Rudeness Day.

  Never mind, she told herself. It’s the rain. Everyone’s in a hurry to get out of it and get home.

  Including her. All she could think about as she left the downtown area was getting inside her cozy little cabin and sinking into a hot bath. She had some vanilla spice bath melt that made the yummiest bubbles, and she’d light some candles. The way the hanging flower baskets lining Lake Way had been swinging, she might find herself out of power, but if she lost power, no big deal. She’d still have enough hot water for her bath. Bubbles, glowing candles, a glass of wine . . .

  A flash of red lights behind her jerked her out of her mental bathtub with a jolt and sent adrenaline racing through her veins. She pulled her car over with hands suddenly damp. She hadn’t been speeding. Why was this cop
stopping her? She choked the steering wheel and chewed her lip. It’s just a routine stop. Get a grip. AND DON’T DO IT.

  She looked in the rearview mirror and saw the door of the police car behind her open. Out climbed a big man with a chest the size of a whiskey barrel and hands as big as hams. She tried to ignore the irrational banging in her chest and let down her window.

  A face appeared. It was a good-looking face with deep-set eyes, full lips, and a strong, angular chin, the kind of face her friend Emma Swanson would have swooned over. It just made Jamie want to run.

  Part of her itched to inform him that she wasn’t speeding, that he had no right to stop her. It was silenced by a wiser voice, cautioning, “Appeasement works best. Keep your big mouth shut.”

  “Did you know you have a taillight out?” he asked.

  “That’s why you stopped me?” Any flimsy excuse to intimidate a woman. Okay, so no reason to embarrass me, she warned her body. DON’T DO IT. She took a deep breath and held it, just to be safe.

  His eyebrows took a dip. “Did you know you had a taillight out?” he repeated.

  “Of course not,” she snapped. Okay, snapping was dumb on so many levels. She tried again, her voice smoother. “I thought you thought I was speeding,” she said, then went back to holding her breath.

  “Actually, you were going two miles under the limit,” he said, and smiled. The man had a great smile. He could do toothpaste commercials. Hell, he could probably sell anything. He gave the car a friendly tap. “Be sure and get that fixed,” he added. “Contrary to popular opinion, cops don’t like giving out tickets.”