A Long Walk Home

ANNIE: The dandelion. Strong and determined, this widow has recently been promoted to vice president of her bank, so her life should be on the upswing, right? If only she could break the news to her former mother-in-law that she’d found a new man in her life….

VIOLET: The rose. Delicate and conservative, this retired teacher shares a wonderful relationship with her daughter-in-law, so why can’t things just stay the same? But if her strong convictions frown upon Annie’s new direction, what do they say about the new addition to the family…?

SUMMER: The bad tomato. Dumped on the doorstep of her do-good aunt, just how did a blond, cherubic eight-year-old transform into a Goth teen with a crush on black eyeliner? Annie’s niece is three miles of bad road, but then again, she’s never had the support of a loving and committed family until now….

Will these three women be able to bridge the generational gap and find the way home together?

lives with her husband, Dave, in a small town north of Portland, Maine. They have four grown children, a finicky Siamese named Sabrina and an energetic miniature dachshund named Molly. Diane is an established Maine artist. Her paintings are in private collections across the United States. She is a Golden Heart finalist and winner of the Maggie Award for Excellence. For more information about Diane and her books, check out her Web site at www.dianeamos.com.

Michelle Libby

Talented author and president of

the Maine chapter of RWA

Special thanks to:

Portland Police Officer Chuck Libby

for sharing information about

police procedure. Any mistakes that I’ve made or liberties that I’ve taken are completely my own.

Joyce Lamb

A talented author critique partner and good friend

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

“W hat, no chocolate cake!” the three of us said in unison to the waiter who’d announced the unthinkable before handing us dessert menus and retreating to the kitchen.

Mallory turned to Carrie and me. “Life’s a bitch.”

Carrie nodded. “Which is why I’m glad to have you two as my good friends.”

I had to agree. My friends kept me grounded, and life…well, had been filled with the unexpected. I’d learned long ago that nothing was as it seemed. And I never took anything for granted.

I drank a sip of my martini, lifted my glass to theirs and said with much dignity, “Life’s a bi-otch.”

Carrie giggled. “Since when are you so polite?”

I took another small swallow. I rarely drank, and when I did, I got dizzy on the fumes. “As the new vice president of the loan department at Portland National Bank, I must conduct myself with decorum.”

Mallory raised her glass and announced, “In honor of Ms. Annie Jacobs, our hoity-toity pal and Madame Vice President, ‘life is a bitch’ will forever be banned from our vocabulary and from now on be referred to as LIB.”

Carrie’s forehead wrinkled. “Huh, shouldn’t that be LIAB?”

“I took a little artistic license and dropped the A. Besides, LIB sounds better.”

For a moment Carrie pondered what Mallory had said. “You’re right.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said as I polished off my martini, which had started out tasting like paint thinner—not that I knew that for a fact—and had improved with each swallow.

Our waiter, John, returned. He was tall, with a wiry build and dark hair. Thick eyelashes framed his sapphire-blue eyes.

Mallory smiled at the hunky guy who looked young enough to be her son—if she’d had a son. Neither of us had children, which suited us fine.

Children complicated matters.

They were messy.

And selfish.

Although I was happy with my life, something inside me stirred.

Disappointment?

Ridiculous.

I was thirty-seven—tick-tock—time had run out.

I’d gotten over the need to cradle a child in my arms. Plus, my chances of becoming a mother had died eighteen months ago along with Paul, my husband, the love of my life.

The man whom I’d thought could do no wrong.

But he’d betrayed me.

Mallory pointed a manicured finger at our waiter. “Since you don’t have double fudge chocolate cake, then I’ll have raspberry swirled chocolate cheesecake.”

He directed a killer grin at my friend.

I wasn’t surprised. At thirty-nine, Mallory Bourque was the total package, a blond male magnet with hazel eyes, big breasts, long legs and a great personality. If Mallory were a flower she’d be a gardenia, not because she was fragile, but because men wanted to tend to her needs. Mallory owned the Ooh La La, a specialty lingerie shop in the Old Port area of Portland, Maine.

“What about your friends?” he asked, unable to tear his gaze from Mallory.

By his dazed expression, I knew he was a goner. He wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last. By the time we got our tab, Mallory would have his phone number and the promise of a hot date. She preferred younger men, no strings attached. Just fun and games.