Free Erica Spindler by In Silence Page B

Wings offered that she had just moved into The Guesthouse.
    The Gavel nodded. Her name would be easy to secure. One call and they would have it.
    â€œLet’s keep an eye on this one,” he advised. “She doesn’t make a move we don’t know about. If she becomes more of a risk, we take the next step.”
    He turned to Hawk, his most trusted general. The man inclined his head in the barest of a nod. The Gavelsmiled. Hawk understood; he agreed. If necessary, they would take care of this outsider the way they’d taken care of the last.
    Determination flowing through him, he adjourned the meeting.

CHAPTER 8
    T he Azalea Café served the best buttermilk pancakes in the whole world. Fat, fluffy and slightly sweet even without syrup, Avery had never stopped craving them—even after twelve years away from Cypress Springs. And after a weekend spent preparing her childhood home for sale, Avery had decided a short stack at the Azalea wasn’t just a treat—it was a necessity.
    She stepped into the café. “Morning, Peg,” she called to the gray-haired woman behind the counter. Peg was the third-generation Becnal to run the Azalea. Her grandmother had opened the diner when her husband had been killed in the Second World War and she’d needed to support her five kids.
    â€œAvery, sweetheart.” She came around the counter and gave Avery a big hug. She smelled of syrup and bacon from the griddle. “I’m so sorry about your daddy. If I can do anything, anything at all, you just let me know.”
    Avery hugged her back. “Thanks, Peg. That means a lot to me.”
    When the woman released her, Avery saw that her eyes were bright with tears. “Bet you came in for some of my world-famous pancakes.”
    Avery grinned. “Am I that transparent?”
    â€œYou ate your first short stack at two years old. Iremember your daddy and mama like to have died of shock, you ate the whole thing. Every last bite.” She smoothed her apron. “Have yourself a seat anywhere. I’ll send Marcie over with coffee.”
    The nine-to-fivers had come and gone, leaving Avery her choice of tables. Avery slipped into one of the front window booths. She looked out the window, toward the town square. They had begun setting up for Spring Fest, she saw. City workers were stringing lights in the trees and on the gazebo. Friday night it would look like a fairyland.
    A smile tipped the corners of her mouth. Louisianians loved to celebrate and used any opportunity to do so: the Blessing of the Fleet on Little Caillou Bayou, the harvest of the strawberries in Pontchatoula, Louisiana’s musical heritage in New Orleans at the Jazz Fest, to name only a few. Spring Fest was Cypress Springs’ offering, a traditional Louisiana weekend festival, complete with food booths, arts and crafts, music and carnival rides for the kids. People from all over the state would come and every available room in Cypress Springs would be booked. She had gone every year she’d lived at home.
    â€œCoffee, hon?”
    Avery turned. “Yes, thanks.”
    The girl filled her cup, then plunked down a pitcher of cream. Avery thanked her, added cream and sugar to her coffee, then returned her gaze to the window and the square beyond.
    The weekend had passed in an unsettling mix of despair and gratitude, tears and laughter. Neighbors and friends had stopped by to check on her, bringing food, baked goods and flowers. The last time she’d seen most of them had been at her mother’s funeral and then only briefly. The majority had stayed to chat, reliving times past—sharing their sweet, funny, outrageous and precious memories of her father. Some, too, shared theirregret at not having acted on his bizarre behavior before it had been too late. The outpouring of concern and affection had made her task less painful.
    But more, it had made her feel less alone.
    Avery had forgotten what it was like