The Sometime Sister Katherine Nichols (reading in the dark txt) 📖

The Sometime Sister

Katherine Nichols

© Copyright Katherine Nichols 2021

Black Rose Writing | Texas

© 2021 by Katherine Nichols

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

First digital version

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-690-6

PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

www.blackrosewriting.com

Print edition produced in the United States of America

Thank you so much for reading one of our Women’s Fiction novels.

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To my husband and our children, Laura, Kate, and Nick. Without them, I would never have understood family and forgiveness.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Recommended Reading

Dedication

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

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Note from the Author

BRW Info

Chapter 1

When my sister Stella and I were speaking, we joked about our mother’s “absolutely must be dealt with immediately emergencies.” These disasters, as she called them, included a neighbor who had been stealing her copies of Southern Living, a careless bank teller, and a rude grocery boy. Whether it was two in the afternoon or in the morning, she had to address the latest injustice as soon as it crossed her mind.

“Just silence it, Gracie,” Stella would urge after I’d been up half the night talking Mom off the ledge. But both she and my mother knew I was not the turn-off-the-phone type.

When it rang at 5:00 am on December second, I didn’t bother to check caller ID. Before I had the chance to ask if she had any idea what time it was, she began crying.

“Grace, oh God, Grace. Your sister never got on the plane. She promised she was coming home, but she never got on the plane.”

“Mom, please. Slow down. You know Stella. I’m sure she changed her mind and forgot to tell you.”

She had believed her younger daughter was coming home for the past three years, ever since she and her husband, Ben Wilcott, had to leave the country. He fled to avoid the imminent likelihood of serious jail time resulting from involvement in a suburban drug ring. And she went with him. They settled in Montañita, a city in Ecuador well-known among expatriates fleeing the US in search of a spot with beautiful beaches and a generous extradition policy. Thanks to his illegal activities, he had enough cash to finance a lengthy stay. But Mom had never accepted that her baby had gone willingly. She insisted he had forced her to go and was holding her hostage. Any minute Stella would break free and return. I didn’t share her belief.

“Not this time.” She blew her nose. “Stella was terrified. She said she couldn’t take it any longer and would be on the next plane in time for Christmas. She booked a flight but didn’t get on it. Her cell goes straight to voicemail. I must have left a dozen messages. Please, Grace. Please believe me. She was telling the truth. You know Ben. Don’t tell me you aren’t afraid he did something terrible to her.”

My mother had a point. I did know Ben better than anyone else because we’d been two weeks from our wedding day when he ran away with my little sister.

.     .     .     .     .

After trying for at least thirty minutes to convince Mom we should wait before giving in to panic, I agreed to come to her house for further discussion. I refused her demand to jump out of bed and meet her before sunrise, insisting ten would be soon enough.

I hoped I might squeeze in another hour or two of sleep. Instead, I lay there worrying about my sister.

Many of my memories of life before Stella were like catching fireflies on warm summer nights. If you planned it just right, you could scoop them into a Mason jar before they blinked off and disappeared.

Their golden flashes illuminated the memory of my grandmother sitting beside me, reading about a boy who thought he could fly. She dissolved, leaving only the harsh staccato voices of my parents. They faded away, and my cousin Lesroy popped into view, spinning round and round until he collapsed into a giggling heap on the kitchen floor.

Some nights I caught so many fireflies my jar sent a magic stream of light across the backyard. But I hated seeing those desperate little bugs careening against each other in a fear I could almost smell, so I unscrewed the lid, gasping for air myself as they tumbled toward freedom.

Stella’s entrance a few months after my fifth birthday shoved those memories aside. Lonely in the way of an only child with warring parents, I prayed for a little sister for years. My grandmother was the one person who always took me seriously, the one who kept all my secrets. When I told her of my sister-wish, she laughed.

“Honey, you better be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”

When Stella arrived, looking like a tiny rosebud in her pink blanket, I danced with joy. I made it my mission to protect and serve her. Her will was my will. And from the beginning, she was more than comfortable