Bittersweet Read Online Free

right, then,” my mother said. “I may be at the hospital with Sam when you get there, but you know where to find the key.”
    â€œI could stop at the hospital in Kerrville,” I said. “It’s on our way.”
    â€œNo, you and Caitie just go on to the ranch and make yourself at home. We’ll see Sam on Thanksgiving.”
    â€œOkay, then,” I said. “And Mom, love and kisses to Sam. Tell him we’re all thinking of him and hoping he can go home soon.” I put down the phone.
    Ruby was lifting a wreath out of the carton. “Is everything okay?” she asked, looking at me with concern. “What’s going on with your mother?”
    â€œIt’s not my mother,” I said. “It’s Sam. He’s—”
    But before I finish answering Ruby’s question, maybe I’d better fill in some background. I know that some of you are frequent visitors to Ruby’s shop and mine, but this may be a first visit for others. If you’re new here and feeling puzzled, a little of the backstory may fill in some of the blanks. If you already know all this stuff, feel free to skip the next few paragraphs.
    I’m China Bayles, owner and manager of Thyme and Seasons Herb Shop in Pecan Springs, Texas, a small town at the eastern edge of the Texas Hill Country, halfway between Austin and San Antonio. In my previous life, I was a criminal defense attorney for a big law firm in Houston, living a fast-track, dressed-for-success life that was full of close calls, narrow squeaks, and hair-trigger excitement—both in the courtroom and out. There was always something going on—and enough going for me that you’d think I would have been fully satisfied.
    But after a few years, the people around me began to seem superficial, artificial, even phony. Nobody said what they meant or meant what they said, and I began to want something genuine, something authentic, something
real
. I wanted real friendships, a real relationship. And real work, where I could put out my hand and touch real things that had their own real lives, not just briefs and pleadings and court documents, words, words, words. Finally, after months of soul searching, I cashed in my retirement fund, kicked off my Pradas, took a deep breath, and jumped ship.
    I landed in Pecan Springs, where I bought the herb business I’d been eyeing for some months—a lovely little shop, which is looking particularly festive at the moment. Ceiling-high shelves along the back wall display jars and bottles of dried herbs, salves, and tinctures. There are dozens of herb, gardening, and cookery books on the corner bookshelves, and on a wooden table, I’ve arranged essential oils, a display of pretty bottles, and aromatherapy supplies. Along another wall are herbal jellies, vinegars, seasoning blends, soaps and lotions and body balms. Baskets of dried herbs are arranged in the corners, bundles of dried plants are tucked into jars and hung from the overhead beams, and holiday wreaths and swags are displayed on the stone walls of the old building. When people walk in, they go “Ahhh,” very quietly, and smile. I understand. I live with that lovely “Ahhh” feeling all day long.
    A few years after I bought the shop, I married Mike McQuaid, formerly a Houston homicide detective, now a part-time faculty member in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University and an independent private investigator in McQuaid, Blackwell, and Associates. I knew him as McQuaid when I met him, professionally, and that’s what I’ve continued to call him. A hunk of a guy, really, in spite of his broken nose and the knife scar on his forehead, earned on the mean streets of Houston. He had a young son, Brian, and then Caitlin came along. Life has become
very
full and satisfying.
    Okay, that’s me. The six-foot-plus, red-haired gal with the box cutter in one hand and the wreath in the other is