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  PRAISE FOR BARBARA O’NEAL

  The Lost Girls of Devon

  One of Travel + Leisure’s most anticipated books of summer 2020.

  “A woman’s strange disappearance brings together four strong women who struggle with their relationships, despite their need for one another. Fans of Sarah Addison Allen will appreciate the emphasis on nature and these women’s unique gifts in this latest by the author of When We Believed in Mermaids.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “The Lost Girls of Devon draws us into the lives of four generations of women as they come to terms with their relationships and a mysterious tragedy that brings them together. Written in exquisite prose with the added bonus of the small Devon village as a setting, Barbara O’Neal’s book will ensnare readers from the first page, taking us on an emotional journey of love, loss, and betrayal.”

  —Rhys Bowen, New York Times and #1 Kindle bestselling author of The Tuscan Child, In Farleigh Field, and the Royal Spyness series

  “The Lost Girls of Devon is one of those novels that grabs you at the beginning with its imagery and rich language and won’t let you go. Four generations of women deal with the pain and betrayal of the past, and Barbara O’Neal skillfully leads us to understand all their deepest needs and fears. To read a Barbara O’Neal novel is to fall into a different world—a world of beauty and suspense, of tragedy and redemption. This one, like her others, is spellbinding.”

  —Maddie Dawson, bestselling author of A Happy Catastrophe

  When We Believed in Mermaids

  “An emotional story about the relationship between two sisters and the difficulty of facing the truth head-on.”

  —Today

  “There’s a reason Barbara O’Neal is one of the most decorated authors in fiction. With her trademark lyrical style, she’s written a page-turner of the first order. From the very first page, I was drawn into the drama and irresistibly teased along as layers of a family’s complicated past were artfully peeled away. Don’t miss this masterfully told story of sisters and secrets, damage and redemption, hope and healing.”

  —Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “More than a mystery, Barbara O’Neal’s When We Believed in Mermaids is a story of childhood—and innocence—lost and the long-hidden secrets, lies, and betrayals two sisters must face in order to make themselves whole as adults. Plunge in and enjoy the intriguing depths of this passionate, lustrous novel, and you just might find yourself believing in mermaids.”

  —Juliet Blackwell, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Carousel of Provence, Letters from Paris, and The Paris Key

  “In When We Believed in Mermaids, Barbara O’Neal draws us into the story with her crisp prose, well-drawn settings, and compelling characters, in whom we invest our hearts as we experience the full range of human emotion and, ultimately, celebrate their triumph over the past.”

  —Grace Greene, author of The Memory of Butterflies and the Wildflower House series

  “When We Believed in Mermaids is a deftly woven tale of two sisters, separated by tragedy and reunited by fate, discovering that the past isn’t always what it seems. By turns shattering and life affirming, as luminous and mesmerizing as the sea by which it unfolds, this is a book club essential—definitely one for the shelf!”

  —Kerry Anne King, bestselling author of Whisper Me This

  The Art of Inheriting Secrets

  “Great writing, terrific characters, food elements, romance, a touch of intrigue, and more than a few surprises to keep readers guessing.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Settle in with tea and biscuits for a charming adventure about inheriting an English manor and the means to restore it. Vivid descriptions and characters that read like best friends will stay with you long after this delightful story has ended.”

  —Cynthia Ellingsen, bestselling author of The Lighthouse Keeper

  “The Art of Inheriting Secrets is the story of one woman’s journey to uncovering her family’s hidden past. Set against the backdrop of a sprawling English manor, this book is ripe with mystery. It will have you guessing until the end!”

  —Nicole Meier, author of The House of Bradbury and The Girl Made of Clay

  “O’Neal’s clever title begins an intriguing journey for readers that unfolds layer by surprising layer. Her respected masterful storytelling blends mystery, art, romance, and mayhem in a quaint English village and breathtaking countryside. Brilliant!”

  —Patricia Sands, bestselling author of the Love in Provence series

  PREVIOUS BOOKS BY BARBARA O’NEAL

  The Lost Girls of Devon

  When We Believed in Mermaids

  The Art of Inheriting Secrets

  The Lost Recipe for Happiness

  The Secret of Everything

  How to Bake a Perfect Life

  The Garden of Happy Endings

  The All You Can Dream Buffet

  No Place Like Home

  A Piece of Heaven

  The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue

  Lady Luck’s Map of Vegas

  The Scent of Hours

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Barbara Samuel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542025997 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542025990 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542021647 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1542021642 (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  For my aunt Lisa, who was a belly dancer, and traveled the world, and speaks five languages, and brought matzo to my grandmother’s Easter dinner to share Passover ideas with her nieces and nephews, and breathed possibility into my heart from day one.

  I would not be who I am without you, Auntie.

  Much love and thanks.

  Contents

  Chapter One Gloria

  Chapter Two Willow

  Chapter Three Sam

  Chapter Four Gloria

  Chapter Five Willow

  Chapter Six Sam

  Chapter Seven Willow

  Chapter Eight Gloria

  Chapter Nine Sam

  Chapter Ten Gloria

  Chapter Eleven Sam

  Chapter Twelve Willow

  Chapter Thirteen Gloria

  Chapter Fourteen Sam

  Chapter Fifteen Willow

  Chapter Sixteen Sam

  Chapter Seventeen Gloria

  Chapter Eighteen Sam

  Chapter Nineteen Willow

  Chapter Twenty Gloria

  Chapter Twenty-One Sam

  Chapter Twenty-Two Gloria

  Chapter Twenty-Three Willow

  Chapter Twenty-Four Sam

  Chapter Twenty-Five Willow

  Chapter Twenty-Six Gloria

  Chapter Twenty-Seven Sam

  Chapter Twenty-Eight Gloria

  Chapter Twenty-Nine Sam

  Chapter Thirty Willow

  Chapter Thirty-One Gloria

  Chapter Thirty-Two Willow

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sp; Chapter Thirty-Three Gloria

  Chapter Thirty-Four Sam

  Chapter Thirty-Five Willow

  Chapter Thirty-Six Gloria

  Chapter Thirty-Seven Willow

  Chapter Thirty-Eight Sam

  Chapter Thirty-Nine Willow

  Chapter Forty Sam

  Chapter Forty-One Gloria

  Chapter Forty-Two Willow

  Chapter Forty-Three Sam

  Chapter Forty-Four Gloria

  Chapter Forty-Five Willow

  Chapter Forty-Six Sam

  Chapter Forty-Seven Willow

  Chapter Forty-Eight Sam

  Chapter Forty-Nine Gloria

  Chapter Fifty Willow

  Chapter Fifty-One Sam

  Chapter Fifty-Two Willow

  Chapter Fifty-Three Gloria

  Chapter Fifty-Four Willow

  Chapter Fifty-Five Sam

  Chapter Fifty-Six Willow

  Chapter Fifty-Seven Sam

  Chapter Fifty-Eight Willow

  Chapter Fifty-Nine Gloria

  Chapter Sixty Gloria

  Epilogue Sam

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Gloria

  I am setting up a photo shoot when I hear the news that Isaak has been arrested. For a long moment, it doesn’t sink in. My body reacts ahead of my mind, warning me with a long ripple over my spine as I tweak the red shoes sitting beneath a lady’s slipper orchid in the soft green environment of the conservatory.

  Then his name penetrates my brain. Isaak Margolis. I lift my head and look at the radio, as if it will show me his long-lost face. My heart pauses, as if bracing to be shattered all over again, then starts up again with a hard thud.

  Isaak.

  All these years I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Now it falls like a meteor into my world, when I have finally relaxed into this rich, ordinary life filled with music and my Instagram photos and monthly luncheons at the Russian Tea Room with the dwindling numbers of former flight attendants I’ve known for more than fifty years.

  I sink into a chair nearby the table, my legs too shaky to support me, and listen to the BBC announcer explain that the suspected art thief and forger was picked up by Interpol in Florence at the end of a decades-long search for missing works of art. The art world is electrified because he was found with a Pissarro that’s been missing since before World War II.

  All this time. All this time. For long moments, I allow panic and regret and longing to roar through my veins, emotion surging through me in ways I’d forgotten. I think of Isaak’s hard, long face and lovely hands, think of our shared history—our mothers, who suffered both mundane and unimaginable tortures during the war; our desire to shake off that history and live unencumbered. I think of desire, the air crackling blue when we came within a few feet of each other.

  I think of the very real possibility that I will spend the declining number of my days in prison.

  I think of his body. His rough voice. The connection that bound us from the very first moments we met. So long ago, and yet, in a way, as recent as last night. Memory is strange that way.

  I stand, take a calming breath.

  And I wonder, How long do I have?

  Chapter Two

  Willow

  As I ride the train to Gloria’s on a rainy February evening, I am shivering in my flowered dress and thin jacket, clothes that worked in LA but are no good in this weather. My neck is cold even beneath my hair, and I’m going to have to get a scarf. Not something in floaty silk but a real scarf, knitted and thick. I’m a little embarrassed to be so naively underdressed.

  Not that I had much of a choice. I’m carrying everything I own.

  My aunt Gloria called yesterday to ask me to house-sit while she jets away to the second home of one of her old TWA buddies. I’ve done it fairly often the past few years, watching over the apartment and her cats, but the job is really about the greenhouse on the roof and the hundreds of plants she’s nurtured for more than two decades.

  It would be impossible to say how much of a relief her call was. My last gig finished with a whimper, and I’ve been couch surfing much too long, thanks to my asshole ex, who locked me out of his Malibu house after a big fight. When my album failed, he had no more use for me, which I should have expected, but it stung. Now, I’m down to $549 in cash after buying my dinner at LAX last night and hiding in the back of a Panda Express to eat it, and to say I have my tail between my legs would be a major understatement. “Midnight Train to Georgia” has been running on a loop in my mind, Gladys Knight singing her mournful song about giving up. LA proved too much for me too.

  Am I giving up? The thought gives me a pain beneath my ribs, but to be honest, I’m thirty-five. How much longer can I possibly live the life of an itinerant musician? By now, I thought I’d be rocketing across the heavens like my mother did. I really believed it, and that’s as embarrassing as the failure itself.

  Not a failure, says the eternal cheerleader in my head. Just a setback.

  Whatever. It’s getting harder and harder to believe her. The evidence is pretty overwhelming in the opposite direction.

  The train stops, and I feel a rush of relief at the familiar sight of the subway tiles looking faintly green in the fluorescent light. People get off. People get on. A blonde teenager with a startling anime tattoo across her neck; a woman in a blue hijab holding the hand of an impish toddler; a remarkably tall, bald white man wearing a bowler hat; a pair of weary-looking middle-aged Latinas with shopping bags on their laps.

  It feels right. Welcoming. Nothing could say home more than this mix of peoples. LA is a wild blend, too, but everybody is so spread out you’re working with a patchwork quilt more than a stew. Relief runs up my spine, and I relax my hold a bit on the Johnny Was bag on my lap, a tote I bought when the album first came out, a celebration of success.

  The embroidered bag is now packed to the brim with my earthly goods. I am wearing the handmade cowboy boots that once belonged to my mother and have now become my trademark. I wish I had some leggings, but I forgot how cold the February rain would be. The mark of an outlander, a tourist. I am neither.

  At the subway station at 72nd and Broadway, I get off and climb the stairs to greet the pouring rain. That, too, feels like home. Sometimes the sunshine in California can start to feel oppressive. Huddling in my cloth coat, rain dripping down the back of my dress, I hold my violin case close to my chest and hurry home to what is, in summer, one of the prettiest streets in the neighborhood. By the time I reach the six-story prewar building, I’m soaked clear through.

  Jorge, the burly, aging doorman, greets me with a joyful cry. “Willow! Where’s your winter coat? Why don’t you have an umbrella?”

  I’m shivering and exhausted. “I know.” I squeeze his arm. “We’ll talk, but I’m wiped out.”

  “Sure, sure. She’s up there, waiting for you.”

  I nod wearily. My boot heels clomp over the marble entryway, and I punch the button for the old elevator. It’s been upgraded, but it’s still slow and tiny. It carries me to the top floor, number six. The hallway smells of dinner—meat and aromatics and even a note of baking bread—from the other apartment. My stomach growls. I hope she’s shopped.

  Jorge must have rung her, because before I reach the door, it’s flung open and my aunt opens her arms. She’s wearing turquoise, of course, because that’s her signature color. Today it’s a silk caftan printed with peacock feathers, belted tightly to show off her tiny waist. “Willow,” she says. “You’re soaked! Where is your umbrella?”

  “I forgot I might need it,” I say wearily. In fact, I can’t remember when I last owned an umbrella.

  “Come in, come in,” she says kindly. “Go get in the shower right now.”

  Beneath the shards of light falling in patches to the worn, once-fabulous parquet floor, I drop my bag and violin and wiggle out of my boots. I turn them upside down to drain on a thick braided ru
g Gloria keeps for this purpose. Water drips from the ends of my hair. “Will you make some tea?” I ask.

  “Absolutely.” She has produced a thick towel, a vivid pink, because she sees no point to having anything that isn’t filled with life in some way. I wipe my face, and one of the cats comes tripping joyfully in to greet me. She’s a pretty black and white with long hair and yellow eyes. “Hello, Eloise!” I say, reaching down to stroke her tail. She trills.

  “Sam said she’ll be around tomorrow,” Gloria says. “She had a soiree tonight for the release of a new app.”

  Sam is my older sister, a dazzlingly successful game designer who finds me unbearably ridiculous. She’ll only show up out of duty and probably won’t be particularly cheery, but I’ve never really overcome my hero worship, and a part of me will be glad to see her anyway. “She said ‘soiree,’ did she?” I ask dryly.

  “No, of course not.” She waves toward my bedroom. “Let’s get you in a hot shower. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  She grins. “There’s my girl. What do you want?”

  “A Reuben from Bloom’s.”

  “I’ll call it in right away.” She pats my shoulder, then picks up my bag. “Good God. What’ve you got in here?”

  Everything, I want to say. “Not everyone can pack a year’s worth of clothing into a handbag,” I say, referring to one of her many talents. As she was a TWA stewardess in the swinging seventies, she is an astonishingly good packer. Shouldering my violin, I follow her out of the foyer into the hallway that runs the length of the building, east to west, and all the way to the end, where she opens the door to my corner bedroom. Windows to the west and south show dusk falling, lights springing up yellow and blue and red all the way to the horizon. Within is my four-poster bed, hung with mosquito netting when I was a teen, and a painting of the Faerie Queene in blues and greens that takes up a lot of space on one wall. Photos of me at various competitions hang next to a copy of my album cover, which is next to the most famous of my mother’s.

  Home.

  It’s a word as fraught as any I know, but this spot is one of my favorites in the world. Here, I can let the space ground me, hold me, give me some time to figure out what’s next in my mess of a life.