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  To Loretta Barrett,

  who believed in me before I believed in myself.

  You are missed.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ask any writer and they will tell you that, yes, it does in fact take a village to get a book out of the murky recesses of the author’s mind and into the hands of the reader. This time around, the village may have been on both sides of “the veil.” I need to acknowledge my late mother’s role in writing this story. While she wasn’t happy about the fact that her own father had kept so much hidden for so many years (and she was absolutely positive that her mother never knew anything about his other life), she readily shared with me everything she had discovered. Her openness cracked the code to tracking our family’s story in a way we never would have been able to do otherwise, since the name my grandfather went by—the name he passed on to his children—wasn’t the name he was born with. I definitely felt my mom’s amused presence while I was writing this story (so different from what really happened, but the spirit was certainly the same).

  My thanks to Sandra Koehler Lee, the daughter of my cousin Peg West Koehler, for her efforts to compile a complete genealogy. It’s a long, winding road she has followed to help us find the truth.

  The entire team at Gallery Books has been wonderful in putting together all the pieces necessary to turn this story into a book. My grateful thanks to publisher Jennifer Bergstrom and publicist Melissa Gramstad for their support. Thanks also to the art department for a cover that accurately reflects the spirit of my fictional Art Deco theater. Many thanks to the production crew and the copyeditor who worked on this manuscript and caught my flubs and stumbles. I can’t say thank you often enough to editorial assistant Elana Cohen for all she does.

  Special thanks to fellow author Victoria Alexander, lifelong friend Jo Ellen Zelt Grossman, and the Writers Who Lunch (Terri Brisbin, Cara Marsi, Gwendolyn Schuler, Gail Link, Kate Welsh, Martha Schroeder, and Georgia Dickson) for their encouragement.

  I owe the deepest of debts to my wonderful, incredible, hardworking editor, Lauren McKenna, who not only loved the story I proposed but who beat me unmercifully—figuratively, speaking—until I got it right. I am so blessed to have an editor with such clear vision, endless talent, sheer love of story, and respect for the author’s process. I may whine and complain, Lauren, but I truly do love you to the moon and back, and I know that every book we’ve worked on together has been infinitely better for your touch, my characters so much stronger for your insights. There are no words to express how much I appreciate you.

  PREFACE

  Everyone is familiar with the adage “write what you know”; it’s a saying that has dictated much of my decades-long career in publishing. But this time, it was what I (or rather, my mother) didn’t know that formed the basis for this first book in my new Hudson Sisters series.

  When my mother was in her mid-forties, she received a letter from a woman named Alice, the wife of her recently deceased cousin Bill. Alice thanked my mother for the sympathy card she’d sent her, and finished her note by saying, “You do know that Bill was your half brother, right?”

  Ah, no. She did not.

  Before she could sing the opening bars of “Poppa Was a Rolling Stone,” my mother had Alice on the phone. The story Alice told my mother was almost too crazy to be true.

  Almost.

  My grandfather was in vaudeville from around 1906 to 1915, and during that time struck up a romantic relationship with a woman named Trudy. In 1910 Trudy gave birth to a son, the aforementioned “cousin” Bill. Three years later, Trudy had a daughter, but both she and the baby died. Shortly thereafter, in 1913, my grandfather gave Bill to his sister, Bess, and her husband, who were childless. And a few years later, my grandfather met and married my grandmother, none the wiser to his partying ways, at least to the best of our knowledge.

  Bess and her husband ultimately adopted Bill, who was never told that the man he called “uncle” was actually his father. After Bill passed away, and sometime before her own death, Bess finally came clean to Alice, who shared the story with my mother, who then shared it with me.

  Of course, I was fascinated. My grandfather died when I was four or five years old, and I have very little memory of him other than his deep, hearty laugh. I’ve been thinking for years that this foundation of a love child and secret siblings would make a great story, but not knowing all the facts, I was free to fill in the blanks—and so I did. Years passed before I felt I had the right story in my head. This is that story.

  I hope you enjoy my version of what could happen under such circumstances.

  Best,

  Mariah

  Disclaimer (intended for my cousins, should they wonder if someone’s been holding out on them): The Last Chance Matinee is total fiction. There is no theater, no Hollywood wife, no yoga studio in Devlin’s Light, New Jersey (and no Devlin’s Light, either), and definitely no fortune waiting to be distributed. The sisters were not based on anyone we know, and sorry, but there are no secret relatives living in a Victorian mansion somewhere in the Poconos.

  PROLOGUE

  Cara

  DEVLIN’S LIGHT, NEW JERSEY

  The bell rang halfheartedly over the door of the only bakery in Devlin’s Light, New Jersey (the self-proclaimed “best little town on the Delaware Bay”). Cara McCann’s eyes met those of the proprietor and her best friend, Darla Kerns, and they both laughed.

  “I know,” Darla said. “The bell sounds anemic. I have to get a new one. It’s on the list.”

  “Some days the list is longer than others.” Cara went to the counter to make her morning’s selection from the freshly baked muffins.

  “So what’s it going to be?” Darla rested her arms on the thick countertop.

  Cara scanned the case. The selection of her one high-calorie treat of the day deserved serious thought.

  “The chocolate zucchini muffin is new,” Darla pointed out. “As is the raspberry lemon.” Before Cara could even ask, she added, “Lemon muffin with raspberry cream filling. Divine, if I do say so myself.”

  “That does sound good. I think I’ll try—”

  “Amber, listen to me. You need to make a decision and make it fast. You don’t have all the time in the world.” The voice from the back boomed as it came closer.

  “Help,” Cara begged Darla.

  Darla opened the case and grabbed a raspberry lemon muffin and placed it in a small white bag. She was handing it to Cara when the stout woman behind the loud voice emerged from the back of the store.

  “I’ll call you later.” The woman dropped the phone into her pocket and greeted Darla with a big smile. “Good morning, boss.”

  “Morning, Angie.”

  “And Cara, how’s it going this morning?” Angie Hoff slipped on her white apron and tied it around her waist.

  Not bothering to wait for Cara to respond, Angie launched into her usual morning down-to-the-last-detail recitation of her daughter’s wedding plans as if they were dying for an update. As if Amber Hoff hadn’t been one of Cara’s best friends, once upon a time. As if Amber’s fiancé, Drew McCann, wasn’t Cara’s ex-husband. As if Amber hadn’t moved in with Drew and gotten pregnant while he was still married to Cara.

  “So the florist calls my daughter and says she can’t get peonies for the bouquets and the centerpieces after all. Something about a frost somewhere wh
ere they grow this time of the year. Did you ever hear of such a thing? A florist can’t get something their client wants? Amber’s crying, she’s a wreck. It’s ruining her vision, she says. She needs peonies. Has to have white peonies.” Angie looked from Cara to Darla. “Either of you girls know where we can get white peonies? I mean, they have to be in season somewhere, right?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know anything about flowers,” Cara muttered, and went to pay for the muffin.

  “Me either. I just bake.” From behind the counter, Darla made a shooing motion with her hand. “Just go,” she mouthed.

  “Thanks. See you later.” Cara waved as she left the shop, her exit marked by the barely audible ring of the soon-to-be-retired bell.

  She stopped at the storefront three doors down and unlocked the door. Once one-third of a hardware store that dated from the 1890s, Cara’s yoga studio had been the first section sold when the previous owner had succumbed to the big chain store that had opened right off the highway outside of town. Using the proceeds from her late mother’s life insurance policy, Cara had worked hard to repurpose the space. Back then, Drew had fully supported the venture and had worked by her side to make her dream a reality. He’d laid the black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern on the floor, and helped her paint the walls in a soothing lavender. He’d taught her basic carpentry skills so she could help hang drywall and frame out the walls for her office. He’d helped the electrician install the sound system and changed the locks on the doors.

  And somehow, while he was doing all that, he’d found the time to fall out of love with her, and into love with Amber Hoff.

  Cara picked up the mail that had been pushed through the slot earlier that morning and went straight to her office. She tossed the mail onto her desk and plopped down in the chair. The voicemail light on the phone was flashing but she ignored it.

  She was so tired of hearing about Drew’s upcoming nuptials, tired of pretending she was okay with it when she was anything but. Tired of hearing about the names he and Amber were considering for their baby boy due in May. Tired of wondering why he was seemingly so happy about his impending fatherhood when he always swore he’d never have children. It had been the one thing he and Cara had seriously argued about.

  She should have listened to her mother when Susa tried to tell her that having or not having children was a fundamental issue and needed to be addressed before the wedding. But Cara had been so sure that Drew would change his mind once they’d been married for a while.

  “Oh, Mom.” Cara sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to have you here with me now.”

  Susa would understand that the hurt she covered with a smile went deep. Cara liked the way she’d seen her life’s path playing out. Being blindsided by someone you loved and trusted and being forced to change direction had shaken her to the core. Most days she could cope. Today she felt every emotion and every ounce of betrayal all over again.

  She heard the door open and the voices of her students for the nine o’clock class trickled in, and she smiled. Most had become friends, and she loved them. Loved the calm that surrounded her when she focused and freed her mind, and loved that she could teach others how to obtain that same sense of peace and well-being. Her students brought her joy daily. They had sympathized with her plight, readily offering comfort when the news trickled out that Drew had left her for one of her oldest friends. Not that most of them hadn’t known about the affair before she did. Everyone in Devlin’s Light had apparently figured it out before Cara.

  That was one of the drawbacks of living in the town you grew up in. Everyone knew all your business, and yes, sometimes you were the last to know because no one who knew you wanted to be the one to spill the beans and break your heart.

  It would’ve been nice if Drew and Amber had moved to, say, Cape May, or Somers Point after they started to cohabitate. But no. Now that they were expecting, Amber had to be within shouting distance of her mother and her two sisters.

  Don’t dwell on it, Cara could almost hear her mother say. Move past it and greet each new day as an opportunity to bring fresh joy into your life. Look beyond today to the future and trust the universe to bring you what you truly need.

  That was Susa. Always the optimistic flower child she’d been raised to be by her hippie parents. Even as she lay dying, she’d smiled and held Cara’s hand. “Don’t cry, sweetie. I’ve never been afraid of what happens next. Why, there’s a secret to life, to all this and what comes after, and I’m now going to find out what it is. . . .”

  “Mom, please . . .” Cara had pleaded. “Don’t . . .” The words had stuck in Cara’s throat.

  “Tell your father that I know.” Susa’s voice had begun to fade as she slipped away. “Tell him I’ve always known, and it’s all right . . .”

  “You know what?” Cara had clutched her mother’s hand. “You’ve always known what?”

  Susa had passed quietly then, an enigmatic smile on her face. It had fallen to Cara to call her father and tell him that he was too late. The heart attack had been fatal. Susa was gone before he boarded his plane in L.A. As heartsick as she’d been, her father had been broken. He’d sobbed through the services they’d held graveside and was still sobbing a week later when he left Devlin’s Light to fly back to California, where he worked and lived for part of the year. Cara had forgotten to give her father the message her mother had wanted her to pass on. As many times as she’d reminded herself, it always seemed to slip her mind.

  It had been Susa who, years ago, introduced Cara to yoga, and following her mother’s death, Cara had come to appreciate even more the feeling of inner peace, of contentment, the connection to Susa she found in her studio. Even today, with visions of Amber’s wedding flowers dancing in her head, Cara could lead her students in an hour of contemplation and gentle motions with a heart that was at peace. Susa would have expected nothing less.

  Looking forward to the class, Cara rose to join her students. “Time to embrace my inner goddess.”

  She managed to maintain that lightness for the rest of the day, but while walking home late that afternoon, she had a niggling sense that something wasn’t right. All in all, it had been a good day: Her classes had been full, and she’d had a surprise visit from an old friend of her mother’s, who’d stopped in to say hello. She’d even laughed out loud when she’d received a text drawing from Darla showing Amber chasing giant white peonies with cartoon faces that fled along the beach. So why did her heart suddenly feel so heavy?

  Susa would’ve said that her uneasy, unsettled feeling had been the universe’s way of preparing her for news she wouldn’t want to hear. Susa somehow always knew about such things.

  Cara was just about to start clearing the table after dinner when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and smiled.

  “Uncle Pete. How are you?” she said. Peter Wheeler was her father’s best friend since childhood as well as his lawyer.

  “Not so good right now, honey.” She could hear the tension in his voice, and the earlier feeling of unease returned.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Honey, I want you to sit down. . . .”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Cara, I don’t know how to tell you this, so forgive me if I just lay it out there.” Pete took a deep breath. “Fritz passed away early this morning.”

  For a moment, Cara sat still as a stone, as if she had not heard.

  “Cara? Honey?”

  “My . . . my dad . . . ?” Cara stumbled over the words, her mind trying to grasp the unimaginable. “What happened? But I just spoke with him a week ago—he was fine. What happened?”

  “Six weeks ago, your father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors gave him a month. He managed to hang on a little longer, but there was nothing anyone could have done for him. He didn’t want you to know.”

  “But there are treatments. . . .”

  “Not when the disease has progressed as far as his. Trust me. He we
nt to a half dozen different doctors but they all told him it was too late. I’m sorry, Cara, but there wasn’t a treatment that could have saved him.”

  “But . . .” Cara began to weep softly.

  “I know it’s a shock, honey, and I’m so sorry that I had to be the one to give you the news.”

  “But he told you, didn’t he? How could he tell you and not me?”

  “He had to tell me. I’m his lawyer. He had affairs that had to be taken care of, and he knew he could trust me to do everything exactly as he instructed.”

  “Where is he now? I’ll have to have him brought back here—he’d want to be with my mother.” Even in her shock, her mind began to organize the tasks to be done. “How do I arrange to have him transported? And I’ll have to call the little church here to set up the funeral and ask how to—”

  “Cara, there won’t be a funeral.”

  “What?” Surely she hadn’t heard correctly.

  “There isn’t to be a funeral. He’s already been cremated, Cara. It was his wish and part of the explicit instructions he gave me.”

  Cara’s throat threatened to close and she couldn’t hold back the sobs.

  “Cara, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but Fritz was adamant that everything be done this way.”

  “Why? Why would he do this? How could he do this?”

  “He had his reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “Cara, you’re going to have to trust me for a while. Things’ll be as he wanted, and it’s my duty as his lawyer, the executor of his estate, and his friend to make sure that everything is done to the letter.”

  “So we just have a memorial service and that’s it?” Cara tried to wrap her mind around the situation.

  “No memorial, either. He specifically nixed that.”

  “No memorial,” she repeated. “You can’t be serious. What about all the people who will want to pay their respects? What about his friends? What about his clients?” Cara protested. What about me?