Sisters, page 1
Sisters
(Sun Valley Series, Book 1)
Kellie Coates Gilbert
SISTERS (Sun Valley Series, Book 1)
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Copyright © 2017 by Kellie Coates Gilbert
Published by Amnos Media Group
www.kelliecoatesgilbert.com
All rights reserved.
Cover design by the Killion Group.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No affiliation with Sun Valley Company or the City of Sun Valley.
ISBN: 978-0-9985238-1-1
Dedicated to my parents, Elwin and Arlene Coates. This sheep rancher and his wife taught me the meaning of family and the value of being loved unconditionally. I am proud to be their daughter.
Contents
Welcome to the SUN VALLEY SERIES!
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
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Kellie Coates Gilbert
Welcome to the SUN VALLEY SERIES!
Set in America’s original ski resort, Sun Valley, Idaho—SISTERS offers a thought-provoking look at three women . . . and the choices they make when they realize their lives aren’t exactly what they expected.
For more information on this series, and to sign up for notifications of future releases, please visit Kellie’s website:
www.KellieCoatesGilbert.com
1
Karyn Macadam slowed her car as the sign to the Hemingway Memorial came into view. She turned off Sun Valley Road into the parking area, not bothering to signal. There was no need, not at this early hour.
Cutting the engine, she sat quietly for a few moments, the radio blaring in the background.
And we expect another warm summer day here in the Wood River Valley as residents in this popular resort area prepare to commemorate one of its own, nearly a year and a half after the tragic accident that took the life of—
Karyn shut off the radio, her heart thudding painfully.
Squeezing the steering wheel, she refused to look at the seat next to her—at the small wooden box intricately carved with falling snowflakes over a set of crossed skis.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Five more minutes she sat there, putting off what was ahead.
Finally, she scooped the box into her hands and climbed out of the car.
She’d made a promise. One she fully intended to keep, even if she’d made it a bit tongue-in-cheek at the time.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she traversed the walkway toward the memorial. Even in the faint morning light she could make out wild poppies and blue flax, delicate against the pungent skunk cabbage jutting from the pebbled ground lining the trail.
The sound of water bubbling across a rocky streambed pulled her toward the monument nested against a stand of aspen trees, their tiny dollar-shaped leaves barely moving in the still air.
It was understandable why the famous novelist had loved Idaho, why he’d spent his last days living here. Ernest Hemingway was only one of many celebrities who had traded big city tangled traffic for cool mountain mornings and alpine vistas and made Sun Valley their residence.
Olympic hopeful Dean Macadam was another.
Karyn stood at the water’s edge and looked past the pile of flat stones with its stately column rising from the middle, beyond the trees to the golf course in the distance. A deer standing in the middle of one of the greens lifted its head and stared back at her in mutual regard.
A voice in her head rang out as clear as if Dean were standing next to her.
“What is your fascination with Hemingway anyway?”
She closed her eyes, remembered gazing up from the pages of For Whom the Bell Tolls. “Are you crazy? He was only the best American novelist of all time,” she’d so flippantly reminded her husband.
Dean playfully tugged at the sheet tucked around her bare waist. “Is that so?”
She quickly snatched the covering from his hands and secured it more tightly. “Yes, that’s so. In fact, Ernest Hemingway is known for his mastery of theme and imagery. Take this story for example.” She held up the heavy volume borrowed from her dad, its cover worn from repeated readings. “The entire narrative is punctuated with a preoccupation with death and dying, which is so poignant given his eventual suicide.”
Dean ran broad fingers through his sleep-tousled hair. “Yeah, you see—that’s what I don’t get. Why is so many people’s imagination captured with a guy who spent an inordinate amount of time writing about life instead of living it? I mean, in my view, that’s likely what led to him offing himself in the end.”
She raised her gaze in horror and slammed the book against her new husband’s chest. “Don’t say that.”
He laughed. “Okay, okay—look, I get it. Ernest Hemingway is your book boyfriend. I’m not jealous. Really I’m not.” His eyes nearly sparkled when he’d said that. “Tell you what. When I die, you just take my ashes and toss them in that little creek that runs in front of his memorial. That way, when I’m gone, you can visit both of us at the same time.”
Before she could protest the macabre suggestion, he pulled the novel from her and tossed it to the floor, while at the same time lifting the sheet with his other hand.
She’d giggled as he buried his head against her skin. “Promise me. Even if my mother protests and wants otherwise,” he said, in a muffled voice. “Now. Promise. Or, I’ll—” His fingers dug into her sides and he tickled, sending her entire torso into a fit of squirming. “Promise,” he repeated.
“I promise. I promise,” she shouted, laughing uncontrollably.
He immediately stopped tickling. “Okay, that’s better.” Her new husband looked at her then, his eyes boring into her soul. “And promise you’ll always remember I love you.”
The sound of his voice still seemed so real, even after all these months. She sunk to the curved stone bench. Tears collected in her eyes and spilled over, making their way down her cheeks. She fingered the familiar lid on the box.
I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t do it.
No matter that she’d gotten out of her bed while it was still dark outside with the best intentions. She still wasn’t ready to let him go.
Not now—and maybe never.
Grayson Chandler wrangled his way past a bunch of willow branches, taking care not to break his fly rod, then headed south crossing into a clearing.
That’s when he saw her.
Early thirties. Coffee-colored long hair. Sitting quietly on the stone bench at the Hemingway Memorial.
Not really understanding why, he quieted his steps as he approached.
She held something in her hands, a little box. Her head was tucked. Was she—?
Holding his breath, he moved closer.
Yes, she was crying.
He crouched behind a clump of thick brush and watched, knowing he was encroaching, but unable to help himself.
She was a pretty gal. Frankly, she reminded him a whole lot of that royal lady in England. What was her name? Not Princess Diana, but her son’s wife.
Unable to remember, he shook his head. Didn’t matter.
What mattered was that she was openly weeping now.
He wavered. Should he step forward? Offer her assistance? He shook his head. Naw—probably not. It wasn’t like he carried a handkerchief in his pocket like his dad used to. Likely she just needed some time to get whatever was bothering her out of her system. Women were like that.
Still, he couldn’t help but think whatever she was spilling about was not the least bit inconsequential. Clearly, she was torn up.
Ignoring the reprimanding voice inside that warned him he was being voyeuristic, he rested his fly pole on the ground and continued to watch.
Even crying, she was beautiful, what with her thick lashes sweeping across ivory cheeks that looked as soft as a rose petal. He knotted his hand and pressed it against his lips, imagining brushing his thumb across her skin.
He hadn’t thought about a woman in that way for a real
The woman on the bench wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up toward the sky. A few seconds later, she fingered the top of the little wooden box in her lap, chewing at her lip.
Finally, she stood and gazed into the trees, tears still rimming her lashes.
He battled a surge of protectiveness, yet remained still. Under different circumstances he might take a chance, go introduce himself. But he knew better this time.
She turned and saw him. Frowning, she pulled the little box close to her chest.
Face flushed, he reached for his pole and stood. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—what I meant is, I just didn’t want to interrupt—” He shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry.”
Judging from the way she fidgeted, she too was embarrassed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I—I thought I was alone.”
“I wasn’t really watching. I was doing a little fly fishing.” He pointed back at the creek. “I saw you and—”
She rubbed at the place between her eyebrows, then dropped her hand. “Look, I really need to go.” She turned and starting walking toward the parking lot.
He wanted to say something more, maybe get her name, but thought better of it.
Upon reaching her car, she glanced back.
In an awkward attempt to apologize again for his intrusion on her private moments, he nodded and gave her a faint smile.
Inside, he wanted to kick himself.
2
There were rumors, you know. There were always rumors. Rumors of who owned the lear jets parked at Friedman Memorial Airport. Speculation as to who purchased the three million dollar listing on Dollar Mountain Road. Talk swirling in the local eateries about how snow packs on Baldy would affect next year’s U.S. Alpine Championships and whether or not Bill and Melinda Gates would vacation at the resort again this year.
Since the late thirties, the area known as Sun Valley, which included the neighboring communities of Ketchum and Elkhorn, and extended as far south as Hailey and Bellevue, enjoyed a reputation as a world-class ski resort and summertime outdoor mecca.
The quaint community also served as host to a myriad of festivals and fundraisers—most of which were run, at least in part, by an outspoken member of the local tourism council, Leigh Ann Blackburn, an impeccably dressed woman wielding a clipboard loaded with checked-off lists. Evidence she had a cachet for organizing such events, even if on a volunteer basis.
“Make sure we have proper wattage to the speakers. I want everyone to be able to hear the cellist. And don’t forget to test the microphones.” Leigh Ann turned from the electrician to the men crossing the lawn toting large baskets of miniature pink azaleas and white dendrobium orchids. “Thanks guys. Let’s place those so that they line the stage at the front of the tent.”
Her cell phone broke through the noisy preparations. “Leigh Ann here.”
“Hey, Leigh Ann. Ben over at Atkinson’s Market. Our wholesaler mixed up the order. We may not have enough of the cheese you ordered. They sent Camembert instead.”
She scowled and slapped the clipboard on a bar table. “Camembert? We can’t substitute. I selected the Taleggio because it perfectly compliments the Sauvignon Blanc I’ll be serving.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do. No promises, but I might be able to call over to the lodge and see if they have any in their inventory we can use and then replace next week.”
She waved at a girl carrying a rack of stemware and pointed her to the other side of the tent. The girl pivoted and headed that way. “Thanks, Ben. You’re the best.”
Satisfied, she pocketed her phone and reached for her clipboard.
The inaugural Macadam Memorial needed to be perfect. The funds raised would benefit a new adaptive sports program and provide ski lessons for people with disabilities. A noble cause, certainly. And one worthy of her brother-in-law’s memory.
Hearing her name, she looked up. Her father crossed the sprawling lawn making his way toward where she stood under the massive white tent awning.
She waved. “Hi, Dad.” She pointed to the pie in his hands. “What do you have there?”
“Hey there, Sis. Can you use a rhubarb?”
She leaned and kissed his sun-weathered cheek before taking the pie from his hands. “Sure. Who this time?”
A grin spread across his face. “Bernice Grant.”
Leigh Ann laughed. “She does know she’s one of many?”
Her father had a number of female suitors—older women who hoped to snag the affections of a widowed sheep rancher of financial means. In a private joke, she and her sisters had collectively dubbed them the Bo Peeps.
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll find use for it.” She clasped her father’s elbow and guided him past linen draped tables to an area in the back where the caterers were setting up. “Here we go.” She handed off the pie to one of the volunteers passing by. “Could you find room on the dessert table please?”
She looped her arm in her father’s. “So, what do you think?”
He looked all around. “Nice. Quite the production. A lot of work, I imagine.”
That was an understatement. “You don’t even know the half of it. Luckily, we have a lot of people who volunteered to help out on this one.”
Her father nodded. “I’m not surprised. Dean was much loved in this town.”
“So . . . have you seen her yet?”
“Karyn?”
She gave him a pointed look. “Uh-huh. You think she’ll be okay today? This whole memorial fundraiser thing isn’t exactly going to be easy for her. I mean, seems she’s been making real progress towards being happy again and—well, I was thinking that maybe after the ceremony, we could—”
Her dad placed his arm around her shoulders. “Look, sweetheart. I want to make everything better for her too. But, some things just aren’t for us to fix.”
“I know, but—”
He cupped her cheek with his calloused hand. “Your sister is going to have to move through this journey at her own pace. In time, she’ll make it out the other side. You’ll see.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the look on her father’s face stopped her. “Well, what about Joie? I hope you reminded her she needed to show up no later than two?”
“I did.” Her father jammed his hands in his front pockets and grinned. “But we both know with that one there are no guarantees.”
The King Air engine roared outside the open airplane cabin. Joie shifted her goggles and looked out over the flawless vista, then tucked her head and dove.
She thrust her arms back, and bulleted in the direction of the other skydivers already heading into formation. As she neared, she flung her arms wide sending her body into a full spread, her jumpsuit flapping against rushing air.
Her eyes darted left, then right. She eased her body forward and positioned into place, then grabbed the grip on the leg of Mike’s jumpsuit. A pull at her own left ankle and she knew Phil had glided into his spot.
Across the horizon, the sun streaked against the azure sky. Joie counted off the seconds, and waited until she felt the expected tug at the leg of her suit. She reciprocated by tugging at Mike’s leg, signaling the need to break in sync with the others.
Tipping slightly to the right, she spiraled making a perfect one eighty. On the count of two, she tipped the opposite direction and circled back, this time stopping in place and grabbing hands with Dennis.
