Hideaway at Silver Lake: A Snowflake Sisters Novel


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 To Stell
 I was blessed with extra grandmas, but no one as special as my next-door neighbor when I was growing up. She taught me the art of sharing special secrets—like the recipe for “Spaghetti Ice Cream.” I still miss you. Always will.
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 
 Prologue
 Chapter One
 Chapter Two
 Chapter Three
 Chapter Four
 Chapter Five
 Chapter Six
 Chapter Seven
 Chapter Eight
 Chapter Nine
 Chapter Ten
 Chapter Eleven
 Chapter Twelve
 Chapter Thirteen
 Chapter Fourteen
 Chapter Fifteen
 Epilogue
 
 P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
 About the Author
 About the Book
 
 Praise
 Also by Jennifer Greene
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 Prologue
 
 CAMILLE HEARD HER cell phone chime, but since it was four in the morning and she was violently trying to stay sleeping, she ignored it. A full day of rowdy sixth graders was going to descend on her life, and sanity, in less than four hours. She needed every hour of sleep she could beg, borrow, or steal. It was a matter of survival.
 She pushed a pillow over her head, barely closed her eyes again when the landline rang and the answering machine kicked in. Naturally, the message was from Marigold, her younger sister. “Call me, Cam. It’s important.”
 Marigold. Awake at four A.M.?
 It had to be appendicitis. A guy crisis.
 For darn sure, something on the level of Armageddon—to her sister, anyway.
 She hurled off the covers, yanked on the light, and reached for the phone. “Just tell me. What’s wrong?”
 “It’s Poppy. She’s gone.”
 “What do you mean, she’s gone?”
 Marigold normally had a voice softer than sunshine. Now it was sick-shrill. “I couldn’t sleep. So I gave up, curled up with a blanket and a hot cup of chai and my iPad. And my phone. That’s when I started seeing all the messages.”
 Cam tried to concentrate on keeping her eyes open, but her eyelids kept slipping down. She just wanted sleep. The need to sleep lured her like a lover she couldn’t have. “What messages, Marigold? Speed this up.”
 “Poppy said she sent you texts and emails, too. She’s gone. Disappeared. We’re not going to see her until after Christmas.”
 “Come on. That’s impossible. In fact, it’s downright ridiculous.”
 “Camille. Wake up! Go read your email and your texts. Then call me back.”
 Her younger sister hung up. Cam stared at the phone in disbelief . . . and felt the sprouting roots of panic. Marigold was as happy-go-lucky as a basset hound. She had no nerves. She couldn’t spell the word stress. She woke up high on life and went to sleep the same way—even when life kicked her in the teeth. Even when the rare nightmare kicked in. Even when some creep hurt her.
 Cam wasn’t good with disorder. She liked rules. She liked organization. And corny or not, she still believed in loyalty. And honor. And doing the right thing. And protecting family. But if someone had hurt her little sister, all bets were off. She’d annihilate the son of a sea dog without a qualm.
 She jammed her feet into slippers. Grabbed a robe. Caught a glimpse of herself in the antique mirror over the dresser—her hair was the same rich, thick auburn as her sisters’. But both Marigold and Poppy had cut theirs. She’d left hers long—which was an absolutely silly thing to notice, when it was predusk dark, the wind whipping leaves into a frenzy outside. Right now her hair looking witchy-wild was relevant to nothing. Cam was calm, cool, and collected in a crisis. Any crisis.
 She sprinted into the kitchen, picked a hazelnut pod, started the Keurig, pulled out the mug that read “Be Wary of a Well-Read Woman”—her lucky mug. She opened her laptop while she waited for the brew.
 And read the emails from Poppy. Then the texts from her phone. Then punched in Marigold’s cell number again.
 It was so easy to imagine the rage, the protectiveness, the fire if someone hurt Marigold.
 But Poppy . . .
 Poppy was their world.
 They’d been little girls when their mom died. Poppy, the oldest, had only been eleven. But she’d somehow managed to do everything. Keep them together. Put food on the table. (Sometimes a little iffy, that food.) Everybody did the wash and put-aways, even when Marigold was barely old enough to reach the table. Poppy got them to school. She patched up their skinned knees. They slept with her when they were scared of the alligators under the bed.
 Their dad was alive. He was just never what anyone would call “present.” Either Poppy took care of them or no one did. And she had taken care of them.
 Cam couldn’t imagine—refused to imagine—that anything could have happened to her.
 When Marigold answered her cell, Cam could hear the tears in her sister’s voice.
 “No,” Cam said, but gently. “We’re not crying. We’re going to figure this out. Do you know what’s going on?”
 “No. I told you. I thought everything was like normal until I got all those texts.”
 “Well, she hasn’t disappeared. And she’d never willingly leave us at Christmas. So something’s obviously wrong.”
 “I know.”
 “Is she sick? Mention anything odd in the last few weeks? Do you know if she had a doctor appointment, or lab tests, or anything like that?”
 “No, no, and no. She never mentioned anything being wrong.”
 “Okay, okay. Let’s calm down.”
 “I can’t.”
 “I can’t either,” Cam admitted, but not willingly. “Could she have lost her job?”
 “Are you kidding? They love her and she loves the job.”
 “I know, I know, but I’m trying to think. It hasn’t been an accident or something like that, or she’d have called. Or we’d have heard. Ditto if there’d been a fire or a robbery.”
 “I’ve been thinking the same way, Cam. But if it isn’t any of those normal catastrophes, then it could be