Finding Zara

Finding Zara MARY WATERFORD Copyright © 2023 by Mary Waterford All rights reserved. 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. Cover Design Copyright © 2023 by Angela Haddon All rights reserved. To Gordon and Anne, Who so generously provided the space For this story to grow Contents 1. Zara 2. Matt 3. Zara 4. Zara 5. Zara 6. Matt 7. Zara 8. Zara 9. Matt 10. Matt 11. Zara 12. Zara 13. Zara 14. Matt 15. Zara 16. Matt 17. Matt 18. Zara 19. Zara 20. Matt 21. Zara 22. Zara 23. Zara 24. Matt 25. Zara 26. Zara 27. Matt 28. Matt 29. Zara 30. Matt 31. Zara 32. Matt 33. Zara 34. Matt 35. Zara Epilogue Also by Mary Waterford CHAPTER 1 Zara I awoke in the room I had always slept in at Aunt Ruby’s. The big four-poster bed felt as much like a princess bed to me now as it did when I was a little girl. The floral wallpaper was a little faded now, and the rug well-worn, but it was all so familiar, so comforting. The fall sunshine streamed in through the window, gilding the room with a soft golden light. I felt slightly more optimistic than I had in months. No, years, if I was being completely honest. Everything weighed on me, so heavily sometimes that I could hardly breathe. It was the guilt that hit me the hardest: over my own foolishness, over the people I’d let down. And despair. I was thirty-one years old and had nothing. Everything I had worked so hard for was gone, obliterated by one man’s selfish, lazy greed. My New York restaurant had gone bust, my eight-year marriage had ended abruptly, and now my ex-husband was in jail. My dreams were shattered. I felt the bile rising in my throat as the familiar negative thought patterns swirled in my mind. How many times had I wished my younger self had more wisdom, more caution, less blind trust? How many times had I imagined how different my life would be now if I had seen Greg for what he was when I first met him: not the older, wiser, caring man I believed him to be, but instead a piece of lying, cheating scum who saw a chance in me, and took it. Suppressing a sigh as I pushed back the covers, I swung my feet out of bed and padded across the creaking floor to the bathroom. Splashing water on my face at the chipped basin, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Yep, I looked like shit. Not eating well and not getting nearly enough sleep were taking their toll on me. My tall frame had gone from slim to rake thin, my creamy skin was too pale, and my blue eyes were clouded with anxiety and stress. I stared at myself for a long moment, steeling myself for what had to be done. I had work to do now on a plan that was my way out of this mess. And although selling off my inheritance was the last thing I wanted to do, I didn’t really have much choice. I would get Aunt Ruby’s house in top condition before I put it on the market to do her proud. I was hoping to find a buyer that would keep the property as is, rather than demolishing the dilapidated old house and slicing up the five acres of overgrown gardens into yet another subdivision. I knew that would be a big ask, considering Esperance, North Carolina was becoming a booming little town. As I walked down the hall, across the small entryway and into the kitchen, the mouthwatering scent of frying bacon filled my head. I blinked at the sight that greeted me. It wasn’t just that the kitchen was an absolute eyesore — the wide, generous countertops would have been quite something if they hadn’t been covered in bright yellow linoleum, and the matching avocado green fridge and dishwasher were the height of nineteen seventies interior design. No, my eye had been caught by the sight of my best friend, Ally, bopping away to muted music, her hips swinging and swaying as she moved the bacon around the pan. Her black hair, curly and wild, was tied in a messy bun high on her head, and she seemed innocent and cute until you looked at her pajamas. They had bloody kitchen knives on them and writing on the back that said Kiss the Chef or Pay the Price. She turned her head slightly. “Morning, Sleepyhead.” “Sleepyhead? I was just going to say, you’re up early.” “Nope. It’s nearly nine o’clock.” I gasped. “What? Nine? Why didn’t you wake me?” Ally shrugged, pouring beaten eggs into a second pan. “Figured you needed it.” “Ally, the house guy will be here any minute!” Ally looked me up and down, taking in my long, unbrushed brunette hair, flannel pajamas and bed socks. Her eyes twinkled. “You trying to impress him?” I rolled my eyes and dashed back to the bedroom, ran a brush through my hair, and hustled into jeans, a clean shirt, and faded gray sweater. When I got back to the kitchen, Ally had turned the music up almost as high as it would go. When I reentered the kitchen, she grabbed me and spun me around, holding her hands high and swinging her hips. I laughed, unable to resist her dynamic energy, then she spun me away again and moved back to the frypan. “Hey, can you reach into that cupboard and see if there’s a platter up there while I wash the dust off these plates? I’ve checked all the other cupboards and had no luck.” “Sure.” I climbed up onto the counter. “Let’s see what we’ve