The Firefly Jar


 
 
 Table of Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright Page
 Dedication
 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
 Chapter Sixteen
 Chapter Seventeen
 Chapter Eighteen
 Chapter Nineteen
 Chapter Twenty
 Chapter Twenty-One
 Chapter Twenty-Two
 Chapter Twenty-Three
 Chapter Twenty-Four
 Chapter Twenty-Five
 Chapter Twenty-Six
 Chapter Twenty-Seven
 Chapter Twenty-Eight
 Chapter Twenty-Nine
 Chapter Thirty
 Chapter Thirty-One
 Chapter Thirty-Two
 Chapter Thirty-Three
 Chapter Thirty-Four
 Chapter Thirty-Five
 Chapter Thirty-Six
 Chapter Thirty-Seven
 Chapter Thirty-Eight
 Chapter Thirty-Nine
 Acknowledgements
 Crickley Creek series
 About the Author
 The Firefly Jar
 A Crickley Creek Romance
 Laurie Beach
 
 
 
 The Firefly Jar
 Copyright© 2023 Laurie Beach
 EPUB Edition
 The Tule Publishing, Inc.
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
 First Publication by Tule Publishing 2023
 Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
 No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 ISBN: 978-1-958686-49-2
 Keep Up with your Favorite Authors and their New Releases
 For the latest news from Tule Publishing authors, sign up for our newsletter here or check out our website at TulePublishing.com
 Stay social! For new release updates, behind-the-scenes sneak peeks, and reader giveaways:
 Like us on
 
 Follow us on
 
 Follow us on
 
 See you online!
 
 Dedication
 For Bryan Reese
 and
 in loving memory of Bari Lokken
 Chapter One
 Charlotte was late. Few things bothered her more than arriving late, even if it was just a party. Oh, please, let Mrs. Buchanan be understanding. She’d never met the hostess, an unfamiliarity that added to the headache behind her eyes.
 How would she explain that she’d been so engrossed in creating a new recipe for goat cheese quiche that she’d lost track of the time? She’d sound like an irresponsible idiot. Or worse, the kind of person who was so much the center of her own universe that she didn’t care about appointments or expectations or invitations trustingly extended by good friends. Sweat beaded along her hairline, and the sound of her tires rolling on the gravel road echoed her thoughts exactly. Crap, crap, crap, crap.
 Hush with all that now. Her mother’s voice filled her head. Charlotte was ten years old again, her mother’s gentle hand stroking back the bangs from her forehead. Everything’s gonna be just fine. It took leaving California and moving across the country to South Carolina to find her mother’s voice again. Charlotte held on tight to every word and relaxed her foot from the gas. Everything’s gonna be just fine.
 She neared a circular drive topped by an enormous white-columned mansion. Her mother had spoken so often about her life in the South while she was alive, Charlotte thought she would be prepared for a party in a gigantic antebellum home with the sounds of live classical music coming from the window. But, no. Despite her mother’s thick Southern drawl, her love of Southern foods, country music, and sweet-smelling flowers, Charlotte had no clue what to expect. And no matter how often Charlotte begged, going back to the South, even for a visit, had always been out of the question.
 A white-gloved man opened her door and surveyed her torn jeans and Beyoncé concert T-shirt. If she could have moved from that spot, she would have jumped back into her car and sped away. Instead, the valet spoke quietly, “Ma’am, we can both pretend like you were never here.”
 Charlotte must’ve looked like a horned owl with her eyes so wide. “I can’t leave. I promised Birdie I’d be here, and I’m already late.” She surveyed the area again, her stomach clenching. “You know, what? It’s all good. I will just text Birdie if you can hold on a minute.”
 Another car kicked up gravel as it drove up the driveway. “I’ll just pull your car to the side,” said the valet, climbing in.
 “Birdalee Mudge, you are a dead woman,” Charlotte hissed under her breath as she moved off the driveway to text her. In return, she got a phone call.
 “Charlotte, seriously, how bad can it be?”
 Charlotte began to speak, but Birdie interrupted. “I can’t hear a darned thing. Just get your bony little behind in here.” And she hung up.
 Her mother had always impressed upon Charlotte that, no matter how big your heart, what people are going to judge first is what’s on the outside, so you’ve got to make sure you dress appropriately. Which is probably why Charlotte panicked before every date, school dance, and party she’d ever been to, despite having called at least two of her closest friends to find out what they were wearing. The only friend she had in Crickley Creek was Birdie, and she was really Charlotte’s mother’s friend, a Southern woman, drawl and all, with a heart as big as her bosom and a mouth even bigger. But Charlotte didn’t have time to listen to her go on and on about the private lives of other people, so she never made that phone call.
 The perfectly symmetrical home loomed in front of her, and people in long dresses and tuxedos milled past a window in a room on the right. It was going to be like walking into a wedding wearing a bikini. Forcing herself to move forward, she muttered, “Damn it, Birdie. This was supposed to be a crab cook. In California, crab cooks are beer-drinking, jean-wiping parties.” She stomped up the front steps. “How could she forget to tell me this was formal? For God’s sake, Birdie can’t keep any detail to herself. Why would she start now?”
 The door opened as she raised her hand to knock. A stiff man in a tuxedo