The Accidental Bride. Christina Skye

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      Jilly shot from surprise straight into fury. They had tricked her with images of cutting-edge cooking techniques and hot new chefs. They’d lied to her.

      They’d signed her up for knitting camp. A bunch of old ladies with blue hair and arch support shoes, Jilly thought furiously.

      Oh, she could knit if she had to. She knew the basic moves. But it had never been fun or relaxing for Jilly, and each project attempt left her crazy with impatience.

      There was no way she’d be going through that door into those classrooms. Over her dead body!

      Red was staring at her in concern. “Are you okay? It’s not cooking, but our retreats are very popular. We’ve sold out three years in a row. You’re lucky your friends could find you a spot.”

      “Lucky? Not from where I’m standing. I knit like a surly second-grader, so my friends tell me. I’m going to kill them for this,” she muttered.

      “Hey, you might like it. Kinda soothing to see all those needles bobbing around. My wife used to knit. I lost her last year to cancer.” The chef cleared his throat. “What I mean is, you should give it a try. I can introduce you, if you want. I know all the teachers by now. We bring pie and chocolate down every afternoon at break time.”

      Jilly tried to rein in her temper, aware that her friends had set this up with good intentions. They wanted her to rest and they figured this was the best place for it.

      But she needed to cook, not knit. She needed to stand at a big 34-inch stainless steel stove finessing salsa and coaxing European butter and dark chocolate into sinful new concoctions.

      Jilly rubbed a hand over her face, processing the shock. She was a terrible knitter. It brought out the impatient teenager in her, and that was never a good thing.

      But here she was.

      She’d have to find some way to occupy herself, but it wouldn’t be anywhere near balls of yarn and pointy sticks. No blue-haired grannies, either.

      Red called out to a woman in a bright green and blue sweater that would have sold for a fortune at a trendy Aspen boutique. Jilly recognized the skill of the finished piece. The woman had a name tag and looked like she was in charge.

      As she approached them, Jilly suddenly felt like a cornered animal. Piles of yarn waited to torment her with dropped stitches. Rooms of expert knitters would glare, studying her with pity and contempt.

      “Sorry, Red, I, uh, just remembered. I have to return a call. A—business call.”

      “But you’re supposed to be on vacation. And the retreat—”

      “Better go.” Jilly darted back up the path, ignoring the questioning looks of Red and his friend.

      WHAT WAS SHE SUPPOSED to do now?

      Jilly couldn’t imagine sitting calmly and chatting with a room full of strangers, all of whom were better knitters than she ever hoped to become. She would only manage to twist her stitches and drop whole rows.

      She’d be a basket case inside an hour.

      Jilly kicked a stone out of her path, frowning. If she hadn’t gotten sick, she’d be back in Arizona perched on a sunny stool, overseeing produce deliveries and designing the next month’s menu. She’d be busy and productive, thrilled to be alive.

      She sank down on a little bench, aware of an alarming—and absolutely unfamiliar—urge to cry. She recognized that she had a good chance for a healthy future if she was careful. She knew that she was lucky to be alive.

      But how did you pull yourself up and start all over? Where did people find the courage for that? It was terrifying.

      She sighed, watching mist gather and then tumble over the mountains on its way down to the valley.

       You didn’t talk. You just did it.

      Jilly squared her shoulders. No more whining or hand wringing. No more knitting angst, either. She was going out to find something fun to do. To heck with the yarnies and their cool projects.

      TEN MINUTES LATER JILLY stalked up the steps to the main lodge.

      The taxi service was unavailable. The hot tub was closed for maintenance. The tiny library didn’t open until noon. And she hated spa treatments.

      Meanwhile, the resort internet service cost twenty dollars an hour. Were they kidding?

      Jilly thought longingly of Summer Island and the bustle of the narrow cobblestone streets, where she knew everyone. There were the repairs to Harbor House to discuss with her friends, part of their ongoing plan to create a chic café and yarn shop right at the foot of the harbor. And Jilly missed Duffy. She missed his warm body on her bed and his sloppy kisses in the morning.

      She tried not to think about all the other things she should be doing, like check on her tottering business in Arizona.

      Something glinted in the sunlight. A laughing couple pedaled past her on identical red bicycles.

      Bicycles that said Lost Creek Resort.

      Who needed a taxi?

      She swung around and collared the first resort employee she could find. She could already smell the extra-large cappuccino she was going to buy in town.

      So what if it was cheating?

      THE BICYCLE FIT HER perfectly. Its old-fashioned weight made Jilly feel safe and in control.

      The wind combed through her hair as she turned onto the service drive and began to pick up speed downhill. How long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen?

      Suddenly memories hit her, hard and fast. Her first bike.

      Jilly was twelve when she’d been placed with her second foster family on Summer Island. She’d had pigtails and her own bedroom for the first time that she could remember. They’d tried to make her feel welcome, tried to show her the good points of the small, tightly knit community.

      But she hadn’t fit in. When the family had moved, Jilly had been placed again. And then again three months later. She’d never really fit in. Not until she met Grace and Caro and Olivia.

      In the course of a week Jilly had discovered what it meant to belong. That summer had changed her life, allowing her to pull down the heavy walls she had built for protection after being shifted from foster home to foster home.

      To cap the summer off, Caro’s grandmother had given her a bike, bright green with a blue basket. At first Jilly had thought it was a mistake, that it was really meant for Caro. But when she saw that Caro had an identical Schwinn, right down to the blue basket and blue seat, Jilly was speechless at the generosity. She had tried to give the bike back, only to have Caro’s grandmother frown and ask if she preferred a different color. Then Caro had gotten teary and said that if friends couldn’t give gifts to friends, what good were they anyway.

      That long, enchanted summer hung in her mind, clear as yesterday. She remembered every golden week of laughter, every shared secret. No complications, only lazy sunny days.

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