Swallowing tightness in her throat, she rose and moved into the kitchen. She set up a pot of coffee. Twenty minutes later she was showered and dressed in a black pantsuit, white shirt, and kitten heels.

The instant she smelled the coffee, her spirits lifted. It was nowhere near euphoric, but she knew if she kept putting one foot in front of the other, she would find her way through this. That was the black magic of a strong cup of coffee. It restored souls and mended all wounds.

She filled a travel mug and was out the front door, where she found Sierra waiting for her. She was dressed in a sleeveless black sheath dress accented by a large gold necklace and chunky red heels. Her hair was swept up into a neat ponytail, and her makeup was subtle. She carried a brown retro briefcase that looked like it dated back to the sixties.

“So what’s the look you’re going for today?” Libby asked. “I’m rocking the prison matron look.”

That coaxed a small smile. “I’m the kind of woman who borrows money but doesn’t really need to because she has secret stores of cash.”

“Then why do you need a bank at all?”

“Because banks like to lend money to people who really don’t need it.”

“Ah, well then, you’ve hit the nail on the head.”

In Sierra’s car, Libby hooked her seat belt as Sierra started the engine and pulled onto the tree-lined street. “Did you get any sleep last night? When I fell asleep at one, your lights were still on.”

“I got a little,” Libby said.

“I saw Jeremy’s post. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. But I really do wish him the best. He’ll be a good father.”

“Then what’s going on with you?”

“Let’s get this loan taken care of, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”

Sierra shot her a glance and seemed to grasp that it really was better to wait on the news. “As soon as we have the deal, you spill.”

“Done.”

They arrived at the bank in Charlottesville. After circling the block twice to find parking, Sierra eased into a spot a block away. Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in front of Harold S. Mason’s desk.

In his midthirties, Harold had thinning blond hair and a round face that expanded even wider when he grinned at Sierra. His attire was a charcoal-gray suit and a crisp white shirt accented with a bold red tie.

“Welcome back, Ms. Mancuso,” Harold said.

“Thank you for working us in today.” Sierra aimed her electric smile at Harold, who was already falling under her spell.

Clearing his throat, he adjusted his tie. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Mason, you said to return if I have sufficient collateral. And I do.” Sierra quickly introduced Libby and explained the new development. “May I introduce my friend, Libby McKenzie.”

Harold’s expression changed. “McKenzie. When I was a kid growing up in Bluestone, my doctor’s name was McKenzie.”

“That was my father,” she said. “He had a thriving practice for thirty years.”

“He was my doctor until I was eighteen. I took a bad fall when I was ten, and he was at the hospital when I arrived. Nicest guy. I think my mother had a crush on him.”

Libby remembered how her mother had complained half-heartedly that the mothers of her father’s patients were always flirting with her father. He had never paid them any mind, as her mother had always been quick to say, but they had never stopped trying, even up to his retirement.

“Dad loved his patients,” she said.

Harold smiled and nodded slightly in agreement. A few clicks on his keyboard, and Harold was looking at Sierra’s file. “The collateral securing the loan is a house on First Street?” he asked.

“That’s the one,” Libby said.

“It’s a great piece of property and well maintained. And you’re sure you want to use it to fully secure the loan? Restaurants have a low success rate.”

“I have faith in Sierra,” Libby said.

Harold smiled at Sierra. “She has a clear and concise business plan.”

“Like I said, I have faith.”

An hour later, the papers were signed, and Sierra’s loan was in the works. If you had money, the banks did not mind lending.

“Welcome to the club,” Sierra said, tipping her face to the sun.

“I hear the air is sweeter there,” Libby joked.

“It is.”

Back in the car, they had traveled only a few blocks when Sierra said, “First, thank you for backing me up. It means a lot. Second, what the hell is going on with you?”

“You’re welcome. And Elaine Grant is my birth mother.”

Sierra shot a glance at her but said nothing for several seconds, her gaze locked on the road ahead. “Say that again?”

“Elaine Grant is my biological mother.” Libby said the words slowly, as if she still did not believe them herself.

“How the hell did you find that out?” Sierra asked.

“I was looking for the deed to the house, and I found a letter Olivia Carter wrote to me when I was born.”

“Are you sure you have this right?”

“Two days ago, I visited with Elaine and asked her point blank. She unconditionally confirmed it on the spot.”

“Damn.”

Libby stared out at the rolling countryside as it buzzed past. “That’s some news, isn’t it?”

“But you asked your parents about all this when you were in middle school. I remember you were bummed that they had no answers.”

Libby remembered. She had been upset, and despite their denials, she had sensed they were holding back information. And when her mother had died, all thoughts of a birth mother had been washed away in grief. Maybe on some level, Libby had associated the grilling she had given her parents with her mother’s death. Her mother had died weeks later, and her father’s devastated expression still haunted her. She had blamed herself, but he had assured her she had done nothing wrong. However, she had never asked her father again.

“Damn,” Sierra said.

“Yep.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“There’s not much I can do right now. She had to head back to DC today. I’m sure when Elaine returns, we’ll talk more.”

“Ah, yeah. She has some explaining to do.”

“Right now, I don’t want to think about it. I want to see your new building again,” Libby said.

“It wouldn’t be much to look at without your help. I don’t know how I can thank you.”

“Don’t default on the loan, and toss in free coffee. That’ll make us square.”

“Deal.”

When they parked in front of the old mercantile store, Libby tipped back her sunglasses, pulling her long hair with it. Stepping out of the car, she studied the mercantile store. Days ago, when she had walked through it, she had regarded it with a sense of nostalgia. She had seen charm, character, and possibilities. Now that she had skin in the game, she noticed the aging roof, the peeling paint on the exterior, and the broken windowpane.

“And you did have this place inspected?” Libby asked.

“Yeah. A friend from high school is a contractor now. He walked the place with me.”