An emotional and heart-warming novel from the bestselling author of TikTok sensation Pack up the Moon.
A kid walks into your bookstore and... guess what? He's your son. The one you put up for adoption eighteen years ago. The one you never told anyone about. Surprise!
And a huge surprise it is.
It's a huge surprise to his adoptive mother, Monica, who thought she had a close relationship with Matthew, her nearly adult son. Until he secretly arranged a vacation to Cape Cod so he could meet his birth mother... without a word to her.
It's also a surprise to Harlow, the woman who secretly placed him for adoption so many years ago. She has built a quiet life, running a bookstore with her grandfather, and is happily single... though she can't help gravitating toward Grady Byrne, an old friend who has moved back to town, three-year-old daughter in tow, and no wife in the picture.
When Matthew walks into Harlow's store, she faints. Monica panics. And all their assumptions about what being a parent really means explode...
This summer will be full of more surprises as both their families are redefined...and as both women learn that for them, there's no limit to a mother's love.
'A raw and genuine look at motherhood, A Little Ray of Sunshine is a lovely ode to love in all of its many forms, family lost and found' Ashley Poston, author of The Dead Romantics
I didn't ask for this," I said. "Why are you tormenting me, Addie?"
"It's a lunch date," my sister said. "Don't be such a gutless wonder."
"Cancel him." I continued placing books on the new releases table of Open Book, the store I owned with my grandfather. It was the second week of June, and the Cape Cod tourism season was just about to explode. "I'm very busy."
"Addison, stunning shoes," said Destiny, the one employee not related to me, and our resident fashionista. I glanced at my sister's shoes . . . pink leather ankle boots with snakeskin straps. Tacky, if you asked me, but I tended to wear Converse most of the time.
"Gucci," Addison said proudly. "Fifteen hundred dollars. Anyway, Harlow, he's already on his way to the Ice House. It's too late to back out. I'm doing you a favor. You want what I have. Everyone does."
Destiny gave me a pained look and went to the back to get more boxes of books.
"Goggy?" asked Imogen, my two-year-old niece. "Goggy!" She was strapped in her stroller more securely than an astronaut at countdown. Her pudgy little hands reached toward my dog. Ollie was our resident literary mascot (full name: Oliver Twist), a black-and-tan little mutt I'd rescued. He whined, rightfully wary of my niece.
"Doggy is dirty, Imogen," Addie said. "Dirty dog. Nasty."
"Oliver is not dirty," I said, slicing open another box. Oh, good, the new Susan Elizabeth Phillips book! "He's afraid of your demon child."
"She's an angel," Addie lied cheerfully. "Harlow, I'm happily married, have two beautiful daughters and live in a stunning home."
"Yay for you."
"You're dying of envy. You too, Cynthia," she said to our cousin, the third partner of Open Book. Cynthia hissed in response. For once, I agreed with her. "You need to take action to fulfill your dreams," Addie continued. "Put on some lipstick." She pulled out a tube and offered it to me. "You can't stand him up. What would that do to his ego?"
I looked down at myself, clad in my usual jeans and snarky T-shirt (Books: Because people are horrible, a bestseller at my store). Dressing up for me meant combing my curly blond hair so it didn't drift into the snarl zone. "Lipstick, Addie? I haven't worn lipstick since high school. And why would I care about his ego? You go. Explain that you're a pushy, irritating sister who thinks she found the secret to happiness."
"I have, though."
I sighed. Once, I had indeed pictured myself married with a few kids. Then adulthood hit, and I wised up. That being said, I was starving, and the Ice House had the best burgers on the East Coast.
"Go," said Addison. "I can hear your stomach growling. You can eat and maybe meet your future husband."
"Some of us are happily single, Addie. Right, Cynthia?"
"I prefer not to discuss my private life, but yes, I'm fine with my own company." My brother had suggested that Cynthia ate her first husband, praying mantis style. Given the perpetually sour expression on our sixty-something-year-old cousin's face, her general hatred of humanity and her resemblance to Dolores Umbridge from Harry Potter, I could definitely agree.
My stomach growled again. The image of a massive, juicy burger tipped the scales. "Okay. But he's normal, right?"
"He seemed normal enough on his profile. If he's a serial killer, he hid it well."
"They all hide it well," I said. "That's the reason they're serial killers."
"You read too much," said my sister.
"I own a bookstore, and it's hardly a character flaw."
Cynthia stomped past. "That baby is chewing on a sixty-five-dollar book," she said. Imogen had wriggled a shoulder free and was laying waste to a book on photography.
"She's very advanced," Addie said. "Aren't you, Imogen?"
"Is she rich, though?" I asked. "Can she afford what she's eating?"
My niece smiled at me, then spit out some paper. Imogen was my sister's biological baby, the image of her (and our sister Lark, since she and Addie were identical twins). Straight blond hair, big green eyes, adorable little nose, entitled attitude. Addie's other daughter, Esme, was her wife's biological child, age five. Addison and Nicole used the same sperm donor, so the girls were half sisters, all according to Addie's plan. The universe would never defy her.
While my job had me interact with children quite a bit, I wasn't the most baby-oriented person. I'd probably like my nieces more when they were teenagers. At least the girls had my sisters-sweet, sensitive Lark; and Winnie, crusty on the surface but with a gooey center. Robbie, our brother, who was ten years younger than I, liked to see how high he could toss a kid, hopefully catching them on the way down. Add to that our parents and sweet grandfather, and the kids were all set. I didn't need to be aunt of the year.
"Did I hear someone say I had a date for lunch?" Grandpop asked, wandering in from the back room. "Wonderful!"
"Can you all just go?" Cynthia asked. "This is hardly a professional discussion. And try not to take too long. The rest of us are also entitled to a lunch break."
"Go ahead," said Destiny, coming back into the room with a box in her arms. She set it down with a thud. "Hardcover James Patterson," she said. "Cynthia and I can unpack and arrange."
"Wish Auntie Harlow luck, Imogen," Addie said. "Tell her not to bite the nice man."
"Pay for that book," I told my sister, grabbing my backpack from under the counter.
"I love lunch!" Grandpop said merrily. "And I'm famished! What should I have?"
"A cheeseburger," I said.
"Too much fat and salt," Cynthia said.
"So? He's ninety," I said, pushing the door open. Grandpop could eat whatever he wanted. My grandmother had been gone for three years now, and if a cheeseburger killed Grandpop, well, was there a better way to go? "Come on, Grandpop."
The screen door banged behind us. Open Book was that store people dreamed of owning. Housed in the three-story Victorian that had been in the family since 1843, the store had been founded in the 1980s by my grandmother. Inside, it was cheery and snug with lots of alcoves and cozy corners, a fireplace and places to sit, a little coffee bar and gift area. The children's section was in the sunny, enclosed front porch.
Outside, the garden burst with hostas and ferns, columbine and astilbe and little blue forget-me-nots. We had a couple of granite benches for scenic reading spots, and a brick pathway led to the street. It was an unofficial law that businesses in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, had glorious window boxes, gardens and, whenever possible, a resident dog. We hit all those notes, plus we had Grandpop, Wellfleet's most-loved citizen.
I slid my arm through my grandfather's, since he tended to wander. Grandpop was my favorite person, and it truly was a beautiful day to be out-clear blue sky, a breeze off the water. Main Street was in peak form . . . pink, red and white rhododendrons just now coming into full glory, the crooked old buildings awash in character and charm.
Wellfleet was my hometown, and my three sisters and brother all lived in the area. Our parents owned Long Pond Arts, a well-respected gallery that featured Mom's paintings and a few from other local artists. We Smiths knew all the locals, and most of the regular summer people, who were always so glad to be on the Cape. Robbie was a boat mechanic. Winnie had just bought into an event planning business. Lark was doing her residency at Hyannis Hospital. And Addison, the only one of us who had gotten married so far, was a stay-at-home mom, living comfortably on her wife's wealth. Nicole, Addison's soulmate in materialism, superiority and self-love, worked for her family's foundation.
I was the quiet one. The eldest. The responsible one. The one who'd cook for you if you were sick, drive if you needed a ride. I was the one who was always around-ironic, given that I'd gone to college out West and lived in Los Angeles for a few years. For the past decade, though, I'd lived in an apartment over the bookstore, kept an eye on Grandpop and was happily turning into the clichéd bookish spinster. It was a quiet, good life, and I planned to keep it that way.
"Speaking of dates," Grandpop said, "I think I want to get married again. I do! Yesterday, I took a nap under the porch for two hours, and no one even missed me."
"I wondered where you'd gone," I said. "Why under the porch?"
"It looked very cozy."
I nodded, understanding the allure. Dark, private, cool . . . I might have to give it a try.
"Will you help me find someone?" he asked.
"Sure!"
Grandpop and Grammy had been very happily married for more than six decades, setting the bar high. My parents, too, had an idyllic marriage, to the point where their five children and two grandchildren were very much afterthoughts in their day-to-day lives. If Grandpop wanted my help, he'd get it. When Grammy died and left me fifty percent of the store, he and I became closer than ever.
"What are you looking for in a person?" I asked.
"Someone who can talk loud enough for me to hear, first of all."
"If you wore your hearing aids, we could widen the net," I said. He chuckled. "You're serious about this, Grandpop?"
"Why not? Life is short! Actually, life is horribly long, Harlow! I thought I'd be dead and buried at least twenty years ago."
"Well, I'm glad you're not," I said.
"Did you know," Grandpop said, "last week, I went for a drive and forgot where I was!" He announced it as if it were a delightful surprise. "I got lunch somewhere . . . Orleans, maybe? That crowded place with all the signs?"
"The Land Ho! probably," I said.
"Yes! That one! Anyway, after I ate, I was feeling a little sleepy, so I got in my car and took a nap. But it turns out it wasn't my car! The owners were very nice, though. A little surprised to find me, but they were very friendly."
"Didn't we talk about you not driving anymore, Grandpop?" I asked. "Cynthia and I can take you wherever you want to go." He was her godfather, and we called her our cousin, though how she was related was a mystery. She called Grandpop "Uncle Robert," and Grandpop actually liked her, because he liked everyone.
"We did talk about it," he said. "I just felt like taking a spin. Gosh, it's a lovely day, isn't it?" Grandpop asked. "I just love August."
"Me too," I said. "But it's June."
"Is that right? Goodness. Time flies." He smiled at me, making me glad he was coming along. Always dressed in trousers and a shirt, vest and tie and still standing at six feet tall, Grandpop was a dapper gentleman, and his kindness shone from his faded blue eyes.
We got to the Ice House, and Beth, the owner and a member of my book club, waved to me. "Just you and your handsome grandfather today, Harlow?" she asked.
"Oh, aren't you a charmer, Beth," Grandpop said. "Are you making a pass at me? I am looking to get married again."
"Are you?" Beth said, grinning. "Well, if my husband leaves me, you'd be my first choice. Where would you two like to sit?"
"Actually, I'm meeting someone," I said, grimacing. "Grandpop, would you like to sit at the bar and flirt with Beth here?"
"I would love that!" Grandpop exclaimed. "I so enjoy talking to pretty girls!"
"And I love talking to charming older men," Beth answered. "Sit wherever you want, Harlow, and Tanner will be over in a few."
I took a seat facing the door so I could see . . . oh, shoot. I didn't know his name. I took out my phone to text Addison, but she'd beat me to it.
Pete Schultz, data analyst, divorced, no kids, likes fishing, boating, the Patriots. He knows you have four incredibly attractive siblings and dropped out of law school. Should be worth a second date.
We'd see about that. Thus far in my adult life, I had not had a meaningful, committed relationship. I wasn't averse to one, but I wasn't looking, either. If, say, Keanu Reeves dropped into the bookstore one day and begged me to marry him, I would definitely consider it.
But dating? I'd tried it in my late twenties. Ugh. The work, the profiles, the texting, then calling, then meeting, only to find you didn't hit it off. The longest I'd dated someone was two and a half weeks-Jake, a plumber from Hyannis. That ended when he had to go on an emergency call for an overflowing toilet and left me with his seven-year-old child (previously unmentioned), who needed babysitting because his wife (also unmentioned) was out.
Tanner, Beth's nephew and my server, came over with menus. I ordered a glass of prosecco to make this meeting more pleasant and the cheeseburger du jour. No need to wait for my, uh, companion. My stomach growled with appreciation.
"Got it," he said.
Destiny texted me. Anything to report?
He's not here, I texted back. Praying for a no-show. Only in this for the cheeseburger.
Ah. My parents had just walked in, holding hands, looking like an ad for Cape Cod living-Mom with her long, curly blond hair streaked with gray, sparkling brown eyes, and Dad tall and with a tan that made his blue eyes stand out, still with a great head of salt-and-pepper hair. I waved. They didn't wave back but walked right past me. This was not uncommon, as they were usually wrapped up in each other and the cloud of satisfaction that engulfed them. "Hello, Mother, Father," I said. Mom jumped.
"Oh! Harlow. We didn't see you there," Mom said.
"Hello, honey," Dad said. "Having lunch?"
"Yes," I said. "And you?"
"Also lunch." We smiled at each other.
"Well. Have a good time," Mom said, and off they went to a table in the back where they could play footsies and coo at each other.
Growing up with parents who were so blatantly in love had been . . . impactful. On the one hand, they really liked and loved each other, were openly and sometimes horrifyingly affectionate and were always a united front as parents. As an adult, I couldn't quite figure them out. The whole town was infatuated with my parents' marriage. I saw your parents kissing in the Memorial Garden, a customer or friend might say. So romantic. Or I cannot believe your parents still hold hands. So romantic. Or Your father just bought your mom a necklace. So romantic. "Showing off" was what Winnie, my youngest sister, called it, and she had a point. It was a little attention-grabbing. That time they were trying for a quickie in the coatroom at church just before Esme's baptism, for example.
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