The Hundred Gifts Read online

  Praise for the Novels of Jennifer Scott

  The Accidental Book Club

  “Will have you laughing and crying at the same time.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The still-evolving relationships between the various women are touching. . . . Scott has drawn an affecting tale of family, love, and forgiveness.”

  —BookNAround

  “An entertaining read, and book clubs will enjoy the characters and the story.”

  —Drey’s Library

  “Establishes Jennifer Scott as a powerful voice in women’s fiction.”

  —Silver’s Reviews

  “Another nice read from Jennifer Scott. The characters were engaging and lively, and the issues that Jean was going through with grieving for her husband were heartbreaking and real.”

  —Luxury Reading

  The Sister Season

  “Emotionally honest and psychologically astute, The Sister Season is ultimately an uplifting story about the pull of the past, the need for forgiveness, and the redemptive power of familial love.”

  —Liza Gyllenhaal, author of Bleeding Heart

  “The Sister Season is a powerful, honest look at the harm that ripples out from every unkindness, and the strength inherent in the sisterly bond.”

  —Heidi Jon Schmidt, author of The Bride of Catastrophe

  Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

  Visit us online at penguin.com.

  “A fantastic story about the (often dysfunctional) ties of family.”

  —Examiner.com

  “Scott did a great job with these characters . . . illustrating the way sister dynamics can be so complicated.”

  —Book Addiction

  “Carefully crafted, with pivotal moments carefully placed in a solid plot that moves.”

  —The Best Reviews

  Praise for the YA Novels of Jennifer Scott Writing as Jennifer Brown

  “A compulsive read.”

  —Gail Giles, author of Girls Like Us

  “Authentic and relevant . . . one to top the charts.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “The book’s power—and its value—comes from the honest portrayal of characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “A nuanced novel. . . . Brown creates multifaceted characters as well as realistic, insightful descriptions.”

  —Booklist

  “A powerful, timely, and compulsively readable story . . . this is an excellent choice for book discussions and a must purchase for all libraries.”

  —VOYA (starred review)

  Other Books by Jennifer Scott

  The Sister Season

  The Accidental Book Club

  Second Chance Friends

  Books by Jennifer Scott Writing as Jennifer Brown

  Hate List

  Bitter End

  Perfect Escape

  Thousand Words

  NAL ACCENT

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Jennifer Brown, 2015

  Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015

  Title page photo copyright © Melpomene / Shutterstock Images

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  NAL Accent and the NAL Accent colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Scott, Jennifer, 1972–

  The hundred gifts / Jennifer Scott.

  pages cm.

  ISBN 978-0-698-18415-2

  1. Middle-aged women—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Kindness—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.C66555H86 2015

  813'.6—dc23 2015018141

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Praise

  Other Books by Jennifer Scott

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Conversation Guide

  Excerpt from The Sister Season

  About the Author

  For Scott, my gift

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Seeing my stories come to life in published books is always a gift, and just as Bren and her cooking class come together to make gifts happen for Virginia Mash, so do many people come together to make this gift happen for me. I’d like to thank some of them now.

  Thank you to Cori Deyoe for coming to every single “cooking class,” even the bad ones, when I burned the toast and the pudding was gloppy. Thank you to everyone at 3 Seas Literary Agency for your support and help along the way.

  A huge thank-you to Sandy Harding for helping me refine all of my “dishes” without once making me want to cry or upend the entire pot into the garbage. Thank you to my NAL family for continuing to support and champion my books.

  Thank you to my Jazzer-friends who inspired this story by showing me that sometimes when random women come together, a whol
e lot of fun and sharing and kindness can happen. I want to give a special thanks to my 9:30 GB Thursday girls—Becca, Kelly, and Jen Squared—for scene inspiration (you will know which one). And, of course, to Roberta, who was my “Paula,” and convinced me that I wasn’t joining a workout; I was joining a friendship. So true.

  Finally, as always, I want to thank my family, who has to, quite literally, endure my cooking, while also enduring my long hours of writing and revising. Paige, Weston, Rand, and Preston, you are homemade chicken and noodles with warm brownie sundaes for dessert, and I love you all.

  Scott, you are my crème brûlée. Of course.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was the fifth day of November, and Christmas commercials had been in full swing for weeks—sweatered, singing suburbanites holding power drills and cans of soda and Big Macs and mops as microphones and dance partners. All the stores had their decorations up, and the bell ringers were out in force, their cheerful Good mornings and You have a nice day, nows making Bren Epperson duck with guilt. Who carried cash anymore? She could hardly drop her debit card into the little red bucket.

  Ordinarily, by the fifth day of November, Bren would be rushing from store to store, clutching a list of errands so long it could garland her tree. But this year, for the first time ever, she didn’t know where she should go. Planning for the holidays was always such a pain, but not actually having holidays to plan for was maybe the loneliest prospect in the world.

  She drove around, an open box of peanut butter cookies sitting in the passenger seat next to her, the radio set to a talk station, not that Bren was actually listening to it—back-and-forthing between two local hosts, one Democrat, one Republican, tedious and typical. She could have scripted their arguments for them. But the conversation in the background gave the illusion that she was not alone in the car. They were like friends, the kind who will let a third wheel tag along, but not really ever acknowledge her. At each stoplight, she tipped up a latte that was more flavored syrup than actual coffee. So sweet it made her jaw ache.

  Stopped at a traffic light, she glanced to her left. A frazzled-looking mother and daughter sat in a minivan, the mom’s hands clutched tightly around the wheel, her eyes fixed on the red light. Her mouth was moving, her head bobbing in such a way as to suggest an argument. Every so often, the daughter, in the passenger seat, would roll her eyes, say something, gesture wildly.

  “Oh. Don’t do that,” Bren said softly, her breath fogging the driver’s-side window. “Don’t waste your time on that.” How many nights had she wished she could take back arguments she’d had with Kelsey? How many regrets did she have, even if they did get along incredibly well compared to many of Kelsey’s friends and their mothers? “Talk about good things instead. Cookies and coffee.” She held up her cup, accidentally getting the attention of the mother, who glanced across at her. Bren smiled and waved, feeling embarrassed, but also kind of good that she’d interrupted their disagreement.

  The woman gave a curious, halfhearted wave, and, to Bren’s surprise, rolled down her window.

  Bren pushed the button to lower hers, a bluster of cool air pushing right in on her.

  “Do you need something?” the woman asked.

  “Eight thousand,” Bren shouted over the noise of the traffic, the first thing to come to her mind.

  The woman’s confused look deepened. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, eight thousand six hundred and twenty, to be exact.” Bren sipped her coffee. “From Missouri to Thailand. It’s eight thousand six hundred and twenty miles.”

  “Okay?” the woman said. A car behind them honked, and both Bren and the woman checked the rearview mirrors, startled.

  “That’s where my daughter lives,” Bren said. “In Thailand. Eight thousand six hundred and twenty miles. Not door-to-door, of course. That would be even farther.”

  The woman pointed through the windshield. “The light is green,” she said.

  “Oh!” Bren sipped her coffee again as the guy behind her held down his horn. “Sure thing. You have a great day! These, by the way”—she held up her cup—“are fantastic!”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, as if she wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be feeling or how she was supposed to react. Finally, on the third honk, she roared away, her window shooting up to close out Bren.

  Bren laughed aloud, wishing she were feeling mirth rather than . . . whatever this was that she was actually feeling, and set her cup in its holder. She pulled forward just as the light turned yellow, leaving the window open so she could shout, “Merry Christmas,” to everyone she passed, just because.

  The cookies were gone, and she was still hungry. Hungrier, maybe, now that she’d pointed out three times—loudly—how very far away Kelsey was. She headed for the square.

  Vargo Square was a place that for decades had been desperately trying to be relevant in a world of strip malls and big-box stores. As county seat of Vargo County, the square was dominated not only by a massive centrally positioned courthouse, but also by the county jail, the juvenile detention center, and the sheriff’s office, and every time someone important went to trial, also by a parking lot full of news vans. Yet at the same time, the square tried fiercely to appeal to small-town sensibilities, trotting out a rolling troop of kitschy shops, breakfast joints, antiquarians, booksellers, clothiers, and shoe repairers, all of which sprouted and failed at alarming rates around the sturdy and permanent Vargo County Historical Museum, inside of which Bren had never set foot, nor had she ever known of anyone who had.

  The Hole Shebang, on the north side of the square, had been a favorite of Bren’s since the day it opened. Not just donuts—although just donuts would have been enough, because weren’t donuts always enough?—but the kind of donuts you put an “ough” into. Doughnuts. Food of the gods—that was what they were. The Hole Shebang’s specialty seemed to be putting the most absurd things in and onto their doughnuts and somehow making them sound delicious—crispy bacon brittle doughnut, buttered cracker crunch doughnut holes, candied anchovy Bismarck, long john with creamy black truffle icing. Froofy food was what Gary called it, but Bren couldn’t help feeling just a little bit worldly while noshing on a sprout fritter.

  The bell tinkled as she walked through the door, and even though she’d downed the last of her coffee before getting out of the car, and her body was positively sloshing with insulin, she couldn’t help but feel a twist of hunger at the scent of sugar in the air. It was intoxicating, and in a way overpowering. But who minded being slapped upside the head with a cloud of sweetness?

  “Good morning, Brenda,” the young man behind the counter said when she walked in. She was torn between feeling thrilled at the familiarity of being a regular—made her feel like a townie, like someone who belonged—and ashamed that she’d frequented the Hole Shebang often enough for the staff to know her by name.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will eat right, she told herself. No, today. I will eat salads for the rest of the day. Or fast. Yes, fasting is a great idea.

  “Merry Christmas, Tod,” Bren said cheerfully, wondering if she was feeling mirth yet.

  He laughed, pushing his adorable baker’s cap back on his head. “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

  “Never too early to get into the Christmas spirit,” she said.

  “Well, I suppose you have a valid point there. What sounds good today?”

  Bren tapped her bottom lip with her forefinger, contemplating what was left in the case. Not much, actually. She was a little later than usual, and the morning rush must have been heavy. “Any recommendations?”

  He leaned over the counter, peering inside, as if he alone hadn’t made all of the doughnuts and had no idea what was in there. “I’ve been playing around with a sage, potato, and pumpkin cream cheese filling.” He stubbed a finger straight down. “If you’re in the holiday spirit, it’s supposed to evoke memories of Thanksgiving dinner.”


  “Like the Gobstopper in Willy Wonka,” Bren said.

  “Huh?” He was young. Far too young to appreciate a good Gene Wilder movie reference.

  “Never mind. I’ll take one.”

  Tod pulled the doughnut out of the case and handed it to her, wrapped in a sheet of wax paper. It was still warm—their signature, and her favorite thing about the Hole Shebang doughnuts. “Enjoy!”

  She wasn’t actually sure that she would. She was not the biggest fan of sage, and for all of her bluster about Merry Christmas and Never too soon to get into the holiday spirit and so forth, she was not fooling herself. The number 8,620 flashed in her mind over and over again as she paid for the doughnut, a numerical reminder of how far away her perhaps closest child would be on Thanksgiving Day. Did she really want to evoke that image with this doughnut?

  Even though she knew Tod was watching, waiting for her to take a bite and give him feedback on his new creation, she suddenly just couldn’t do it. The caffeine and sugar had all rushed to her brain, made her nervous and forlorn. She smiled—a shaky smile that felt as though it couldn’t hold up her cheeks for longer than a few seconds—and backed through the door, thinking she would take a walk and discreetly dump the doughnut in the trash barrel in front of the vintage jewelry store around the corner. Do the right dietary thing.

  But she was only a few feet away from the Hole Shebang when she noticed a piece of paper taped to the inside of the vacant shop’s window next door. It caught her eye immediately.

  LOVE THE HOLIDAYS? LOVE TO COOK? LOVE SHARING YOUR RECIPES WITH FRIENDS AND FAMILY? THE KITCHEN CLASSROOM NEEDS A TEACHER FOR A HOLIDAY COOKING SERIES. EXPERIENCE HELPFUL BUT NOT REQUIRED. CALL PAULA 555-1454 ASAP.

  Bren read and reread the paper, her lips moving over the words. She did love all of those things. In fact, that had been her problem of late, right? It was almost too perfect that she should run across this paper on this day at this moment. She cupped her free hand and placed it against the glass, peering through the window. The shop was no longer vacant. A round, red-haired woman bustled about inside, a hammer in one hand, some nails pressed tightly between her lips.