Danger and romance on the rugged cliffs of Maine’s coastline.
Excerpt
PROLOGUE
“You’re hiding from me, Margaret.”
Megan clutched the phone and slid to her knees, the tremors in her limbs rendering them useless.
“It’s only a matter of time.” His voice had the sinister resonance of an executioner uttering the words, any last requests?
Cradled in Megan’s lap, the Glock felt heavy against her thigh as uncooperative fingers gripped the handle.
“You can’t live, Margaret.”
Those raspy words incited a very obliging finger to loop through the trigger.
“I know this cell phone is being forwarded, Maggie. That poses only a slight inconvenience.”
A low hum of static filled Megan’s ear, similar to the sound of an electrical tower. She tried to place the sound. Did it divulge his location in any way? Was he close? Panic wormed into her throat, preventing her from responding, although being mute was the best option. Any response would have been verbal confirmation that he had located her, and she wouldn’t give him that one triumph.
“It took some doing to even locate this number.” He paused. “Don’t worry, though, your mother was not hurt.”
Megan’s teeth bit down on her lower lip to contain her scream. She tasted blood.
“Sleep tight, Maggie. I will see you soon.”
There was no audible click, but the humming had ceased. All that was left was the ragged sound of Megan’s breath, and the pounding of the boxer scoring a victory knockout inside her chest.
Megan dropped the phone on the floor and picked up the weapon. So many nights she had clutched it tight enough that her palm was permanently indented from the pattern of the handle.
But, this night was different. For one year the phone had remained silent, and at no point in the last three hundred-some days did she let up. Never once was she lulled into security by his silence, knowing that this night would come.
Megan took a deep breath. She had a lot of work to do.
CHAPTER I
Victory Cove, ME
Dear Jake,
Illness and the need for you to understand your heritage have finally given me the courage to write to you. I know you went to good parents. I have my mother to thank for that. I want you to find her, Jake. I want you to find my Mother. Her name is Estelle Wakefield.
I wish I had an admirable reason for not contacting you sooner, something valiant like I didn’t want to disturb your life. But, the truth is simply guilt.
I loved you, son. In my dreams, I still see the gold in your eyes, eyes that looked so much like your father’s. If only you had known him.
It’s hard for me to write now. I have to end this letter. Find Estelle, Jake. Find Estelle, and find your heritage.
That was how it started.
A mysterious letter from a woman who after thirty-five years of silence, finally decided to make contact with her alleged son.
Now eight hours from home, Jake Grogan was following futile Internet directions to a town that didn’t even register on Travelquest.
Was he insane?
Also adopted, Jake’s sister, Sara, was mostly to blame for this crazy endeavor. Hell, she practically pushed him out the door with the useless map in hand. But her enthusiasm spurred on Jake’s curiosity.
Something in the woman’s words, the woman in the letter, the woman who claimed to be his mother. Something sounded so poignant. So mysterious. It was worth investigating.
Or maybe he was just looking for an excuse to leave Boston for awhile. The Harbor Tower Project which he had slaved over for more than a year was finally complete. To that very same project he had sacrificed a relationship, like offering up a virgin to the voracious manufacturing Gods.
Well, she was no virgin.
Perhaps this trip was just self-amnesty for a lifestyle that kept him too busy to pay attention to those around him.
Or he was just damn curious.
It must have been Jake’s fifth pass down the same road. Victory Cove had one main thoroughfare, an elevated street scarred with potholes big enough to swallow a small child. Antique shops and restaurants lined one side, and a craggy shoreline tapered off the other as successive gray waves sprayed against the shore. Lobster boats cosseted together, bobbed in the swells waiting for spring and their grand release from the jetty.
Grayson Path.
The gas station attendant said that Wakefield House was on Grayson Path.
Rain plastered the windshield, the wipers ineffective against the deluge. Jake leaned forward and squinted until the profile of a lighthouse was visible atop a rocky sea cliff. Tall, with a white masonry surface, its lantern and gallery painted black, Jake waited a breath for the beacon to flash, dismayed when it remained dark.
Past the lighthouse. You can’t miss it.
Jake rubbed a hand through his hair, which was still damp from his last stop. He went nearly seven miles before he saw the rutted trail in the grass.
Grayson Path.
Nature’s potholes jostled the vehicle as Jake pressed forward, twisting down into a deep ravine. He pulled up to a narrow wooden bridge and idled with his foot on the brake. A plank was missing in the middle, and he swore the whole structure listed to the right. It was the sorriest assembly he had ever seen and he wouldn’t dare walk across it, let alone drive his Jeep. Yet, it marked just one of many quirky obstacles in this challenge.
Hands fisted around the steering wheel, Jake cautiously tapped the gas. Amazingly, the structure held up, and for one brief moment he caught a glimpse of the bloodthirsty mouth of the Atlantic to his left. Maybe the water was only a thin strip beneath this narrow bridge, but not too far away lie an entire ocean just ready to lash out with her sodden tendrils.
Another few miles and there was not even a tree to be found on this barren vista of craggy rocks and dead grass. Just as Jake contemplated turning around, the path began to widen. One more incline and he reached a clearing, a plateau that overlooked the Atlantic.
And there sat Wakefield House.
Through the swish of wiper blades it was hard to see, but the Victorian mansion was large, guarded in front by the remnants of a wrought iron gate, the ornamental pattern of metal closely resembling a spider web. The remainder of the fence was long gone, making the crooked gateway a droll deterrent. The house itself stood two stories, with a steeply pitched roof for an apparent third floor, atop which sat a cylindrical turret offering a panoramic view from its ring of portholes. Gable windows with black louvered shutters looked like hooded eyes, and the dark-planked stairs to the front door, a yawning mouth, ready to swallow.
As he walked up the path and felt the tug of the coastal wind, Jake thought the railing most likely had been yanked from its moorings by nature’s vacuum, that yawning chasm off the cliff that churned with froth, begging to be fed.
Jake shook off a chill.
Opening the screen panel, he knocked on the front door and had the sense that he was being watched. A glance at a nearby window confirmed it as he caught the disarranged curtain sway back into neat pleats.
He rapped on the door again.
It was a big house, and Estelle must be an elderly woman, possibly hard of hearing, but someone was in there. He would damn well knock until his knuckles bled.
The woman that yanked open the front door was neither deaf nor old. She was young, gorgeous, and apparently quite ticked off.
“Hi.” Jake made an attempt at amiable.
“Who are you?” She demanded.
Jake saw the white turtle neck, worn jeans and socked toes, but his glance hefted back up to collide with crystal blue eyes that were vibrant around the edges, yet dark and soulful at their core.
“I’m looking for Estelle Wakefield.”
She caught his brief perusal and returned the assessment, meeting his stare head on, her lips thinning in disapproval””or was it apprehension?
“She doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Oh.”
Pain pulsed in Jake’s head. The beginning stages of a migraine. To his surprise, the woman was pushing the door closed. His hand shot out in reflex to stop her.
“Wait.”
“What?” Her cheeks paled.
“Do you know where she is? I’ve come a long way.”
Her sharp glance flicked past Jake to his Jeep which was scarred by splashes of mud and grime. She met his eyes again and Jake nearly felt moved to touch her. She was actually trembling. He could see it in the white hand that clutched the front door, and the soft bottom lip that lost circulation under her unnerved bite.
Jake was intrigued by the woman, but he was here for one reason. That reason sure as hell didn’t involve lusting after a jittery female in faded jeans with a chip on her shoulder that could keep Hershey’s in business for a year.
“Please. Do you have any information?” He persisted more gruff than intended.
Her grip didn’t relax, but she released her bottom lip and Jake had to force himself not to stare as the blood flowed back into it.
“Why are you looking for Estelle?” The question was presented more like an accusation.
Jake didn’t really want to spill the whole crazy story that delivered him to this moment, but with this suspicious creature, he didn’t think he’d get away with anything short of the truth.
“She’s my grandmother.”
The woman started to shut the door again.
“Wait!”
She hesitated at his outburst, and finally drew in a deep breath. The gesture pushed her breasts against a sweater that was much too big for her thin body.
“Estelle has no grandchildren.” She said. “I don’t know who you are, but you better leave now.”
Or else what? Was she going to call the cops?
Jake took a quick survey of the desolate property. Yeah, they’d be here in what, three hours?
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How can you be certain she had no grandchildren? Are you a relative?”
The woman sighed. Her knuckles were still white from her death grip on the frame. Jake made note that there was no gold ring on her finger.
“Estelle had one daughter who was barren.” She declared.
That tripped him up for a second, but he pressed on. “Okay, where can I find her daughter then?”
An odd look passed through those crystalline eyes. “You can’t.” She measured him, and then added softly, “she passed away last week.”
For a moment Jake felt a flash of pain. Or was it disappointment? Maybe it was just the doused flame of hope? Whatever it was, he was overwhelmingly saddened.
“She’s dead?”
He had no idea what the look was on his face, but it must have had an effect on the stranger gripping the door. Her hand dropped like a fallen leaf. She did not step back. She still used her body as a barricade, forbidding admission.
“But” Jake cleared his throat, “she wrote to me, claiming to be my Mother. She told me to come here and find Estelle Wakefield, my” futility dropped the word, “-my Grandmother.”
Whether the woman bought any of this or not, he simply didn’t care. He was too tired and preoccupied to acknowledge her reaction.
“Look,” she explained with less of an edge to her tone. “Estelle is in town. At the Candlelight Center.”
“Candlelight Center?”
“It’s a home for the elderly.” The woman hesitated. She cocked her head to the side; the gesture sweeping the silky hair away from a porcelain cheek blushed by the wind. “She has Alzheimer’s. She’s been there for over a year now.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Jake’s head snapped up. For a moment he thought he heard regret in her voice, but when he met that implacable gaze he realized he must have imagined it.
“Yeah, so am I.”
Jake dawdled, searching for something to add. “Well, thank you for your time, Miss”
“You’re welcome.” She cut him off.
Then, with husky finality she added, “Good bye.” as the door closed in Jake’s face.
He had been driving for eight hours, nine if you counted that last effort to locate Wakefield House, and for what, to have some sexy woman with a short fuse slam the door in his face? Jake was tempted to head back to Boston, but his sister would accuse him of “˜wimping’ out.
Okay, he would put the effort in. Tomorrow he would go to this Candlelight Center, but as for tonight, it was getting late. Now, more than anything, he needed a drink and aspirin.
The rain stopped and the sun was just about to set, with rose bands of twilight blanketing the Atlantic as Jake was able to glimpse a little more of the landscape than he had on the trek in. He passed the giant lighthouse, an eerie exclamation point above the cliffs. It stood as a solitary sentry, channeling the ghosts of ships that had passed by centuries ago into the cove.
Jake realized his foot came off the gas pedal as he stared at the statuesque silhouette, entranced by this image that transcended time. Snapping out of his exhausted stupor, he tapped the gas and wound down the next knoll. The road veered to the right and disappeared around a bend, and if not for his headlights he might have just plodded forward, diving nose first into the ocean. Jarred by his lack of focus, Jake braked and noticed the bright, hand-painted sign.
O’Flanagans Inn ¼ mile.
Maybe it was the vibrant colors, or more likely the sketch of a beer mug (yeah, definitely the beer mug) regardless, Jake’s curiosity was piqued enough to check it out. He wasn’t disappointed when he found the pub and Inn. It was exactly what he needed, drink and sleep.
The white-stucco fasade and its wooden framework gave the Inn a Tudor flair making it feel like he had been transported to a Scottish village. A hand-painted sign dangled from chains atop the black door reading, O’FLANAGANS in dark green letters with gold stenciling. This Inn looked like it catered to the ghostly sailors that the lighthouse had just guided in over the sandbars, but Jake was not as unsettled by it as he had been by Wakefield House. He was exhausted. And he was hungry.
To hell with the Tower Project. To hell with Jessica and her addiction to his income. Damn, he was still trying to decipher credit card statements and figure out what the heck ‘eyelash transplant’ surgery was. And yes, to hell with this juvenile search for a Mother that never wanted him.
To hell with them all.
Jake yanked open the front door and was immediately blasted by an aromatic wave of lobster bisque and yeast followed by a surge of heat from an overhead heater. There were not many people in the dimly lit interior, but the few who were there swung in their seats to gape at him.
Definitely not like the city.
Jake tucked his head down and sidled up to the long oak bar, craving anonymity. His shoe rested on the brass rung at its base as he stared at the ornate beer taps.
“What’ll it be?”
Jake’s head jerked up. A cute, very pregnant woman gave him a congenial smile. She looked to be as far along as his sister, Sara.
Heck, what was going on eight months ago? A power outage? A big snowstorm?
What was he doing eight months ago? The Harbor Tower project was in full swing. Jake had been contracted as its chief electrical engineer. Eight months ago, he was immersed knee deep in blueprints, wiring schematics, and political headaches. There was no chance of him getting anyone pregnant. Not only was there the time constraint, but he had just come off the year-long relationship with Jessica and couldn’t even conceive of the fact that he should jump right back into the saddle, so to speak.
Selfish had been one of the least profane terms his ex had used to describe him. Of course, she used the adjective as she systematically emptied their shared townhouse of anything her glue-tipped fingers could latch onto. In her defense, he was too consumed with work to spend enough quality time cultivating their relationship, but one could argue that she preferred his money to his company any day.
“A Sam Adams.” Jake answered, distracted.
The bartender reached for the tap and plopped down a frosted mug before him.
“Rena?” A voice boomed to Jake’s right.
“Hi, Harriet.” The bartender grinned.
“Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours? He was supposed to be ovah an hour ago to fix my sink.”
Jake watched the bartender flick her wrist to look at her watch. “The stock market only closed a half hour ago. He’ll be downstairs shortly,” she assured.
Harriet Morgan dropped onto the stool next to Jake, her yellow slicker pouring a puddle on the floor around her. She flipped back the hood and cast a long, curious stare at him.
Jake felt himself dissected by the rotund woman. Her gray-blonde hair was tousled into a mild state of chaos, and her puffy cheeks nearly obscured the intense eyes that watched him unblinkingly. She looked like a fat owl.
“Who are you?”
Ah yes, another one of Victory Cove’s congenial citizens.
Jake took a sip of his beer. “Just passing through, ma’am.”
Harriet snorted and looked across the bar. “Serena, quit dawdling, where’s my beer?”
The bartender, Serena, smiled and reached for a mug.
Harriet’s probing gaze jabbed at Jake again. He tried to avoid it. He looked behind the bar at the wide mirror with photographs taped to it. Climbing above that collage, Jake searched the rows of bottles, the ones on the uppermost shelf coated with dust. The pleasant ding of the antique cash register caught his attention as the bartender rang up a sale. She turned just before a plop of water from a freshly cleaned mug landed on the tarnished machine.
“So just taking in the sights, huh?” Harriet persisted.
“Yeah, something like that.” He took another swig of beer.
Jake felt the old woman’s eyes on his attire. His jeans were splattered with mud from the knees down, and the pullover sweater was still moist on the shoulders. Another unladylike snort shot out of Harriet’s nose.
“Mistah, no one comes to Victory Cove this time of year to see the sights.”
“Harriet.” Serena admonished.
“No.” She held up a puffy hand, red and chapped. “This man looks like he’s got a story to tell.”
The bartender chuckled. “And you’re just the person to draw it out of him.”
Jake sighed and looked around, hoping for someone to come in and rescue him from this female inquisition. The bar was empty now, and only a newscaster chatted away on the TV up in the corner.
“I have no story to tell.” Jake tried for a menacing inflection, hoping to dissuade them, but, to his dismay the big woman in the slicker turned in her stool and gave him her full attention. She set her meaty paws down on her knees and leaned forward.
“When did you get into town?”
“This afternoon.”
“It is this afternoon. Did you come right to O’Flanagans?”
“No. One stop.” Why the hell did he say that?
“Where?”
Stubborn, Jake remained mute, although no one beat Harriet in the mulish department.
“Where?” She repeated, and looked him over again as if she could sum up his trek by the shade of mud on his jeans.
“Wakefield House,” he blurted.
Why the hell not? Maybe this intrusive female could give him some answers.
“Ahhh.” Her gray eyebrow shot up and she sat back. “Visiting the Summers girl, where ya?”
“The Summers girl?”
“Megan.” Harriet lifted the frosted mug to her mouth, and in the matter of three long gulps, half the liquid disappeared.
Megan Summers. So the mysterious woman with an attitude had a pretty name to go along with her pretty face.
Jake leaned an elbow on the bar and considered Harriet with renewed interest. “I don’t know any Megan. I was looking for Estelle Wakefield.”
Harriet slammed down her beer. “What the hell would you want to do that for?”
Jake was startled by her outburst. Startled and curious. Curious enough to divulge, “She may be my Grandmother.”
“Whoa-hoah.” Harriet polished off the rest of her beer and shoved the mug forward. “Rena, get me anothah, and get Mr.”
“Grogan.” Jake obliged. “Jake Grogan.”
“Get Mr. Grogan anothah too.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I have to drive yet. I’ve got to find some place to sleep.”
Harriet snorted again. “You ain’t goin nowhere, Mistah. Right, Rena?”
Another Sam Adams plopped down before Jake as Serena grinned. “Mr. Grogan, the entire second floor of the Inn could be yours for a very reasonable price. I don’t get many tourists this time of year.” She pushed Harriet’s mug across the bar. “Why, if you can help Brett fix Harriet’s sink, the price will be even lower.”
Jake felt he had taken a turn into the surreal. Perhaps that last sharp turn on the road took him to a parallel universe. He glanced from the pregnant bartender’s smiling face, to the puffed up bird of a woman sitting next to him. Outside, the Atlantic’s gusty wail assaulted the pub, the high-pitched screech enough to dissuade anyone from venturing into the night.
What the hell?
He lifted his mug. “How can I turn down a deal like that?”
Copyright 2010 Maureen A. Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Post a Comment