The path to love...
Can only start with the truth
Edward Smith has too many questions about the sudden death of his adoptive father in Sweet Pine Key. He needs help—and down-to-earth detective Monica Cortez could be the key to finding answers. But their search will uncover more than just the truth. It could reveal the kind of love that transforms a solitary heart...and leads Edward to the family he’s always longed for.
“The person I’m interested in is you, Monica...
“It’s just I’ve never had much family to bond with. No one has ever been as important in my life as my father was. But that’s not saying that someone else couldn’t be.”
Edward held Monica transfixed with his gaze.
His eyes met hers, and in the sparse light it was as if their energy closed the inches that separated them and became one constant, undeniable connection. “You do know what I’m saying, don’t you?” he asked, his voice soft and husky.
She did know. The feeling was new and different and as exciting as it was wonderful. Edward made her feel cherished and appreciated. She loved this feeling.
Monica had worked hard to prove that she was determined enough to succeed with her career. But now, in the moonlight with Edward, she felt good about just being herself...a woman for all the right reasons. And someone special in Edward’s eyes...
Dear Reader,
Diversity is a fact of life. Differences enrich our lives and help us to understand and accept varying cultures and traditions. Never is this more important than in the area of romance. I hope you enjoy exploring the journey of Edward and Monica, two people who come from different worlds and yet share common bonds that help them grow together in spite of adversity.
Both Edward and Monica made promises to people they loved, and both were determined to keep their word, even if it meant that doing so would disrupt their future together. Both were seekers of the truth, even if that truth was hard to believe in. But they persevered in the face of tragedy and never gave up supporting each other. Their mutual respect and admiration and, of course, a growing love, brought these two together to find the solution each needed. Edward found the family he’d never had. And Monica found the one man she’d always waited for.
Was it an easy journey? No. True love hardly ever is. But I hope the ending will bring a smile and a tear and a belief in dreams.
I love to hear from readers. Contact me at [email protected].
Happy everything,
Cynthia
A Family Man at Last
Cynthia Thomason
Cynthia Thomason inherited her love of writing from her ancestors. Her father and grandmother both loved to write, and she aspired to continue the legacy. Cynthia studied English and journalism in college, and after a career as a high school English teacher, she began writing novels. She discovered ideas for stories while searching through antiques stores and flea markets and as an auctioneer and estate buyer. Cynthia says every cast-off item from someone’s life can ignite the idea for a plot. She writes about small towns, big hearts and happy endings that are earned and not taken for granted. And as far as the legacy is concerned, just ask her son, the magazine journalist, if he believes. You can contact Cynthia at [email protected] and cynthiathomason.net.
Books by Cynthia Thomason
Harlequin Heartwarming
Twins Plus One
Baby Makes Four
A Man of Honor
The Cahills of North Carolina
High Country Christmas
Dad in Training
High Country Cop
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This book is dedicated to two unique women—my outspoken and loving sister-in-law from England, Sally Anne Brackett, and my talented and spiritual daughter-in-law from Israel, Yafi Yair.
Contents
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
EPILOGUE
EXCERPT FROM WHERE THE HEART MAY LEAD BY ELIZABETH MOWERS
CHAPTER ONE
YESTERDAY HAD BEEN the longest day of the thirty-five years Edward Smith had been on this earth. And that included the months he’d spent in juvenile detention for assorted crimes and misdemeanors. And the times he’d gone thirty-six hours without sleep while studying for college exams. The longest day and the worst day.
Edward had driven down to Sweet Pine Key two nights ago to see his father. He came from Miami as often as he could, usually at least once a month. His weekends in Sweet Pine were a chance to unwind from his high-pressure job. No one could maintain an uncomfortable stress level in the Florida Keys. Here, life was laid-back, easygoing, warm and sunny.
And, of course, these weekends gave him a chance to visit with the man he most admired in his life—William Smith, a former judge and the man who’d changed Edward’s life by adopting him, a foster kid who’d been kicked around the system until he faced a future as bleak as his past had been.
Edward had arrived at his father’s large pine home in Monroe County around nine o’clock on July 3, a steamy Friday night. He’d found the judge sitting in his library sipping on a whiskey while he awaited the arrival of his only son. They’d talked for a couple of hours before Edward excused himself and went up to bed. They still had two days to catch up before Edward had to return to Miami and the patients that waited for him there.
A bit after dawn on Saturday, Edward had walked out to the dock of Smitty’s In and Out Marina, the name his father had given the enterprise he’d purchased when he retired from the bench in South Carolina. Edward had been certain he’d gotten out of bed ahead of his father. He’d planned to have the rental boats gassed and ready for customers before William wandered out with his cup of coffee in his hand. Though Edward had never quite fit in with the Keys lifestyle, while he was here he liked to help.
It had been a beautiful morning. The sun slanted rays of promise over the Gulf of Mexico, and Edward looked forward to a day of calm water and warm breezes. What Edward hadn’t planned to see was his father’s body floating facedown in the Gulf of Mexico, his shirt torn and a fragment of it wrapped around a bolt supporting a piling under the dock. If not for that bit of cloth, William Smith might have floated off with the tide and been halfway to Texas by now.
And so, on that beautiful July morning in the Florida Keys, Edward had felt himself gut-punched and gasping for breath. He lifted his father’s face from the murky depths and saw the lifeless eyes open and staring, the weathered skin of his cheeks suddenly colorless from overexposure to saltwater. He leaned over the dock and retched before taking his cell phone from his pocket and dialing 911.
Confusion and shock muddled Edward’s brain. Clear thinking evaded him despite his being so closely connected to the Miami-Dade County Police Department. Something instinctive told him to avoid more contact with the body. “Don’t disturb evidence,” he said to himself. But why did it take so bloody long for the police to arri
ve?
The Monroe County Sheriff’s Department sent a squad car and two cops to investigate. They were local guys who dealt mostly with neighborhood crime on Sweet Pine Key. Finding a body was a big deal to them, since murders were few on the quiet island.
They’d questioned Edward for a short while, then declared the death an open-and-shut case.
“No evidence of foul play,” Officer Roland Patterson had said. “Of course, the coroner will have to validate that.”
“I’d say the judge just slipped and fell off,” his partner, Bobby Cashiers, said.
Edward wanted to shout at them, but common sense dictated that yelling at the lead investigators would be a mistake. But they’d come to this conclusion based on what? “That’s it?” he said. “You’re declaring this an accident?”
“That’s the way it appears to me,” Roland said. “No doubt this is a shame, but it’s no secret that your father was known to tip a few. Yesterday being a Friday night and all, he might have been staring at the bottom of a bottle by the time the sun went down.”
Sure his father drank a few on the weekends. He no longer worked on the bench, and he was exactly where he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Besides, who didn’t drink in the Keys? But that didn’t mean he was a sloppy drunk who would fall off his own dock.
“I didn’t get here until almost nine,” Edward said. “Dad was fine then. Yeah, he’d had a couple, but no one has ever even hinted that William Smith couldn’t hold his liquor.” Edward held his temper as best he could, but he desperately needed to find an explanation for the inexplicable.
“What time was it when you last saw your father after you arrived?” one of the officers asked.
“I went to bed around eleven.”
“Is that the usual routine for you and the judge? Have a drink or two and then you leave him and go up to bed?”
“I guess so,” Edward said. “Sometimes Dad went to bed before I did, but I wanted to be up early to get the rental boats ready.”
“You never heard the judge go to bed?” Roland asked.
Most everyone on the key called William Smith “the judge.” That was what he’d been for over thirty years, before he’d followed his dream to own a marina in paradise. And folks who didn’t call him “the judge” called him “Smitty,” after the name he’d given his beloved marina.
“I didn’t hear him come up the stairs,” Edward said. “Maybe he stayed up a while to read.”
“Or other things,” Bobby Cashiers said. His implication was clear.
“He wasn’t drunk!” Edward proclaimed. “We had a perfectly normal, sober conversation for two hours. After our talk, he returned the whiskey bottle to the liquor cabinet. He wouldn’t have had another drink.”
“Then why did he come out on the dock?” Cashiers asked.
“I don’t know why he would come out here after dark. Maybe to see the stars. Maybe to check on something. But I can guarantee you he didn’t walk out here so inebriated he fell off a dock he’d been walking on for fifteen years!”
The discussion between the officers and Edward continued for over an hour. The officers kept insisting that the evidence, or what they referred to as “lack of evidence,” pointed to an accidental death, possibly related to alcohol consumption. Edward insisted that his father was an excellent swimmer with much to live for. “Even if he’d had a fifth of whiskey, he wouldn’t have been so drunk he couldn’t have swum a hundred feet to shore.”
“Maybe he passed out, hit his head,” Roland pointed out.
“Not likely,” Edward said. “But if such a ridiculous thing happened, the coroner will find a wound on his head.”
“Look, you’re not here for most of every month,” Roland added. “I’m not sure how much you know about the judge’s behavior the last few years, but if he wasn’t at Tarpon Joe’s in the evening drinking with his buddies, he was dang sure in his house drinking alone.”
“I know enough about his behavior to say he didn’t fall off this dock!”
Eventually the coroner arrived and the body was removed to the shore. An initial examination did not show any injury to the judge’s head. Edward knew there wouldn’t be a self-inflicted injury, just as he knew his father hadn’t stumbled from the dock. An ambulance took William Smith’s body to the small morgue at the sheriff’s department. Later, the judge would be transported to Fisherman’s Chapel and Funeral Home a few miles away. The coroner promised to look the body over carefully, and if he saw any reason to contradict the officers’ conclusions, he would let Edward know.
But Edward wasn’t satisfied. He sensed the coroner would be as quick to declare the death an accident. “Don’t you have a homicide investigator in this department?” he asked the coroner.
“We do.”
“Then let’s get an expert here,” Edward insisted. “I would think it’s customary procedure in a case like this.”
The coroner didn’t look convinced that such action was necessary, but he nodded. “Don’t guess it can hurt.”
And so here it was a Sunday morning, more than twenty-four hours after Edward had found his father’s body. Word had spread among the residents of the small island, and a few neighbors had stopped to offer condolences. Edward dealt with such comments as “Sure is a shame.”
“A good man, the judge.” He sat on the porch of his father’s decades-old house and waited for the homicide detective to show up.
And as he waited his mind filled with memories. The first time he’d set eyes on the judge, Edward had been sixteen years old, a veteran of the foster-care system since he was three and a kid who always seemed to get into trouble. The court appearance he’d been at was worse than most. Edward had been picked up for stealing a car—again.
Judge Smith had given him a stern talking-to, but not before he’d heard Edward’s story. One foster home after another. Unknown parents, no family, a high-school dropout. He’d asked Edward a number of questions, even smiled a time or two at the answers.
Ultimately, he’d sentenced Edward to six months in a juvenile-detention center, with release dependent upon Edward’s earning a GED so he’d have a high-school diploma. And then the strangest thing happened. The judge visited Edward at the detention center. Not once, but several times. The visits became weekly occurrences. And despite a chip on Edward’s shoulder the size of an oak tree, a bond between the two formed and grew.
The day Judge Smith offered Edward a room in his home in South Carolina had been the day Edward’s life had experienced a rebirth. And the day the judge adopted the seventeen-year-old, Edward’s future began.
Edward sighed and tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat. The homicide investigator wouldn’t care about any of that. Judge Smith, the man who’d taken Edward from the gutter and given him hope, was now just a body, after all.
A bit of that oak-tree chip came back to settle on Edward’s shoulder as he waited for the investigator to arrive. And when she did, Edward couldn’t believe his eyes.
There must be some mistake, he thought. The officer who got out of a plain, dark gray midsize sedan was hardly what anyone would consider homicide-detective material—certainly not the Law & Order type. No more than five feet four inches tall, slender, with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun from a round olive-skinned face, the female coming toward him didn’t look old enough or seasoned enough to deal with crimes of the worst sort.
Maybe the true homicide detective was busy and had sent someone from his office. But it wasn’t so. The woman dressed in black slacks, a short-sleeved blue shirt and sensible walking shoes showed him her badge and said, “Good morning. I’m Monica Cortez, detective for the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department, Middle Keys division.”
Edward could hardly find the words. “You’re the homicide investigator assigned to this case?”
Her dark eyes widened. She started to say somet
hing, but obviously thought better of it and extended her hand. “I’m the only homicide detective in this part of the Keys,” she said. “I assure you I’m qualified to do my job.”
Oh, jeez. She must have interpreted Edward’s comment as a negative take on her stature, gender and appearance—just exactly what his first impression had been. He wasn’t one to judge anyone based on appearance or any other feature. He’d learned that lesson the hard way, and yet he’d just made a judgment of this lady.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose I’m just surprised to see a...” He stopped. He was only digging his gender-inequality hole deeper.
“A woman in this position?” she said for him.
“Something like that. But I meant no disrespect.”
“Sure you didn’t.” She took a notebook from her shirt pocket and snapped her ballpoint pen into writing mode. “You’re Edward Smith, I presume?”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” It was a clichéd statement, but she actually seemed to mean it.
“How much do you know about this case?” he asked.
“I’ve read the reports. Officers Cashiers and Patterson filled me in with the details.” She looked away from the house and toward the dock. “Are you ready to answer some questions?”
From her tone, he almost got the impression she was going to interview him as a suspect. “Anything you want to ask,” he said.
“I think we should start by going to the scene.”
“Yes, of course. That would be fine.” He led the way over lush Bahia grass to where water lapped against a pristine shoreline. Edward’s father had made many improvements to the property in the years he’d owned it. The dock stretched one hundred feet into the blue Gulf of Mexico. At intervals, berths were occupied with the small fleet of boats owned by Smitty’s In and Out. The gas pumps and a bait house sat a few yards down the shore. It was a typical marina setup, yet with a kind of tropical charm. Edward and his father had worked hard to make the property into what the judge had wanted—an oasis filled with flowers and palm trees.
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