by Donna Alward
Abby had longed to have a place where she was welcomed, accepted, understood. Her aunt Marian had provided such a place for girls in trouble, young women shunned because they’d made a mistake in judgment. It had been personal for Marian somehow. Abby could feel it even if she couldn’t prove it.
The next stack of boxes were shoved into a far corner of the room and she pulled one down and plopped it on the floor in front of a three-legged stool she’d unearthed. She pulled off the cover and stared at a stack of journals and photographs. This was more like it. Real people, Jewell Cove’s heritage in black-and-white. Abby flipped through the pictures first, examining each one with awe. There were some featuring upper-class women in elegant dresses, posing with the rose garden behind them. White tents had been set up for an elaborate garden party—the Fosters were really top-drawer, weren’t they?
Another showed a cluster of men standing in front of a ship down at the docks—one of Elijah’s shipping fleet, perhaps? There was one of Marian, holding Edith’s hand on one side and clutching a bouquet of daisies in her other hand as she stared up at the camera, her dark eyes full of impishness. There were several more of Edith, and Abby touched the photos with trembling fingers drawn to one in particular. Even in the sepia tones, Edith’s face seemed to glow as her hand rested on her belly, gently rounded with pregnancy. That had been Iris, Abby thought, pausing over the picture for a moment. Then she put it aside and picked up another.
This one was the household staff, all lined up in the great hall in full uniform. How grand it all looked, with the chandelier and wide, elegant woodwork and their spotless uniforms. The Fosters had maintained quite a staff, even during wartime. Abby counted a cook, kitchen maid, two housemaids, an older man who was out of livery but who had probably been a man-of-all-work or groundskeeper, and a smart-looking chauffeur who was young enough to have been called up and for some reason hadn’t been.
His face called to her as she moved the photo in for a closer examination. Knowledge shot into her like a jolt of lightning. Not only was he young enough to have been called up, but the blond hair and cheekbones looked achingly familiar. Maybe it had been a long time, but there was no mistaking it.
He looked like her father.
Her fingers trembled as she stared at the picture. Abby’s mind worked furiously through all the facts. The letters she’d found. Edith’s affair. The lock of blond hair, the watch …
Looking down at the photo still clutched in her hand, it all added up: Elijah wasn’t her great-grandfather. Despite the shocking revelation, a warmth and peace seemed to envelop the room, and she looked around, wondering if Edith was watching. Abby didn’t see her, but she could feel her nearby, giving her approval. This was the mysterious Kristian. There was no doubt in her mind. Edith had had an affair with the chauffeur. And Abby’s grandmother was the result of that affair.
Her hand started to tremble and she put the photograph down on her lap. The letter he’d written while crossing the ocean … he must have finally been called up and gone off to do his patriotic duty. What a scandal it would have been—he was the help and she was married. That final letter in the box—the one that said he was coming home—Edith was going to run away with the chauffeur.
The ripples of that fact washed over her, trickling down into present-day circumstances. It meant that Abby was not an actual Foster at all. And yet here she was, sitting in the attic of the Foster mansion, owner of it all when none of it truly belonged to her. She hadn’t a drop of Foster blood in her veins.
Had Marian known?
Was this why Iris had been cut off? Elijah must have found out somehow. Or perhaps he’d taken one look at Iris and had known that the pale-haired, blue-eyed baby couldn’t be his. So Elijah had sent Iris away after Edith’s death and brought up his only child, Marian. Of course. Elijah wouldn’t have wanted to raise his dead wife’s bastard. Not many men would, but Abby got the feeling that the stern-looking, uncompromising Elijah would find it particularly repulsive.
The pieces were starting to fit, but the answers only served to pose more questions. Abby went through the box, searching for clues. There were more pictures—bittersweet photos of Iris as a baby, all plump and pink and smiling. Marian and Iris together, Marian holding Iris in her lap, dark hair against light but clearly Marian was smitten with her baby sister. The children with Edith in front of the Christmas tree, a severe-looking Elijah standing behind them and just apart.
That was December of ’44. Abby wondered what happened in the months between that and V-E Day, when everything irrevocably changed.
* * *
Tom stopped at the door of the storage room and poked his head inside. “Hey, Abby?”
Abby jumped at the sound of his voice. She swiveled on the stool, a hand pressed to her chest. “Whew,” she breathed. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” He grinned. “I tried calling up, but you didn’t hear.”
“Was there something you wanted?”
He took a step inside the room. There were boxes everywhere, separated into sections, and one open on the floor in front of her feet. “I’d like to start prepping the kitchen in a day or two, but that means packing up what’s there. I thought you’d want to do that yourself so you’d know where things are and can find what you need to eat or whatever.”
“Good idea,” she replied, collecting the photos on her lap into a neat pile.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked, leaning forward curiously.
He saw her hesitate. Things hadn’t been as awkward as they might have been after their kiss, but they hadn’t exactly been comfortable, either. Especially since all he could think about was doing it again.
“Can I trust you?” She perched on the edge of the stool and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I mean, this is the big-family-secret kind of stuff. Major skeletons in the closet. The kind of thing that would rock the small world of Jewell Cove.”
He chuckled a little. “That sounds pretty big. But maybe it’s not as big as you think. Our town’s been the subject of lots of scandal over the years. Did you know that one of my ancestors on my dad’s side was a pirate? He used to sail along the coast pillaging and stealing.”
She smiled, clearly intrigued. “You’re making that up.”
“God’s truth. Then he became a privateer during the Civil War. Made a tremendous fortune. Of course, it’s long gone now. But there are rumors about there being treasure buried out on Aquteg Island, out past Fiddler’s Rock.”
She held out the picture, but as he put his fingers on it she hesitated. “Swear to me you won’t tell a soul.”
“I swear.” She let it go and he looked down at the picture. It was a group of people—servants—in the great hall downstairs. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The chauffeur in the back.”
Tall, blond, upright bearing, nice livery. “What about him?”
Abby’s voice lowered. “He’s the spitting image of my father. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the cheekbones, and angle of the jaw are the same. I’m certain that this is Kristian—and that he was my real great-grandfather.”
Tom’s furrowed his brow. “Wait,” he said, meeting her gaze. “The letter you read, the one in the box. It was dated February of ’43. If this is really the Kristian from the letter you found—and we’re assuming it is—the dates don’t add up.”
“I read the rest of the letters. The last one said he was coming back for her. It was in October of ’43. My grandmother was born ten months after that.”
“Wow,” Tom said, handing her back the photo. “If you’re right, that is quite a skeleton. Great-grandma Edith had an affair with an employee and she had his baby. But are you sure? No offense, but it sounds like a bit of a stretch. It’s just a photo.”
“Elijah and Edith were both dark-haired. My gram and dad were blond. Besides, it’s more than simple coloring. If I showed you a picture, you’d see it. I promise. I’m positive.”
She put the
photo on top of the others and tucked them back into the box. “You know what this means, right? It means I’m not a true Foster,” she said. “This house doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to one of Elijah’s relatives.”
Tom shook his head and knelt in front of her, putting his hand on her knee for balance as he looked into her face. “It belonged to Marian, and Edith’s blood runs in both of you. Marian could leave it to whoever she wished, so it is yours. In every sense. You have as much right to it as anyone, and don’t you forget it.”
Her eyes softened and he swallowed, forcing himself to stay where he was and not lean in the few inches to kiss her.
“Even if that’s true, it sure raises a lot of questions.” She bit down on her lip. “There are so many blanks. There’s nothing after that last letter in 1943. What happened after that? What if Elijah found out the truth? What if…” Her voice stopped but the question hung in the air just the same.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“What really happened the night she died, Tom?”
“You think it wasn’t a simple fall?” He rested back on his heels. An affair was one thing. But murder? He wasn’t sure his imagination could stretch that far.
“I don’t know what to think. But it would explain that awful feeling I get when I look up at the landing. And it would explain why things feel unfinished.”
He let out a breath. His mind told him this was crazy. But for some reason he believed her. Maybe because at times he’d felt it, too—an edgy sort of energy in certain areas of the house.
“Who knows,” he finally answered. “Is it possible Edith’s death wasn’t accidental? Sure. But, Abby, you can’t let what happened in the past drive you crazy worrying and wondering. Nothing can change it now.”
After a pause, she put her hand over the top of his. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not laughing at me.”
His hand rested warmly on the soft denim, her fingers on top of his. The old tension that seemed to tug between them was back.
“I wouldn’t laugh at you,” he echoed quietly.
“You wouldn’t?”
“Of course not.”
The moment spun out and it suddenly seemed as if she realized they were touching. She pulled her hand away and avoided looking in his eyes. “Listen, Tom … about the other night … I know we already talked about it, but let’s just forget it happened. I don’t want us to be uncomfortable together,” she hurried to say. “And you’re right. It probably wouldn’t be the wisest course to become personally involved.”
“Sure,” he said, sliding his hand off her knee and standing again.
“I mean, I’m going to be selling this place eventually anyway, right? It would only complicate things.”
Of course, who could forget that she was still determined to sell the house and move on? Wasn’t it exactly what he’d told himself tons of times? “And I’m just the contractor,” he added irritably. It was one thing to think it to himself, but it was another to hear her confirm it. And hell if he didn’t hate that she was trying to pull away from him.
“Just the contractor?” She frowned. “When have I ever given you that impression? I would hope that you’re my friend, too. Especially since I just unloaded on you.”
Friends. They’d never been just friends, not since he’d kissed her in the foyer and realized he was farther along in his grieving process than he’d thought. It was all about Abby. The way she looked, sounded, felt beneath his fingertips. Even as he was telling himself to stay away, he couldn’t help but want to touch her, be near her.
But just like Erin, Jewell Cove wasn’t good enough for her. At least Abby wasn’t tearing him in two by insisting that she loved him and then explaining why she couldn’t be with him. She was one hundred percent up front that she was leaving the moment the house was on the market. He should be grateful she was keeping it simple.
Instead he felt like throwing something.
“Friends, sure,” he answered.
She smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Tom. For understanding and not making it awkward. For … being here this afternoon.”
Man, he had to finish this job and get away from this house. It would be the best thing for everyone to put some distance between them. Maybe she could forget about that kiss, but he couldn’t.
He turned to leave but when he reached the doorway he turned back. “Abby?”
She looked up, so angelically sweet he had to force a smile. “Remember that the only person who can define you is you. You get to decide who you are, not some secret from the past that happened before you were ever born.”
Her eyes brightened. “Thank you, Tom.”
“You’re welcome.”
After he left he could still smell her perfume. The truth was he cared about Abby. She’d trusted him with an innocence that was both endearing and made him want to protect her from anyone who would hurt her—past or present.
It would be easy to fall in love with her, wouldn’t it?
And from there get his heart broken all over again. And there was no way in hell he was going to do that.
Maybe the person he had to protect most was himself.
CHAPTER 12
Josh Collins wouldn’t hurt his sister for the world, but the fact that she’d singlehandedly planned the equivalent of a three-ring circus less than a week after his return to town made him want to throttle her.
He’d been in town a few days now but he’d yet to see his family. He’d made excuses like he was tired and he was settling in to his new place but truthfully he just hadn’t been up to the hoopla. He knew he couldn’t hide away forever, but tonight the last thing he wanted to do was go to a party. This wasn’t some grand sort of homecoming or a hero’s welcome. He was home because his life had gone down the toilet and he couldn’t stand looking at Erin’s father every damn day at work and then going home to their empty house at night.
Woo-hoo. Break out the firecrackers.
He’d much rather be boating on the bay right now. He let his mind drift. He’d venture down the coast, stop in one of those quiet inlets and cut the engine. Let the sound of the waves slapping on the hull calm his mind.
Instead he was standing at the top of Sarah’s driveway, listening to the sound of music coming from the backyard, the rhythmic beat annoyingly cheerful. Someone laughed, the sound harsh and mocking. He didn’t belong here.
But if he didn’t show up his sisters and his mother would be breathing down his damned neck and asking if he was okay and was he depressed and had he seen someone and how doctors make the worst patients and he’d explode. Truth was, he wasn’t okay. He was grieving. Erin was gone and he’d never be able to make things right. Or take back the things he’d said to her before she left.
So he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and started the walk down the driveway, around the corner of the house and into the backyard, carrying a six-pack of beer and a manufactured smile.
The sight of red, white, and blue banners and ribbons nearly wiped it off his face. Shit. They were going for the whole Memorial Day patriotism thing, weren’t they? He closed his eyes and gathered himself. This was Sarah. She never did anything halfway. Ever. He should have expected she’d go whole hog.
“Josh!”
Jess was the first of his sisters to spot him and she bounced over, her eyes bright and her smile even bigger. “God, you’re skinny. Sarah’s going to have a field day fattening you up.” She gave him a hug and said lightly in his ear, just loud enough for him to hear, “Are you eating enough? Have another muffin. Why don’t you come for dinner?”
He laughed despite himself, grateful she was the first. “You sound just like her.”
Jess raised an eyebrow. “She mothers everyone.”
“Including you?”
“She tries.” Jess laughed. “If Sarah had her way, I’d be married with a baby on my hip. Settled down.”
Josh’s smile faded even though Jess�
�s had stayed pasted on her lips. “In your own good time,” he said quietly, and their gazes met. Jess swallowed. Josh felt his fingers clench simply from memory. No one knew what Jess had really been through years ago besides him. Her asshole of an ex, Mike, had been an alcoholic and a mean one, and Josh had taken perverse pleasure in breaking two of the man’s ribs as well as his jaw before making it clear that Mike would leave Jewell Cove and never come back.
He didn’t blame Jess for being gun-shy.
“Josh!” Sarah had finally noticed him and came rushing up, a can of soda in her hand and a smile that made it hard to stay mad at her. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes danced as she pulled him into a hug. She stepped back, handed her can to Jess, and grabbed his arms, looking up into his face. “Now you’re back where you belong,” she stated, satisfaction filling her voice. “I hope you’re hungry. You’re thin as a rail.”
Josh rolled his eyes at Jess over Sarah’s shoulder and Jess gave him a saucy grin in return. Making his way around the group, he shook hands with Mark and hugged the kids and popped the top on a beer while the latest Top 40 songs were cranked out of a stereo. Last in line was his mother, Margaret. Meggie to anyone who really knew her.
Her soft, dark eyes clung to his as she stepped up and put her hand on his face. “Good to have you home,” she said simply, but of all the welcomes, it was hers that caught him square in the heart. The look she gave him was sad and understanding and he felt old beyond his years. They both knew what the others didn’t. They knew what it was to lose a spouse. To mourn without a body.
“It’s good to be home.”
“Liar,” she said quietly, smiling a little. “But you belong here, and it’ll get easier.”
“Will it?”
“Yes, it will. It just takes time. Everyone means well, Josh. Just remember that when you’re tempted to blow up at someone, okay?”