Haven Creek

by Rochelle Alers

  Nate sat up in bed, pulling back the sheet so she could get in. “You look so beautiful.”

  Morgan pressed her body along the length of his. “I feel beautiful. Being in love will do that to a woman.”

  He combed his fingers through the hair that curled over her forehead, ears, and along the nape of her neck. “You know, I almost lost it when I turned to see you on your father’s arm as he led you down the aisle. Dwight kept telling me to be cool, but how could I when the woman I love, the woman who makes me feel complete, is willing to share my dreams, my life, and my future?”

  “I like Dwight.” Morgan had invited Nate’s former business partner and his wife to stay with her and Nate before and after the wedding.

  “And he likes you, Mo.”

  She nuzzled his neck. “I’m glad you decided to come back to Haven Creek.”

  Turning to face Morgan, he said, “And I’m glad you decided to stay.”

  His hand burned her thigh through the delicate fabric of her nightgown, but his touch was light. Her core grew warm, then moist.

  Morgan didn’t remember her husband removing her nightgown, but hours later she did remember sharing with him the sweetest ecstasy she’d ever felt, an ecstasy that transported her to a place she’d never been. She never imagined on the day she’d walked into Perry’s and sat in the same booth with Nate that she would one day become Mrs. Nathaniel Phillip Shaw.

  It was only after she and Nate were husband and wife that her maid of honor had whispered in her ear that she’d seen her married to Nate in one of her visions. Francine claimed she didn’t tell her because that would’ve ruined the surprise. She also promised not to tell Morgan how many children she and Nate would have.

  The tall, skinny girl who had been the high school wallflower had had the last laugh. And, like Cinderella, she had found her prince and together they would have their happily ever after.

  Deborah Robinson desperately needs a fresh start.

  When she returns to her grandmother’s home on Cavanaugh Island, will handsome Dr. Asa Monroe have the remedy she needs?

  Please turn this page for an excerpt from

  Sanctuary Cove.

  Chapter One

  Barbara, are you sure you don’t mind looking after Whitney and Crystal for the week? You know I can always take them with me.”

  “Deborah Robinson! Do you realize how many times you’ve asked the same question and I’ve given you the same answer? No, I don’t mind at all. Now go before you miss your ferry. And no cell phone calls from the car.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Deborah whispered, hugging her friend. “I’ll call you from the island.”

  Deborah ran across the front lawn, jumped into her car, fastened the seat belt, and pulled away from the curb. Smiling at years of happy memories as she drove through the back streets of Charleston, Deborah made it to the pier before sailing time. She drove onto the ferry, turned off the car, and got out to stand at the rail, instantly refreshed by the cool breeze. This time her return to the small community of Sanctuary Cove wouldn’t be for a weekend or minivacation, but to air out the house she’d inherited from her grandparents in order to make it her home and to look at a vacant store she’d rented where she’d open her bookstore.

  Two blasts from the ferry’s horn echoed it was time to sail; a man on the pier tossed the thick coil of hemp to another worker on the ferry, freeing it; below deck engines belched, coughed, and rumbled. There came another horn blast, and the ferryman deftly steered the boat through the narrow inlet until he reached open water.

  Resting her elbows on the rail, Deborah watched as steeples and spires of the many churches rising above the landscape disappeared from view. As the boat headed in a southeast direction she stared at the island shorelines of Kiawah, Seabrook, and Edisto Islands before the ferryboat slowed, chugging slowly and docking at Cavanaugh Island. She was the last one off the boat and waved to the captain as he tipped his hat.

  Driving off the ferry, she felt herself blinking back tears, remembering the last time she’d come here. It had been Thanksgiving and she, Louis, and their kids had decided to celebrate the holiday at the Cove rather than in Charleston. Louis never could have imagined as he’d carved turkey that a week later he would become embroiled in a scandal. That he would be seen in a compromising position with one of his female students.

  Despite declaring that he was simply comforting her and that there was nothing improper going on between him and the student, Louis Robinson was suspended pending a school board hearing. Tensions and emotions were fever-pitched as Charlestonians formed opposing factions while Louis awaited his fate. Deborah blamed those who were quick to judge her husband for his death, and all of their condolences fell on deaf ears when the truth was finally revealed. The truth had come too late. She’d lost her husband of eighteen years and Whitney and Crystal their father.

  Slowing and coming to a complete stop, she reached for a tissue and blotted the tears, praying for a time when the tears wouldn’t come without warning, or so easily. It took several minutes, but after taking a few deep breaths, she was back in control.

  Stepping on the accelerator, Deborah drove slowly along the paved road, bordered on both sides by palmetto trees and ancient oaks draped with Spanish moss.

  She maneuvered onto the quaint Main Street and suddenly felt another rush of sadness, but this one was not personal. Like so many small towns across the United States she realized the Cove was slowly dying. She noticed more boarded-up storefronts; the sidewalks were cracked and even the Cove Inn, a boardinghouse and one of the grandest houses on the island, needed a new coat of white paint.

  Deborah drove into the small parking lot behind Jack’s Fish House. After only a cup of coffee earlier that morning, she needed to eat before throwing herself into the chore of cleaning the house. There were more than a dozen cars in the lot; some she recognized as belonging to local fishermen.

  The winter temperature on Cavanaugh was at least ten degrees warmer than in Charleston, so she left her wool jacket in the car. Reaching for her purse she walked up from the lot to the entrance of the restaurant, an establishment that was known for serving some of the best seafood in the Lowcountry.

  The familiar interior of Jack’s Fish House hadn’t changed in decades. Tables hewn from tree trunks bore the names and initials of countless lovers, ex-lovers, and those who wanted to achieve immortality by carving their names into a piece of wood. Only the light fixtures had changed from bulbs covered by frosted globes to hanging lamps with Tiffany-style shades. A trio of ceiling fans turned at the lowest speed to offset the buildup of heat coming from the kitchen each time the café doors swung open. The year before the Jacksons had added a quartet of flat-screen televisions, primarily for the fishermen who went out at dawn and returned midday with their nets laden with crabs, oysters, and shrimp.

  Deborah walked past restaurant regulars and a few strange faces to sit at a round table for two in a far corner. The mouthwatering aromas coming from dishes carried by the waitstaff triggered a hunger she hadn’t felt in weeks. She knew she’d lost too much weight, and although she had cooked for Whitney and Crystal, she would take only a few forkfuls of food before feeling full.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell over the table and her head popped up. Luvina Jackson, wearing a pair of overalls and a bibbed apron, arms crossed under her ample bosom, gave Deborah a sad smile. Her gray hair was covered with a hairnet. “Stand up, baby, and let Vina hold you. I’m so sorry about Louis.”

  Deborah couldn’t hold back tears as she sank into the comforting softness of Luvina’s well-rounded figure. The smell of yeast and lily of the valley wafted in her nostrils, a fragrance Luvina had worn for as long as Deborah remembered.

  “Thank you, Miss Vina.”

  Luvina rocked her back and forth. “You know the Cove would have turned out for you if you hadn’t had a private service.”

  “I know that, Miss Vina. But I would’ve lost it if the hypocrites who were so q
uick to judge Louis would’ve shown up to pay their so-called respects.”

  “All you had to do was say the word and we would’ve been there for you with bells on. Ain’t no way we gonna let dem two-face, egg-suckin’ vultures hurt one of our own. We would have turned it out.”

  “Then we all would’ve been on the front page of The State or The Post and Courier, not to mention footage on the local television news,” Deborah murmured.

  “I just want you to know we would have been there for you, baby. How are your kids doing?”

  Easing out of her embrace, Deborah met Luvina’s eyes. “They’re coping as well as they can. But kids are kids and they are much more resilient than grown folks. They’re spending the week with friends until school begins again.”

  “Thank goodness for that. Enough talk. I know you came in here to git somethin’ to eat. Whatcha want?”

  Deborah smiled. Even though she’d been born and raised in Charleston, coming back to the Cove and listening to the different inflections interspersed with the Gullah dialect made her feel as if she had come home. “Do you have any okra gumbo?”

  Luvina’s broad dark face, with features that bore her Gullah ancestry, softened as she smiled. “I jest put up a long pot earlier dis mornin’.”

  Deborah returned Luvina’s smile. She liked Jack’s okra gumbo because they fried the okra with oil to reduce the slime and added corn to the savory dish. “I’ll have a bowl with a couple of buttered biscuits.”

  “Do you want rice?”

  “No, thank you. But I’m going to order something to take home for dinner.”

  “Whatcha want fo’ dinner?”

  “Anything that’s good, Miss Vina.”

  Eyes wide, Luvina stared at Deborah. “Now you got to know that everything we makes at Jack’s is good. Have you been gone so long that you forgot that?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Let me put somethin’ together for you. You like oxtails?”

  “I love them.”

  “Good. Then I’ll fix you some oxtails with ham hocks. I’ll also give you some rice, because you need some meat on your bones. Collards and a slice of my coconut cake should fill you right up.”

  “That sounds good, Miss Vina.”

  “Rest yourself and I’ll be right back.”

  When Deborah sat down, closed her eyes, and pressed the back of her head to the wall behind her, she realized she was hungry and unbelievably tired. Tired from stress that had worn her down like a steady rush of water over a pile of rocks.

  Her parents had come up from Florida for the funeral and had all but begged her to move down there, but Deborah told them she couldn’t uproot Whitney and Crystal. Whitney was in his last year of high school, and fifteen-year-old Crystal would have problems adjusting and making friends at a new school. Crystal had taken her father’s death much harder than Whitney, who’d grieved in private.

  Her musings were interrupted when Luvina’s granddaughter walked over to the table with a large glass of sweet tea and a plate with two biscuits. “Sorry about Mr. Robinson, Miss Deborah. All the kids cried for days when we heard he’d drowned. He was the best math teacher in the whole high school.”

  Deborah smiled at the girl, who lived on the island but went to high school with her children. “Thank you, Johnetta. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Miss Deborah. Right now I’m applying to nursing schools up north, but my mama and daddy don’t want me to leave the state, so I have to apply to one here.”

  “Charleston Southern University has a school of nursing. You can live here while you’re taking classes. That would save you a lot of money.”

  Johnetta smiled, displaying the braces on her teeth. “You’re right. I could take the ferry or get my father to drop me off when he goes to work.”

  “That sounds like a plan.”

  “Thank you, Miss Deborah. I’m going to go and bring out your food.”

  Deborah stared at the tall girl, who’d at one time admitted she liked Whitney, but he’d acted as if she didn’t exist. She’d wanted to tell Johnetta that Whitney was more interested in sports than he was in a relationship with a girl. It wasn’t as if he didn’t like girls, but sports and academics were his priority.

  Johnetta returned with a bowl of okra gumbo and after the first spoonful Deborah felt as if she’d been revived. The soup was delicious, the biscuits light and buttery, and the sweet tea brewed to perfection. She’d tried over and over, but whenever she brewed tea it was either too strong or too weak. Too strong meant adding copious amounts of sugar and too weak made it taste like sugar water.

  She finished her lunch and paid the check, reminding Johnetta she’d come back to pick up her takeout order. Leaving Jack’s, Deborah strolled along Main Street, stopping to stare through the windows of stores and shops. Grass had sprouted up through the cracks in the sidewalk. There had been a time when there were no cracks and the only thing that had littered the sidewalks or curbs was sand and palmetto leaves. The sand-littered streets added to the charm of the town, but the dead leaves and debris were swept away by shopkeepers every morning.

  She continued her stroll, turning onto Moss Alley, and then came to a complete stop. Moss Alley was appropriately named because of the large oak draped in Spanish moss on the corner. Shading her eyes, Deborah peered through the glass window of a store that had once been a gift shop. The space wasn’t particularly wide, but deep enough for her bookstore. And what made it even more attractive was it had a second floor—space where she could store her inventory.

  A flutter of excitement raced through her. It was perfect for The Parlor. It was off the main street, but on the corner where anyone walking or driving by would notice it. With hand-painted letters on the plate glass, a colorful awning, and furniture resembling a parlor, it would generate enough curiosity to draw in customers.

  She walked down the street, stopping at the opposite end of the block. Smiling, she waved through the window of the Muffin Corner at the woman behind the counter, who beckoned her.

  She opened the screen door and was met with tantalizing aromas of fruit and freshly made cakes, pies, and doughnuts. Lester and Mabel Kelly had opened the shop the year before. Both had worked as pastry chefs for a hotel chain, but had tired of the frantic pace of baking for catered parties and returned to the Cove to open the Muffin Corner.

  Mabel Kelly flashed a gap-tooth smile when Deborah walked in. Coming from behind the counter, she hugged her. “How’s it going, girl?”

  Deborah returned the hug. “I’m good.”

  Pulling back, Mabel narrowed her eyes. She and Deborah were the same age, thirty-eight, but there was sadness in Deborah’s eyes that made her appear older. “I’m sorry about Louis, Debs. It’s a damn shame folks accused him of something he didn’t do, and would never think of doing. I can tell you that folks here were ready to get in their cars and start some mess Charleston hasn’t seen in a while.”

  “I know that, Mabel.”

  “Is that why you decided to have a private funeral?”

  “It was one of the reasons.”

  “You know I called your house but some woman named Barbara answered. Damn, you thought I was trying to set up a lunch date with President Obama the way she interrogated me. In the end, I told her to let you know I’d called.”

  “She did, Mabel. And, I do appreciate you calling.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “No thanks. I just came from Jack’s.”

  Physically Deborah and Mabel were complete opposites. Mabel was barely five foot and had what people call birthing hips, yet she’d never had any children. She said she didn’t want any because she’d helped her father raise six younger siblings after her mother got hooked on drugs. The year she’d turned fourteen her mother had taken the ferry to Charleston to score and never came back. There were reports that someone had seen her in Savannah, strung out, but it was never confirmed.

  The wind chime over the door tinkled musically. “E
xcuse me, Debs,” Mabel whispered. “Let me take care of this customer, then we’ll sit and talk.” Her smile grew wider. “Afternoon, Asa. Can I get you to sample today’s special along with your black coffee with a shot of espresso?”

  “No thank you, Mabel. I’ll just have coffee,” she heard the man reply.

  Deborah sat, enjoying the aromas of the shop before her gaze lingered on Mabel’s customer. He was a tall, slender, middle-aged black man. Though he was dressed casually in khakis, long-sleeved light blue button-down shirt, and black leather slip-ons, Deborah couldn’t take her eyes off the handsome stranger. He didn’t look familiar, so either he was a newcomer, visitor, or tourist. Cavanaugh Island didn’t get many tourists during the winter months, but the balmy seventy-degree temperatures attracted a few snowbirds from the Northeast and Midwest.

  Without warning, he turned and caught her staring. Their gazes met and fused, and they shared a smile. He continued to stare and Deborah couldn’t control the rush of heat in her face; she lowered her eyes and didn’t glance up again until the wind chime tinkled when the door closed behind the very attractive man.

  “I like what you’ve done with the shop,” Deborah said to Mabel when she joined her at the table.

  “We don’t have a Starbucks here in the Cove, so Lester and I decided to offer something other than regular coffee to go along with the muffins. Business has really picked up since we put in the tables. We mostly get retirees who order their favorite muffin, coffee, and read the newspaper whenever it gets too hot to sit in the square or during rainy weather. It’s a big hit, especially with the snowbirds.” Mabel bit her lip. “If it wasn’t for the snowbirds, businesses in the Cove would really have a hard time staying open.”

  “It’s that bad?” Deborah asked.

  “Just say it could be better. Most of us are hanging on by the skin of our teeth, waiting for the summer season. Take Asa Monroe, the man who just left.”