Praise for Snow Falling
“Jane Villanueva’s words jump off the page and make it impossible to put the book down.”
— AMANDA ELAINE, author of Love Under the Bridge (Winner of the 2007 Romance Book of the Year) and The Christmas Cookie: Sprinkled with Love
“From the moment I met her, I knew Jane would be a success. Her captivating, melodic, emotional writing can make even the most cynical person believe in romance.”
— MARLENE DONALDSON, author of ReVulva: Locked and Loaded
“Prepare to be swept off your feet by this beautiful story about love, heartbreak, betrayal, and the power of passion. Villanueva’s debut is a true standout.”
— DEIRDRE SHAW, author of Love or Something Like It
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________ TO ________
MICHAEL CORDERO, JR.
You live in my heart forever
Prologue
Knowing what would happen—the heartbreak, the tears, the love, the hope, the betrayal, the heartbreak (yes, it was always the heartbreak)—would she do it over? And she knew the answer was yes because of how it all ended.
But I’m getting ahead of myself…
On the night that Josephine Galena Valencia turned twenty-one years old, a miracle happened.
MIAMI, 1900
The rasp of Josephine’s pencil on the page of the pristine journal her mother had gifted her that very day was loud in the still of a sultry Miami night.
Pictures played across her mind as she tried valiantly to capture the right words to describe them. She leaned close to the oil lantern beside her, pouring her imagination out onto the pages, wanting to immortalize the images quickly before they flickered out and faded away. Excitement welled up within Josephine, and the ideas percolated until they were bubbling so quickly, they were like water ready to boil. As the story spilled over onto the page, she finally felt like she was moving one step closer to her dream of becoming a writer. That hope had lingered in her heart and the idea had clung in the back of her mind ever since her abuela had read that first fairy tale to her as a child.
Today she had turned twenty-one years old, and despite the happy celebration she’d shared with her mother and abuela and her friends from the hotel where she worked, Josephine couldn’t help but feel that the day had been incomplete. Although her abuela and mother always warned Josephine that she let her imagination (and her temper) get away from her too often, she couldn’t shake the idea that something had been missing. Something that would have made the day just absolutely perfect. Maybe the father she’d never known. Or even her long-gone abuelo. Something…something magical, she thought as she scratched out another word on the rough paper.
There was only dim light on the veranda from the lantern she had set on the table beside the rocking chair as she eagerly poured out the story from her heart. With each completed page, pride and satisfaction fed the determination growing inside her to reach for her dreams.
Josephine was so engrossed in her task that it took her a moment to notice the harsh scrape of a footstep on the wooden porch and the shadow now looming over her.
Fear suddenly gripped her as she noticed the large man’s shoe barely a foot away from the chair where she was huddled. Heart beating at a frantic pace, she mustered the courage to look up at the face of the man towering above her.
Dark blond wisps of hair escaped the confines of a straw boater that cast shadows on his features until she raised the lantern to chase away the darkness. Smiling blue eyes as bright as a summer sky held no malice, only concern. A sharp, straight nose led to full lips and a strong jawline with a hint of light evening stubble.
“It’s a little late to be outside, miss. There have been some problems in town lately, and I’ve been sent round to make sure everything is secure,” he said and drew away the lapel of his mud-brown suit to reveal the shiny silver badge on his chest.
Pinkerton National Detective Agency was engraved on the shield along with a small star. A little quiver of fear returned to her heart. Josephine had heard stories—not all positive—about the Pinkertons and how they’d busted unions in other cities. The owner of the Regal Sol had supposedly hired them to protect the hotel and the nearby cottages where many of the employees lived, but who knew what his real motives had been.
“It’s my birthday,” she stammered, suddenly self-conscious since she was clad only in her nightshirt and robe. She drew the lapels of the robe together and hugged the journal to her chest. Her abuela would never approve of Josephine being so immodestly clothed in front of a gentleman.
The young man jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he examined her, and she hoped he couldn’t see that she was clearly a little flustered by his presence. Nervously she pulled back long tendrils of dark, curly hair that had slipped loose of the Gibson girl bun at the top of her head. At his prolonged perusal, heat spread up her neck and to her cheeks, and Josephine prayed she was not blushing, although she knew she was.
“Happy birthday, Miss…”
He paused, prompting her, and she hesitantly replied, “Josephine.” After a pregnant pause, she shifted the journal to one hand and stuck out the other as she stood. “Josephine Galena Valencia. I’m one of the—”
“Concierges at the hotel. Yes, I noticed you there before,” he said, and she lost some of her embarrassment as his face now pinkened with his revelation. Quickly, he took her hand and said, “I work there too.”
When his fingers enclosed hers, Josephine felt a small frisson of heat, and when she looked down, sparks of light seemed to be dancing along their intermingled skin. Her pulse quickened. Suddenly, she wanted to know more about this endearingly awkward lawman. “And your name, sir, is…”
“Martin. Cadden. Detective Cadden,” he said and then looked away, gesturing with his head in the direction of the darkness on the street. “As I said before, we’ve had some issues in town. You need to be careful out here, a beautiful girl like you.”
He shut his eyes tight and grimaced, but then a lopsided grin spread across his features and the joy of it spread to a place inside her. He gestured to the journal held tight against her breasts. “What were you doing out here all alone in the dark?”
Hesitant to reveal her secret wish to be a writer, she reached for the copy of the Jane Austen novel she’d also received that day as a gift and said, “Just scribbling in my diary and reading.”
He smiled, his genial face alight. “I enjoy a good dime novel now and then.”
He might not have known it, but Detective Martin Cadden had uttered exactly the right words. “Oh, I love to read, especially romantic novels like Jane Austen. Have you read her?”
Martin’s smile broadened, though he shook his head slightly.
“The nuns at the convent where I go to school said they’ve never seen anyone before who likes to read as much as I do. I only have a few more correspondence classes to finish, and Sister Elizabeth said she’d help me get a job as a tutor.”
Martin looked at her questioningly, almost as if he was deciding something. He took a step closer and sank down on the edge of the table, his eyes fixed on Josephine. “What is it that you love about those stories?”
“That idea that two people are destined to be together,” she
answered. Their gazes met and held. Tiny flutters, like the beating of a butterfly’s wings, resonated within Josephine’s chest. Perhaps this was it, the elusive something she had been anticipating all day. “That feeling they have when their eyes meet, and they think, I knew it was you. I just knew.”
She waited for his censure, but instead Martin smiled once more, took off his boater, and sat down on the rocking chair beside her. “Please, tell me more, Miss Valencia.”
And she did, for what might have been hours as they sat and talked comfortably like old friends, trading tales of their favorite stories and some of their hopes for the future. The night grew ever darker until the flame in the lantern suddenly sputtered out entirely, leaving them bathed only in moonlight.
She stared into the handsome detective’s bright eyes, her breath held. The moment stretched on, shimmering with potential like the stars in the night sky, until she quietly, and with some disappointment, murmured, “Well, it’s getting late, Detective, and I have work in the morning.” She could have spent the entire night talking with him, and maybe even more than talking, if she dared.
“Of course. I’d feel better walking you to the door and making sure you’re safe,” he said, the very model of proper behavior as counter to Josephine’s rather improper thoughts, and held out his hand in the direction of the cottage’s entrance.
Ahem, we should note at this time that the entrance to the cottage was barely a few feet away, and Josephine could have made the journey quite safely all on her own…but alas, then the miracle would not have happened.
Josephine inclined her head in agreement and took a step, but tripped on one of the loose wooden floorboards of the veranda. Strong arms kept her from falling and drew her close against a lean body and the hard butt of the pistol in the holster he wore beneath his suit.
Heat spread everywhere from that simple touch, and, beneath her nightshirt, her skin tingled. She peered up and met that caring gaze that was looking at her as if she were special. So special… But suddenly, a big, fat white flake landed on Martin’s shoulder. Then a flurry of flakes drifted down like snow falling as the plaster ceiling above them finally succumbed to the Florida humidity and peeled loose.
Josephine laughed in delight. “I’ve never seen real snow but I’ve always thought it was so romantic,” she said wistfully.
Tenderly, Martin reached up and brushed a flake from the loosened curl at her temple. “And maybe even magical?” He applied gentle pressure at her waist to urge her upward.
“Maybe even miraculous,” she said as she rose on her tiptoes.
Unbeknownst to the young lovers so completely enthralled with each other, the flame in the small oil lantern flickered to glorious life once more, as he covered her lips with his.
And as romantic and magical as snow might be, it couldn’t stand a chance against the heat of that kiss on a sultry Miami night. For this was the night that Josephine Galena Valencia’s life would change forever.
Chapter One
TWO YEARS LATER
Josephine Galena Valencia always did things the right way and in the right order. At the ripe old age of twenty-three Josephine had finalized her master plan, and nothing was going to keep her from accomplishing it: find a job as a tutor, finish a novel, and marry Martin. Or so she thought…
Passing through the Regal Sol Hotel’s luxurious lobby, Josephine smiled in satisfaction. The hotel had opened just three years earlier and had quickly become Miami’s premiere lodging for the nation’s rich and famous. Since she had secured a position as a concierge there, she’d hobnobbed with the likes of the Astors, Andrew Carnegie, various US senators and European royalty, and even the big man of Miami himself, Henry Flagler, the owner of the nearby Royal Palm Hotel and one of the city’s founders. That is, if you consider making sure that such luminaries had transportation from the rail station and choice spots for the nightly lounge show as “hobnobbing.”
Her long skirt and petticoat swayed around her legs as she pushed through the door into the immense dining room, where nearly two hundred guests were enjoying an extravagant four-course meal. The expensive fragrance of the ladies’ perfumes battled with the scents from the floral arrangements scattered along the edges of the space and on the tabletops. The murmur of conversation sounded almost like the susurrus of the nearby Miami River, broken only by the clatter and clank of cutlery against fine porcelain.
Silver centerpieces gleamed on tabletops, but paled in comparison to the glint of gold and sparkle of jewels draped on ears and necks, or gracing the wrists of the hotel patrons. Perfectly groomed ladies swathed in rich silks and brocades sat alongside dashing gentlemen in elegant evening dress.
Such amazing opulence, Josephine thought as she sashayed through the dining room, smiling at the various patrons and stopping to chat with one couple for whom she’d arranged a romantic yacht cruise along the Miami River. Before long her cheeks ached from the smile she kept firmly in place, and even with the breeze sweeping in from the open-air entrances around the room, a line of sweat trickled down her neck and beneath the high collar of her prim, white cotton shirt.
Josephine was counting the minutes until the end of dessert, when the guests would hurry out to the hotel’s lounge for the nightly entertainment. Once the dining service ended, she could slip away to spend some precious time with Martin before having to turn in for the night.
Martin. Even after two years of courting, her heart sped up a little at the thought of seeing him. Of maybe sneaking away with him to…
But she was getting ahead of herself again, which sometimes happened when she thought of Martin.
As a passing waiter placed the last dish of tutti-frutti ice cream in front of Mrs. Smith, of the Boston Smiths, Josephine hurried outside to one of the back paths to avoid the crush of guests that would shortly be heading to the rotunda that doubled as a lounge at night.
And there he was. Martin was waiting for her, leaning against a column at the edge of the passage. Unlike the guests dining in their evening wear, Martin still wore his daytime charcoal-gray sack suit over a pressed white shirt. Despite the slightly boxy cut of the suit, the single-breasted vest beneath hugged the lean lines of his body.
His gaze locked with hers for only a second until, with a gentlemanly dip of his head, he said, “Miss Valencia. So nice to see you. I trust that you are well.”
“I am, Detective Cadden. Thank you for asking. And you?” she asked and accepted the arm he gallantly offered.
He darted his gaze around and led her to a darkened spot beneath a poinciana tree just off the path. As he turned to her, crystal blue eyes dancing with humor and happiness, she smiled and leaned into him. Rising up, she whispered playfully into his ear, “Is it time for a proper welcome now, Martin?”
His hard, hot kiss was answer enough as he drew her deeper into the shadows for privacy. As the kiss grew more and more heated, Josephine’s head swam and her body ached for his touch. When he reached up and cupped her breast, little sparks heated her skin, but she broke away from him.
“We must stop, Martin. You know I want to wait until we’re married,” she said and slapped a hand over her mouth as the words slipped free.
“Married?” he repeated and guided her from the intimacy of the dark bower and back onto the path. Placing a hand at the small of her back, he led her in the direction of the cottages, obviously intending to walk her home. They were silent during the short stroll, the impact of that one small word hanging over them until they reached the cottage and entered. Josephine fretted. She had said too much. She thought, as she often had during recent months, that perhaps Martin still needed more time to decide if marriage was in their future.
“Abuela? Mami?” she called out just to confirm Alberta and Zara weren’t home. Her grandmother had been asked to work an extra shift at the hotel and her mother was performing at a saloon in North Miami.
When it appeared they were alone, Martin tried to draw her close, but she shied away from him ag
ain. “Martin, please. You make it so hard to wait, but you know why I must. What we have is so special. I think it’s worth waiting for.” And I don’t want to get carried away and be left alone like my mother, she thought, not that she would ever confess that to Martin or anyone else except possibly God. Her abuela always said that Josephine could say anything to God and He would understand.
“I think it’s worth waiting for too, Josephine. I want it to be special for you,” Martin said, his words hesitant. “We have both been so busy with work, and I know you’re still hoping to get a position as a tutor—”
“I just have another couple of classes,” she said, disheartened as she thought of the correspondence lessons sitting on her desk upstairs.
“It’s not an easy thing, but you’ve accomplished so much in two years. Don’t get discouraged,” he said, stroking her upswept hair and the loose tendrils trailing down her neck.
“I suppose,” she agreed, but that did little to assuage her disappointment that she hadn’t accomplished her one real desire: to write a novel. She knew Martin was just being practical, as always, but secretly she wished she could share her real desire with him and have him understand.
He must have seen the shadow that crossed her face, because he took hold of her hand and urged her to face him. “I do want us to be together,” he repeated. “Do you doubt that?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t, only…it’s been two years, Martin.” She blushed, adding shyly, “I had thought that maybe by now we’d be talking about marriage.”
He smiled that lopsided grin she’d grown to love so much.
“You know that I love you, don’t you?” he said, with a look in his eyes that took Josephine’s breath away. The blue, as bright as ever, seemed to shimmer and gleam with a light that warmed her heart and chased away her doubts with its strength.
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