Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
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Dedicated with love and gratitude to three of the most important women in my life:
Marilyn Crystal
Jo Gregson
Sara Rosenberg
ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
Across the Pond would still be in the revision stage if it hadn’t been for the collective efforts of many who helped along the way. I could not have done it without their support.
With gratitude, I thank my publisher, Astrid Ohletz, for believing in me and for all her encouragement, expertise, and hard work. I’m especially grateful to her for granting my stories a warm and cozy den. It’s a privilege being a part of the Ylva pack.
I must also thank Ylva’s senior editor, Sandra Gerth, for sharing her brilliant mind via Skype and email, because a brain chip simply isn’t available.
To my amazing editor, Michelle Aguilar, I appreciate her for showing me the way to making Across the Pond what it is today. She made the editing process virtually painless, even when I had to delete a few scenes I didn’t think my story could live without. With her professional help, it’s a much better book. I thank her for that!
I also thank my gifted cover artist, Glendon Haddix, for an incredible job. He makes me proud to have my name on such a good-looking cover.
If not for my generous beta readers, whose input inspired me to improve my story and to finally put it out there, I might not have submitted it for publication. I owe them all a huge debt of gratitude for generously reading the numerous versions without too much complaint. What can I say? They rock! And they know who they are.
I’m indebted to Joey Bass for tirelessly listening while I read the manuscript aloud multiple times. I thank her for keeping me company on those rainy days in Devon—when I was only too happy to stay put—and for making so many useful suggestions.
To Clare I grant a million thanks for commenting on romantic fiction, even though she much prefers reading non-fiction—particularly science, no less!
I thank Mie for lending a younger woman’s perspective and for providing such excellent feedback. Her thoughts have been useful, insightful, and much appreciated.
To my writing coach Toni Amato who taught me lots about writing as a craft and not just a hobby. I simply can’t thank him enough.
To my mom I offer a huge helping of gratitude for everything. I thank her for sharing her honest opinion, whether I ask for it or not. I love and appreciate her to no end.
To my incredible children Brian, Eric, and Sara, who support me in all that I do and who make me extremely happy, proud, and grateful to be their mother. I love them more than life!
To Jo—my wife, my love, my life—I thank her for all she says and does. Even her nagging proves her undying devotion. I love her with all my heart.
CHAPTER 1
Autumn to Winter 2008
It didn’t take much to excite me, not like I was ridiculously easy to please, but happiness came from within. I was animated because I loved surprises, especially when I was the one behind them. My bliss had me dirty dancing with a wooden spoon one minute, hip-hopping and flailing around a spatula the next, and twirling a potato masher to a disco beat, until I was burning calories like a well-oiled furnace. It was a good thing too, because I was cooking up a special dinner to commemorate our thirteenth anniversary. Thirteen! Our lucky number, but still hard to believe it had been that long since Faith and I had first met at a Mostly Mozart orchestra concert at Lincoln Center. Her tastes in music had done a complete turnaround from the classical she had preferred back then. These days she was a fanatic for anything Latin American, and the spicier the salsa, the better. While I enjoyed everything from country to glam rock, she sure did adore the Latin beat, and it was growing on me too.
She’d be home soon. I had great plans of spending quality time with her. And yes, I had high hopes to spend most of that quality time with her in bed. Both our jobs seriously cut into our cuddle time. Faith saved struggling restaurants from bankruptcy, and I helped motivate employees toward healthier lifestyle choices in order to cut absenteeism and increase productivity. Tonight, I planned to make up for all the time we’d had to spend apart recently.
I’d taken time off today to mark the occasion and even treated myself to a decadent spa treatment—from a brand-new hairdo, mani, pedi and facial to a full leg and Brazilian bikini wax. It wasn’t every day I went to great pains, literally, to look my best, being more of the rustic type in tune with what Mother Nature gave me. But the results had been miraculous: As soon as the tortuous tingles of pulling hairs out by the roots had subsided, I sparkled all over.
The table was pure elegance: I set it with our best china and stemware, placed matches alongside the decorative candles, and chilled the champagne in an ice bucket. A whole sustainable salmon was slow-roasting in the oven. Already I could detect a hint of delicate seasonings in the air. By the time it was done, the skin would be crispy, the pink meat beneath moist and succulent, and the buttery orange glaze would be fragrant and delicious. And Faith, my love, would be in culinary heaven.
As soon as I heard tires crunching and kicking up gravel, the buzz I’d had all day grew stronger. I knew how much my girl loved being catered to and just how high her standards were when it came to the taste and presentation of food. And pleasing her was one of my greatest joys. Diverting my attention away from the pile of freshly scrubbed and peeled vegetables, I placed my paring knife on the cutting board, moved the curtain aside with my clean knuckle, and glanced out the window. Our remodeled driveway, not yet tarmacked, wrapped around the side of the house where it led to the back garden. We could throw a huge party and invite a house-load of guests with room to spare if we were so inclined. But Faith was not a fan of parties, and I was mostly glad to have just two cars out there. Hers and mine—side by side.
Sure enough, Faith was home. My heart beat faster. Before she powered the windows up, I received an earful of Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” Both music and engine quit in sync as Faith cut the ignition of her brand-new red Toyota Camry. She strode toward the front of the house, uniform grey pebbles parting like the Red Sea as she went. The convenient side door was bolted shut until we were ready to build a staircase that was safe to navigate. Faith was chief-in-charge of home repairs and had promised months ago she’d get around to it, but she hadn’t as of yet.
No matter how many times we sprayed the lock with WD-40, she’d no-doubt struggle with the key. If I nagged her to fix something or call someone in, we’d only argue, so I always let it go, and would again today. There were more important things on my mind: the sooner she stepped inside, the quicker we could get the party started, and the happier I’d be.
My first inclination whenever Faith arrived home was to run into her arms. But after she’d put in a sixty-hour week plus a grueling commute from anywhere in the Tri-Stat
e Area to Eastern Long Island during the Friday evening rush hour, I knew better than to invade her space the second she crossed the threshold. Although I got grouchy waiting, I considered allowing her to chill and greet me on her own terms a small sacrifice to pay. I’d finish up in the kitchen, and she’d walk in to find me all smiles.
With my heart rate mounting in direct proportion to my anticipation, I wiped my hands on the full-length apron I wore to protect my dress. It made me glance down at my clothing choice, and I realized I wasn’t too upset to wear the dress again, after a shopping trip had failed to turn up a better alternative. I hoped Faith would be pleased at me choosing her favorite, a sheer number in deep plum with outlines of butterflies, buds, and leaves in cream; she’d bought it for me while on one of her business trips. It had a built-in, flesh-colored slip, hinting at the allusion of being bare but with a modicum of modesty. Only, on this special occasion, I had nothing on underneath. Without undergarments, this totally nice dress turned naughty. Maybe it was the feel of silk over freshly waxed skin, but I felt so sexy, mere walking threatened to bring me to the brink of orgasm.
I’d have come where I stood if not for a tactic that usually worked to quell unwanted passions best saved for later: I tried forcing my mind to imagine myself at the gym in a spinning class, the most unsexy thing I could think of. However, even that couldn’t stop me from reliving old memories of Faith ripping this dress off and having her way with me in all sorts of kinky delights on the kitchen floor. I kept fast-forwarding to having all of her in bed tonight.
Speaking of Faith…it seemed to take ages for her to appear. The time it took her to place her shoulder bag and keys on the console table in the entryway, set her briefcase beside the hall closet, and drape her coat over the high-backed chair in the living room was often enough for her to unwind before entering the kitchen ready for a welcome embrace. Not crowding her earned me tons of sweet rewards. It was a routine that ultimately suited us both. However, this was not an ordinary night for typical routines; it was our anniversary. Only, Faith hadn’t mentioned a word about it all week, despite several of my not-so-subtle hints.
If I scrubbed the carrots any harder, they would be pared without a peeler.
I basted the fish again, mostly to have something to do with my restless hands, and then resumed stirring the cheese sauce on top of the stove. With assorted vegetables in a rainbow of colors all lined up, I reached over to the windowsill and switched tracks from dance to romance. Faith might tease me about altering the words to every sappy tune I’d ever heard, but I didn’t care. Soon the first floor of our house was filled with the sounds of love songs, nothing but love songs, with me the lead vocalist—singing at the top of my lungs and jazzing up lyrics to my heart’s content.
From a very early age, I could be counted on to burst into song on cue. Often I wasn’t even aware I was humming until I was ordered to stop. Like my dad, I simply loved music. Did my mother have a premonition when she named me Janalyn Melody Jacobs? Or did I enjoy singing as a result of my middle name? But I liked to think I sang on-key, even if I could never remember the lyrics. I used to assume a line in “God Bless America” went “…from the night with the light from a bulb.” I’ve since learned the error of my ways, but I continued to sing it my way just to make a point. After being ostracized by one’s critical fourth grade peers for being different, I’d learned early that some battles weren’t worth fighting. Let them make fun. If worse came to worst I could always just beat them up. I never did use my fists, but the thought I could went a long way to getting me through those awkward teens.
Back then I enjoyed creating silly medleys, not caring if they made sense or not, and now I couldn’t be bothered to memorize actual lyrics. With my back to the door, I tore three varieties of lettuce leaves, slicing cucumbers, zucchini, celery stalks, radishes, scallions, tomato wedges, and four colors of peppers and tossed them all into a salad. Dried cranberries, caramelized pecans and crumbled feta cheese went on top for an extra zing. I was singing a borrowed tune from the song du jour rattling around in my head, singing, “hey you sexy thing, dah, duh, dah, duh, get down and dirty and let’s have a fling, dah duh, dah, dah—” when Faith tapped my shoulder, startling me half to death, sending me nearly to the moon.
“A fling? Faith grasped her chest as if fatally wounded in the old country and western film style.
I turned to face her, blushing at first before putting on a deadpan expression. “If that’s your interpretation of taking your last breath, then you mustn’t quit your day job.”
Unable to keep a straight face for long, I burst into laughter. She was much better at bluffing than me. It was a nuisance being unable to hide my emotions. It was no surprise she was great at poker, often beating the pants off me—literally.
“So, what about this fling you’re having in our kitchen?” Faith said with an overly pronounced pout.
“Fling rhymes with thing. Need I say more darling, dah, duh, dah, duh?”
She rolled her eyes before I threw my arms around her neck, unable to stand another second without a proper greeting.
After thirteen years, my heart rate still sped up whenever she walked into a room, and heaven help my libido if she merely glanced my way; I was a goner then. I placed tiny kisses all over her face, lingering at her lips, only stopping to say what was in my heart: “Who needs a fling when I have you?”
Faith chuckled and ran the fingers of her free hand through my hair. “Hello, beautiful. Oh my, somebody changed her hairstyle.”
I bit my bottom lip. “Do you like it?”
“I love it, and I love you too.”
I shivered with delight whenever she paid extra attention to my appearance. She was my aphrodisiac. I was so absorbed in her presence; it took a while to notice that she was artfully keeping her other hand behind her back. With an overactive inquisitive nature, I stood on tiptoes to peer over her shoulder at what lay in wait for me to discover, but she blocked my view.
“No fair!” All I could detect over the pungent aroma of exotic spices that clung to her hair and clothing was a definite scent of fruit salad—a melon and strawberry patch and a pineapple grove smothered in chocolate. She radiated with obvious delight, a mischievous twinkle in her gray eyes.
“What did you bring me? Please let me see.” I went to grab for it but was thwarted again. Faith was an expert at suspense. Possibly another of her appealing qualities, but I wasn’t telling her that.
“Now may I please see my present?”
“May I have another kiss first?”
“For you, there’s an unlimited supply.” I placed my lips on hers and was deeply rewarded with the grand welcome to which I was accustomed.
I returned the favor and ran my fingers through her hair, gingerly massaging her scalp with my fingertips, while she closed her eyes, as if allowing her tense neck muscles to fully relax, one fiber at a time, until I was practically supporting her head and she was putty in my hands. I marveled at the potpourri of sights, scents and sounds that made up the whole of my girl. Faith was a conglomeration in many ways: outspoken yet reserved; tough as nails but a total mush; super-smart but not conceited. And while she came across as somewhat prudish to the outside world, she was sexy as hell in the bedroom. The many sides of Faith intrigued me to no end because I got to appreciate the real her.
I could have lingered this way for the remainder of the evening but my bionic nose just wouldn’t let me forget: “Show me my present already, or I shall have to tickle you without mercy,” I said.
With a flourish and a great big smile, Faith whipped out a tremendous fresh fruit bouquet from behind her back. I gasped at how the colorful arrangement of fresh fruit: cantaloupe, honeydew, strawberries, pineapple-shaped flowers—some naked and others cloaked in chocolate—formed an incredible bouquet. A rectangle slice of dark chocolate, held up by a plastic stand,
had pink-icing letters inside a big red heart drawn on it—F and J Forever.
“Happy anniversary, Janalyn.”
I held the bouquet to my nose and inhaled the sweetness. “This will be the perfect dessert, after the main dessert we’re having in bed.” I winked.
“Perfect. Did you by any chance make salmon?”
“A whole salmon.”
“Oh, yum.” Another thing I admired about Faith: while she didn’t abstain from all indulgences, she mostly preferred healthy eating, like I did.
Faith and I were on the same page about proper nutrition. It made it easy to choose foods wisely and only occasionally indulge in less nutritious options, particularly wine and chocolate—we loved wine and chocolate. But Faith was more obsessive about fitness, especially as she was required to taste fattening foods at the restaurants she was helping. She suffered more guilt after partaking in empty calories than I did. I was more likely to forgive my indiscretions, figuring life was for enjoying, not depriving. But we both felt so much better when we didn’t pig out. Staying fit enhanced sex. That was our incentive, and Faith helped keep me on track.
I was just about to place the floral arrangement at the center of the table when I noticed a small gold box. It was imbedded between chocolate-covered grapes and held by a wooden stick with a pineapple daisy on top. Totally stunned, I simply beamed that not only had Faith not forgotten our anniversary but she had bought me a real gift.
“What’s this?” I lifted the box, glancing at her for approval like a little girl awaiting permission to open a birthday present, and then ripped open the shiny giftwrap; the tiny bow and paper didn’t stand a chance. I lifted the black velvet lid, my hand literally shaking, to find an exquisite solitaire diamond necklace that took my breath away.
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