Praise for the novels of Rosalind Noonan
TAKE ANOTHER LOOK
“Noonan grips readers in this suspenseful novel . . . worth picking up.”—RT Book Reviews
ALL SHE EVER WANTED
“Noonan has a knack for page-turners and doesn’t disappoint . . . a readable tale.” —Publishers Weekly
THE DAUGHTER SHE USED TO BE
“An engrossing family saga and a suspenseful legal thriller. Noonan covers a lot of narrative ground, with a large cast of characters whose situations involve morally complex issues, as well as knotty family dynamics. This novel would fuel some great book-club discussions.” —Shelf Awareness
IN A HEARTBEAT
“Complex, intriguing characters and an intensely emotional plot make In a Heartbeat compelling.” —RT Book Reviews
ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING
“Written with great insight into military families and the constant struggle between supporting the troops but not the war, Noonan delivers a fast-paced, character-driven tale with a touch of mystery.” —Publishers Weekly
“Reminiscent of Jodi Picoult’s kind of tale . . . it’s a keeper!” —Lisa Jackson, New York Times–bestselling author
Please turn the page for more praise for Rosalind Noonan!
ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING
“Noonan creates a unique thriller that is anti−Iraq War and pro-soldier, a novel that focuses on the toll war takes on returning soldiers and civilians whose loved ones won’t be coming home.” —Booklist
“Gripping and emotional, the story could not be more timely.” —RT Book Club
“Carefully plotted, well-paced, and taut, this novel builds to a stunning conclusion.” —The Romance Readers Connection
“This is an intense and emotional story that readers are sure to enjoy. Grab a hankie; you will need one for One September Morning.” —Romance Reviews Today
Books by Rosalind Noonan
ONE SEPTEMBER MORNING
IN A HEARTBEAT
THE DAUGHTER SHE USED TO BE
ALL SHE EVER WANTED
AND THEN SHE WAS GONE
TAKE ANOTHER LOOK
DOMESTIC SECRETS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
DOMESTIC SECRETS
ROSALIND NOONAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for the novels of Rosalind Noonan
Books by Rosalind Noonan
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
PART 1
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART 2
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Copyright Page
In memory of Ruby,
who brought us joy
and unconditional love
and kept our secrets
O, that this too, too sullied flesh would melt
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 1, scene ii
PART 1
Chapter 1
Early May
The salon was hopping with all the music and conversation and laughter typical of a Saturday afternoon when his text came. The ambient noise was so loud that Rachel Whalen would have missed the message if she hadn’t seen the screen of her cell light up on the counter as she swept up her station.
Maternal pride and fear swelled inside her when she saw that it was from Kyle James. Her oldest son, a junior in the home stretch of spring term at Green State, had been playing a friendly game of touch football with some friends when he’d hit his head and gotten his third concussion in eight months. The coach had immediately responded with concerns about his ability to play football next year. His role as the team quarter-back was in jeopardy.
Rachel’s pulse pinged a little faster as she opened the text. KJ had called back the coach that morning to clarify things.
Not kicking me off yet, but I think they want me to resign. I’m totally screwed. Meeting with them tomorrow. What do I do?
Her heart sank. She hadn’t expected this—at least, not so soon—and she didn’t have time to watch her empire crumble now. She texted back: At work. Let’s talk later. Although it hurt to blow him off, she couldn’t spare the time to talk with him now, without keeping customers waiting. Even when they did talk, there was nothing she could do to help him besides listen, and Rachel hated conceding to the unfixable. She was the fixer, dammit. But there was no easy solution to the situation, and the consequences on both sides were significant. Poor KJ. The sin of failure settled heavily on her shoulders. A mother was supposed to take care of her kids.
As she cleaned up her station, Rachel checked herself in the mirror—the beauty of working in a hair salon. She was having a good hair day, her dark-chocolate hair falling in fat curls at the bottom while the side bangs flipped back from her brown eyes. That new product covered those stray grays well. She smiled, glad that her dimples still appeared after forty-three years. “Mom’s happy dots,” the boys used to call them.
Her customer came out of the changing room to say good-bye, dragging Rachel back to reality.
“It’s going to take a while to get used to it so short, but I love it.” Mae Yang swept a hand over the back of her neck, then wrapped on a checkered scarf. “I feel a few tons lighter.”
“It suits you.” Rachel wiggled her fingers in a casual wave. “And I’m putting the Memorial Day Concert on my calendar. That’s so exciting. You must be busting your buttons.”
“Yeah.” Calm as ever, Mae paused to check her hair in a mirror and outline one of the triangular sideburns with a fingertip. The subtle smile told Rachel that she was pleased. They had taken off a good six inches, “lightening the load,” as Mae called it. Rachel had touched up the flaming crimson and combed Mae’s red hair into a dense, wild stack atop her head. The new hairstyle seemed to represent Mae’s new incarnation as a survivor, an artist, and a free woman.
Mae had looked quite different a year ago when she had appeared at the salon door, frightened as a trapped mouse. Her long, thick hair had been greasy on top, snarled and matted around her neck. Even Rachel had been at a loss for where to begin with it, but she had kept mum, sensing the young woman’s pent-up anxiety.
“Just take a load off, and tell me what style you’re thinking of,” Rachel had said gently.
Instead, Mae had told her a tale of domestic abuse, the psychological kind. While Rachel worked conditioner into knots and detangled from the bottom up, the girl talked of a boyfriend who refused to marry her but refused to let her go. There were mornings in which Mae could no longer drag herself out of bed and into
work, and nights of waiting up for him and then cowering when he finally came home in a drunken rage. With tears streaming down her face, she had admitted that she would leave except that she still loved him. She was sure that he loved her back. It was the booze that kept him from showing it.
“But you need to love yourself first,” Rachel had said softly, seeing her own past in this broken young woman.
“God first, yourself second,” Hilda had added from the next station. “But this man, he does not deserve your love. And he’s not allowed to threaten you this way. . . . This is no good.”
That day, Rachel had extracted a simple promise from Mae; the girl vowed not to let her hygiene deteriorate again. It had been a small start, but as Hilda said, “You do what you can.” Mae had kept her part of the bargain, returning every two months for a haircut and a check-in. Within four months she had gotten out of the abusive relationship and moved in with some girlfriends. After that, she had enrolled in evening classes, formed a band with some friends, and earned a promotion at work. At this point, all of the stylists had some knowledge of her past, and they joined in to celebrate her progress.
Rachel kept quiet for a moment, savoring the ladies’ love for Mae.
“Wait,” Sondra said, lifting her gaze from her scissors. “You’re playing here on the square for Memorial Day?”
Mae nodded, her fiery-red hair bobbing as she shared the details of her band’s upcoming gigs at farmers’ markets and charity events. Most of the women in the shop were watching now, interested, promising to attend.
“Well, now you’ve got the right hairstyle to be a performer,” Hilda said. “Very dramatic.”
Mae tilted her head to one side, peering shyly from behind a lock of hair. “Thanks.”
“Good luck to you, young lady,” called one elderly customer, Trish Dwyer’s mother, Hazel, and the group joined in a chorus of cheerful good-byes as Mae headed out.
“Rihanna’s got nothing on her!” someone commented. “She’s adorable.”
“Right? She’s got a great energy,” Rachel said. “I can’t wait to see her perform.” It was moments like these that kept Rachel Whalen in the game at the hair salon she owned in the Portland suburb of Timbergrove. Rachel recognized the fact that women came to her because she was equal parts truth-teller and ass-kicker, and she knew they came to the salon because it was one place in town where they could get what they needed. Love and advice, therapy and transformation, all for the price of a haircut. This was how they rolled.
Her bit of euphoria was cut short when she checked the appointment book and saw that Tootsie Dover, grand dame of Timbergrove, was up next. The older woman with a penchant for plastic surgery and wine was one of the few customers who enjoyed reminding Rachel that she worked in a service profession. After an hour or two with Tootsie, Rachel felt like one of the scullery maids in Downton Abbey.
As usual, Tootsie was late. Rachel looked up from the appointment book, hoping to steal a minute to catch up with KJ, as Tootsie slinked in, jaw clenched and shoulders back in that imperious stance. All that was missing was her royal scepter.
“Hey, there. How’s it going?” Rachel flashed her usual smile, extending a casual greeting as she came around the reception desk and pointed Tootsie toward her station.
“I’m so busy I hardly have time to breathe,” Tootsie muttered, her puffy lips barely moving. A few years back she had gotten some sort of implants that made her lips bulbous and swollen. For months Rachel had thought of a bad bee sting reaction whenever she’d looked at Tootsie. “I’m trying to plan a European vacation and it’s so hard to get what you want these days.”
“I can imagine.” Rachel did not have that problem. The last vacation she had taken was with her boys at the coast, and even there they had stayed in a friend’s cottage. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or tea? Wine or soda?”
As usual, Tootsie wanted wine. While Tootsie switched her blouse for a gown, Rachel poured a hefty goblet of white wine. Tootsie took the glass without acknowledgment. You’re welcome. Since when did money become an excuse for lacking manners?
With a small flourish, Rachel wrapped the cape around Tootsie. As she moved she caught a glimmer of silver in the part of her own dark hair. Damn. Time to freshen up her own roots. Usually Ariel helped her out with that, but her friend had been busy lately, coaching kids for the spring show.
“I’m looking for a little wow factor.” Tootsie tipped up her well-sculpted nose and swirled her glass of white wine as Rachel pumped the chair higher. “Can we go blonder this time?”
Any blonder and your head is going to glow in the dark, Rachel thought, though she bit the words back. Some women wanted to hear the truth, but Tootsie Dover was not one of them. And if Rachel Whalen had learned anything in twenty years of styling hair, it was to give the customer what she wanted.
“We can put more umber into the golden highlights,” Rachel suggested. “That will give it more contrast, more shine.”
“I want that instant bling thing. That sparkle and pop, you know? I want people to notice when I walk into a room.”
You mean, when you stumble in, Rachel thought, pretending to ponder a strand of the woman’s hair. It was the consultation, the moment when Rachel listened, then proposed a fabulous transformation of her client’s hair and, hence, life. Not everyone went for the dramatic consult. Some wanted just a trim, a color touch-up, a little chitchat, and a couple of laughs. But Tootsie always demanded the deluxe package: flattery, ass-kissing, and a magical transformation.
“I have some product with gold sparkles in it.”
The plump lips curled into a beak that reminded Rachel of Donald Duck’s. “I want that. Pour it on.”
“And we can finish with a Brazilian blowout.”
One of Tootsie’s painted brows arched as she sipped the wine. “Mmm. What the hell is that?”
“A deep conditioning treatment we use after the color. It adds a layer of protective protein that gives your hair a smooth, healthy sheen. Lasts for weeks, and it’ll bring out that golden-honey glow in your hair.”
“Yes, yes. Do that, too.”
“Perfect.” Ka-ching, ka-ching. Rachel tabulated the rising profit on Tootsie’s hair treatment as she started to mix the product in plastic containers. Right now Rachel really needed the money. She was a single parent operating her own business, and every month she seemed to come up short. With Jared heading off to college in September, she spent many late nights staring at the computer screen showing her online bank accounts and wondering how she was going to sew together the budget holes. And that was before she’d learned KJ’s scholarship was in jeopardy. On the other hand, Tootsie Dover, heir to the Dover Pumpworks fortune, had money to burn. All was fair in love and commerce.
As Rachel applied color to layers of hair separated by waxed papers, Tootsie nattered on about her latest renovation, her newest car, her royal treatment at the country club, her wunderkind Cooper.
“He’s made his final choice,” Tootsie said. “Winchester College, down in California. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“I know it well. That’s a great school.” Rachel brushed the pale muck of dye into the roots of Tootsie’s hair as she pictured the college with its low-slung adobe buildings, mosaic-tiled artwork, swimming pools, and lawns bordered by tall palm trees. It had been the first choice of her younger son, Jared, who had been accepted, but not offered a scholarship.
“Did you hear that Cooper’s been given a football scholarship? A full ride,” Tootsie tossed in, toasting Rachel with the wineglass.
“Fabulous,” Rachel gushed, though inside she was seething. That scholarship was wasted on a wealthy family like the Dovers, who had the money to send their son to Stanford and build him his own dormitory, too. But Rachel had kept her mouth shut. Maybe she’d sounded just as greedy when KJ has gotten his football scholarship to Green State two years ago. Had she actually bragged about it back then?
Well . . . maybe.
“Of course, I told him he doesn’t have to play football, but he just loves it.”
So does KJ.
“And I must admit, it’s nice having a celebrity in the family. Have you been at the high school games when they chant Cooper’s name?”
“I have.” Back in October, Rachel and Ariel had attended the homecoming game. In a town the size of Timbergrove, a Friday night football game was quite the social event, with tailgate parties, marching bands, cheerleaders, and helicopters hovering overhead for TV coverage. Although it had been a fun, cheap night out, Rachel could not say she enjoyed hearing the crowd chant the name of their current quarterback. It had reminded her too much of her own son’s ride to glory two years earlier, when the roar of fans had rumbled through the bleachers.
“KJ!” Clap, clap. “KJ!” Clap, clap. “KJ!”
At first KJ had asked people to stop chanting his name, explaining that he was no hero, that the entire team deserved a rally cry. But no one listened or cared. The chant was intoxicating and contagious.
“KJ!” Clap, clap. “KJ!”
For a seventeen-year-old kid who had grown up playing tackle football since he was five, the cheering fans were part of the thrill of football. KJ had admitted that, even as he’d tried to stay modest and focused, keeping his head in the game. “Football is my life,” he’d told her, and Rachel had been so pleased and proud that her son had found a good, solid foundation in his life.
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