Luanne Rice

by Summer's Child

  She settled Rose on the sun porch—with a book and her bag of needlepoint. Rose had started doing a project at the end of school, and this was the first she’d felt well enough to continue. Kissing Rose on the top of her head, Lily returned to the kitchen. The expression in Patrick Murphy’s eyes made her feel she was about to be arrested.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Are you going to put me in handcuffs?”

  “He wouldn’t do that to you or me,” Marisa said. “We’ve done nothing wrong. But Edward has.”

  “Edward?” Lily asked, feeling electricity racing down her neck.

  “Ted,” Marisa said.

  “Ted—that’s your husband.”

  Ted, Edward, she thought, suddenly seeing the dull hurt in Marisa’s eyes. Don’t let this be happening. “No,” Lily said.

  “What made you come to Cape Hawk?” Patrick asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Lily said. “I think you already know most of it. You have the news article about the ferry memorial stone. The other part has to do with a lie my husband used to tell—to get people to think he was descended from a ship captain.”

  “The whaling ship,” Marisa said. “With ice on the rigging. And the cliffs of the fjord in the background.”

  “Tell me this isn’t happening,” Lily said, feeling the blood drain from her face. “You were married to Edward Hunter?”

  Marisa nodded.

  “Didn’t you know he was under suspicion for killing his wife?” Lily whispered.

  “No,” Marisa said. “I had no idea until last night. You’ve been missing for nine years. I must have missed the story when it all started, because I was pregnant with Jessica—she was born the week after Rose, but it was a difficult pregnancy, and I had to go into the hospital. I vaguely remember hearing about a pregnant woman missing in Connecticut—but Lily, I couldn’t bear to hear about the case. I was just about to have my baby, and I couldn’t stand to think about what you might have gone through.”

  “Jessica and Rose have almost the same birthday.”

  “I know. Exactly. When I think of it now,” Marisa said, holding Lily’s hands, “I wonder whether that was part of the allure. Ted, Edward, knew my husband from the golf club. He’d done some stock transactions for us—he had all our family information, including birthdays. My husband liked him. So when Paul died, I just continued using Ted. He managed the inheritance funds—and when I remember that first meeting, he commented on Jessica’s birthday.”

  “He did?”

  Marisa nodded. “He told me that someone he had cared about deeply had had a baby at that time—and it was very sacred for him.”

  “Sacred!” Lily exploded.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “He scammed you,” Lily gasped, grabbing her, hugging her and feeling them both shaking so hard, the two wives of Edward Hunter. “Just the way he scammed me.”

  “We almost had him too,” Marisa said. “Patrick called his friend in the FBI, and we were right on Ted’s trail—with another scam, on the Internet. But the agent called Patrick this morning to say he’d erased his account, and the message board doesn’t archive old messages.”

  “It’s true,” Patrick said. “We’ll have to get him another way. But never mind that for now. Mara, Lily—”

  “Lily,” she said. “Please, Mara is from another time and place. I can’t think of her now.”

  “You might have to,” he said. “There’s no good way to tell you this.”

  “What is it?” Liam asked, stepping closer to Lily, putting his arm around her for support.

  “It’s your grandmother,” Patrick said. “I spoke with Clara Littlefield this morning, and Maeve had a seizure at home three days ago. The ambulance took her to Shoreline General, and she’s in a coma.”

  “Oh, Granny,” Lily said, tears flooding. “It can’t be true!”

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said.

  Lily leaned against Liam’s chest, weeping. If only she had listened to her heart on that trip to Boston. Something was telling her to go home, go to Hubbard’s Point. She had dismissed it, thinking it was just her old homesickness, kicked by being in New England. But it had been Maeve, calling her. They had always been so connected; how could Lily have thought she would go on forever, just waiting for the time when Lily felt safe enough to return?

  “Why did I wait so long?” Lily wept. “She needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

  “You had to think of Rose,” Liam said, kissing her hair. “You had good reason to stay hidden.”

  “Maeve loves you,” Patrick said. “She must have felt good, knowing she helped you get away. She wouldn’t have wanted you to walk into harm’s way.”

  “Patrick told me that she always carries the needlepoint case you made her,” Marisa said.

  “I made her an honorary Nanouk,” Lily said, sniffling.

  “The Nanouks will be with you,” Marisa said. “Wherever you go, whatever you do. You know that—”

  “I do,” Lily said, touching her cheek. “And the same is true of you. They saved my life when I first got here.”

  “And you’ve saved mine,” Marisa said.

  “What are you going to do?” Patrick asked.

  “I could go there,” Lily said. “And Edward wouldn’t necessarily have to know.”

  “Or he could find out,” Patrick said. “And we could help you fight him.”

  “He’d find out about Rose,” Lily whispered, her blood running cold. She knew that if she returned to Connecticut, she would have to face hard truths about the man she had left. He was the father of her daughter. She had been afraid of him for so long, but suddenly she knew that some emotions were bigger than fear.

  “Maeve needs you,” Patrick said.

  “You have to go to her,” Liam said.

  “Oh God,” Lily whispered. She held his hand and looked deeply into his eyes. They were as grave and sad as she felt. Now that Rose’s heart was mending, she felt hers was breaking. What if her grandmother was very sick? Lily would stay and take care of her. There was so much she wanted to make up to Maeve: all the lost years, the birthdays and holidays she had missed. Maeve had never even met Rose. As wonderful a grandmother as she had been to Lily, she’d be all that to Rose. Edward had deprived them all of each other for too long.

  “Liam,” she said, looking into his eyes. How could she leave him now, just as they had found each other? “I can’t go away from you.”

  “Nanny’s leading you there,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He held her hand, leading her to the computer, showed her MM122’s latest position: swimming in Long Island Sound, right off the tip of Hubbard’s Point. Lily could barely take in the information—evidence of another miracle. How could she doubt it?

  “She’s leading you back home,” Liam said.

  “Home is here,” she said.

  “Lily,” Liam said. “I know you’re scared. But look—look at what’s happening. Do you know how amazing it is that a beluga whale would make her way down the eastern seaboard, all the way south to Hubbard’s Point?”

  “Is it possible?” Lily asked, her throat so tight.

  “It’s happening,” he said. “That is evidence that goes beyond possible—straight to reality.”

  Lily closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw a picture hanging above Liam’s desk: Tecumseh Neill, the family patriarch, standing with his whaling vessel, the Pinnacle. Beside it, the copy of a letter he had written to his wife, waiting at home in Cape Hawk:

  “I have been in pursuit of a single whale,” he wrote in fine, elegant script. “She sings by night, when there’s not a sound to answer her but the wind in the rigging. When she breached at first light, she was the color of blood—a sight to strike fear into every heart and yet make every man aboard gaze upon her with awe and reverence—that such a creature could exist! I will follow her, my darling, but I made a promise to return home to you, and
that I shall do… .”

  “Liam,” Lily said, turning to look into his eyes. “Would you come to Connecticut with us? You made that promise to Rose… .”

  “I made it to you too,” he said.

  “Then is that a yes?” Lily asked. Her heart was beating in her throat. Her pulse, the rhythm of life. Blood, oxygen, and that other vital essence mixing together in her body. Her Rose, reading on the sun porch. Liam took her hand.

  Behind him, the windows were wide open. From up here on the hill, you could see forever—or just about. Way out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Lily could see whales playing. They breached, shooting straight out of the icy blue water like silver missiles, landing with exuberant, sky-high splashes. The day was brilliant.

  About the Author

  LUANNE RICE is the author of Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, Dance With Me, The Perfect Summer, The Secret Hour, True Blue, Safe Harbor, Summer Light, Firefly Beach, Dream Country, Follow the Stars Home—a Hallmark Hall of Fame feature—Cloud Nine, Home Fires, Secrets of Paris, Stone Heart, Angels All Over Town, Crazy in Love, which was made into a TNT Network feature movie, and Blue Moon, which was made into a CBS television movie. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

  Also by LUANNE RICE

  Silver Bells

  Beach Girls

  Dance With Me

  The Perfect Summer

  The Secret Hour

  True Blue

  Safe Harbor

  Summer Light

  Firefly Beach

  Dream Country

  Follow the Stars Home

  Cloud Nine

  Home Fires

  Blue Moon

  Secrets of Paris

  Stone Heart

  Crazy in Love

  Angels All Over Town

  Watch for

  LUANNE RICE’S

  On sale in hardcover June 21st

  New York Times bestselling author Luanne Rice continues the story begun in Summer’s Child in an unforgettable novel destined to take its place as one of her most beloved works.

  Read on for a special advance preview of

  Summer of Roses.

  Summer of Roses

  On Sale June 21stMy wedding was like a dream. It was almost everything a wedding should be, and when I think of it, even now, I see it unfolding like the kind of beautiful story that always has a happy ending.

  I got married in my grandmother’s garden, by the sea. A brilliant early July morning at Hubbard’s Point, the daylilies were in bloom. That’s what I remember, almost as much as the roses: orange, cream, lemon, golden daylilies on tall green stalks, tossed by the summer breeze, trumpeting exultation up to the wild blue sky. But the roses were my grandmother’s specialty, her pride and joy, and that year, for my wedding, they were all blooming.

  Scarlet Dublin Bay roses climbed the trellis beside the front door of the weathered shingle cottage, while Garnets-and-Golds and pale pink New Dawns meandered up the stone chimney. The beds by the iron bench bloomed with red, yellow, peach, and pink classic English varieties, while those along the stone wall, by the old wishing well and the steps up to the road, were low shrubs of white and cream roses. A six-foot hedge of Rosa Rugosa—white and pink beach roses—lined the sea wall, along with deep blue delphinium and hydrangeas.

  It was a perfect setting for a perfect wedding—something that most people, including me, never imagined would happen. I guess I thought I wasn’t the marrying kind. Let’s just say that I was a little on the guarded side. I had lost my parents very young. As a child I had been in love with our family. I know how dramatic that sounds, but it’s true. We were so happy, and my parents had loved each other with wild, reckless, ends-of-the-earth abandon. I had watched them together, and taken it in, and decided that nothing less would ever do for me. When they were killed in a ferry accident, on a trip to Ireland, although I wasn’t there, but home in Connecticut with my grandmother, I think I died with them.

  So my wedding—and everything that had led up to it—the miracle of meeting Edward Hunter, and falling so madly in love with him, and being swept off my feet in a way I’d never expected or believed could happen—was a resurrection of sorts. A rising from the dead, of a little girl who went down to the bottom of the Irish Sea with her parents, thirty-four years earlier.

  Edward. He was every love song in the world. He was a hero—not just because I loved him, but because he really, truly was one. He had sacrificed so much for his family, and he had literally saved his mother’s life. You can imagine how completely—uber-motherless child that I was—that fact endeared him to me. How couldn’t I adore him?

  He was just over five-eight, but since I’m just under five-two, he seemed so tall to me; I had to stand on tiptoes to kiss him. A rugby player at Harvard, he was broad-shouldered and muscular. His red Saab bore three stickers: Harvard University, Columbia Business School, and a bumper sticker that said Rugby Players Eat Their Dead. The joke was, Edward was so gentle, I couldn’t even imagine him playing such a rough sport.

  When I go back to our wedding day, I see his red car parked in the road up at the top of the stone steps, behind the rose-and-ivy-covered wishing well. I can see the graceful arch curving over the well—with Sea Garden—the name of my grandmother’s cottage, forged in wrought iron back when my great-grandfather was still alive—the black letters rusting away in the salt air even back then, nine years ago. I remember the moment so well: standing there in my grandmother’s yard, knowing that soon I would drive away with Edward in that red car—that I would be his wife, and we would be off on our honeymoon.

  Can I say now, for certain, that I looked at that iron arch and saw the corroding letters as a reminder that even that which is most beautiful, intended to endure forever, can be corrupted or destroyed? No, I can’t. But I do remember that the sight of it gave me my first cold feeling of the day.

  My grandmother and Clara Littlefield—her next-door neighbor and best friend from childhood—had gone all-out to make my wedding a dream come true. The yellow-and-white-striped tent stood in the side yard between their houses, on the very point of Hubbard’s Point, jutting proudly into Long Island Sound. Tables with long golden-cream tablecloths were scattered around, all decorated with flowers from the garden. A string quartet from Hartt School of Music, in Hartford, played Vivaldi. My friends were in their summer best—bright sundresses, straw hats, blue blazers.

  Granny stood before me, looking into my eyes. We were the same height, and we laughed, because we were both so happy. I wore a white wedding gown; she wore a pale yellow chiffon dress. My veil blew in the sea breeze; my bouquet was white roses, off-white lace hydrangeas, and ivy from the wishing well. Granny wore a yellow straw hat with a band of blue flowers.

  “I wish Edward’s family had been able to come,” she said as we stood by the wishing well, ready to begin the procession.

  “I know,” I said. “He’s trying to make the most of it.”

  “Well,” she said. “Things happen … you’ll see them soon, I’m sure. One thing I know, Mara—your parents are with you today.”

  “Granny—don’t get me started.”

  “I won’t,” my grandmother said, wriggling her shoulders with resolve. “We’re staying strong as I walk you down the aisle, or I’m not Maeve Jameson.”

  “My parents would be proud of you,” I said, because I knew she was thinking of them every bit as much as I was trying not to—and I gave her a big smile, just to prove I wasn’t going to cry.

  “Of us both,” she said, linking arms with mine as the quartet started playing Bach.

  So much time has passed, but certain memories are still clear and sharp. The pressure of Granny’s hand on mine, holding steady, as we walked across the grass; my beach friends Bay and Tara beaming at me; the smell of roses and salt air; Edward’s short dark hair, his golden tan set off by a pale blue shirt and wheat linen blazer; his wide-eyed gaze.

  I remember thinking his eyes looked like a lit
tle boy’s. Hazel eyes. He had been so helpful all morning—taking charge of where the tables went, which direction the quartet should face. It was sort of odd, having a man “in charge,” here on this point of land filled with strong women. Granny and I had exchanged an amused glance—letting him do his thing. But here he was, standing at our makeshift altar in the side yard, looking for all the world like a lost little boy as I approached him. But then I caught that blank stare—blank, yet somehow charged—and it made me hesitate, holding tight to my grandmother’s hand.

  Yes, I remember that stare, the look in his hazel eyes. It was fear—standing there under the striped tent, watching me approach, my betrothed was afraid of something. The years have gone by and told me all I need to know about his fear—but let’s go back to my wedding day and pretend we don’t have all this knowledge. Back then, in quick succession, I thought one thing and felt another. No—that’s backward. I felt first, thought second.

  I felt cold—the same chilly primal shiver I’d experienced looking up at his car, seeing that salt-pitted, rusty metal arch. But I chased the unwanted, ugly chill with this thought: Edward—hey, honey, Edward! Don’t be afraid … please don’t worry that it’s too soon, or my grandmother doubts you, or that I care about the jacket. I love you … I love you.

  I love you.

  Words I had said so rarely up until that time—but since meeting Edward I had used almost constantly. The old Mara Jameson had been too closed off and guarded to let them slip off her tongue; but the new Mara Jameson couldn’t say them enough.

  This was my home, my side yard, my family and friends—Edward was far from everything comfortable and familiar to him. His family hadn’t been able to make it. He felt really bad about the whole blazer debacle. These thoughts were flying through my mind as my grandmother passed my hand into his with the whispered words, “Take care of her, Edward.” Edward nodded, but the expression in his eyes didn’t ease.