When the past comes calling and the future won’t wait…
Twenty-five years ago…a mysterious crime was committed in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. Frank Whittier was accused—but never charged. And it ruined his life.
Now...Cal Whittier, Frank’s son, is determined to protect him, to safeguard his father’s identity. After years on the run, they finally have their lives on an even keel, with Cal teaching at a college in Tennessee. Two things could change all that.
First, a cop in Comfort Cove starts looking into the case again. And second, Cal gets involved with single mother Morgan Lowen. He has plenty of reasons to avoid her—not the least of which is she’s an adult student in one of his classes. And in Cal’s situation, any relationship is risky. Still…it could be the best risk he’s ever taken!
There was a message waiting for him
Cal pushed the button on his office answering machine.
It wasn’t as if there’d be any news about Morgan Lowen’s son already. Just because her urgency was coursing through him like a river with a broken dam didn’t mean he was in any way privy to her personal information.
But he couldn’t just sit still. Morgan’s child was missing. Something had to be done.
He told himself he was overreacting. Kids went missing every day, and almost every single time they turned up. Morgan was probably with Sammie at this very moment. Maybe scolding him for having given her a scare. Or taking him out for fast-food hamburgers.
The message began. “This is for Dr. Caleb Whittier. Dr. Whittier, my name is Detective Ramsey Miller. I’m with the police department in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. It’s important that you return my call—”
Cal cut off the message before the man recited his phone number. Cal hadn’t been anywhere near Comfort Cove in years, not since he was a kid. Not since the accusations that had forced him and his father out of town...
“Tara Taylor Quinn writes with wonderful assurance and an effective, unpretentious style perfectly suited to her chosen genre.”
—Jennifer Blake, New York Times bestselling author
Dear Reader,
I was lucky growing up. I had great parents. My mother was there—always. She cooked and cleaned for us, bandaged bruises and kissed away tears. She also taught us. She stood for right and good and kindness. She didn’t tolerate lying or meanness. She was strict with us…and she spoiled us. She woke us up in the morning; each of us kids had our own personal welcome to the day. She was at the door telling us goodbye when we left for school. And there waiting for us when we got home. She was our sounding board and our listening post. She is still a voice in my head that I take with me every place I go.
And my father—he was the one who told us (and showed us) that we could be anything we wanted to be. We could do anything we wanted to do. We just had to put our minds to it. Stay focused. He was not a lazy man and he did not tolerate laziness in others. He was goal oriented and demanded the same from each of us. My father gave me the stick-to-it-iveness to reach my goal of becoming a writer for Harlequin Books.
And that brings us to Comfort Cove, a small coastal fishing town in Massachusetts. Something happened in Comfort Cove that changed the lives of two sets of parents and children. In A Son’s Tale we meet Cal and his father, Frank. How far will a father go to give his son a good life? And how far will a son go to protect the father who sacrificed so much for him? Do we ever quit owing those who gave us life? Or serving those to whom we gave life?
I don’t have all the answers, but I am very happy to be bringing you this story of one father and one son. I care very much about these men—and about the woman who enters the son’s life. I hope you do, too.
Watch for A Daughter’s Story, coming in October 2012 from Harlequin Superromance. I think mothers and daughters are even more complicated than fathers and sons!
As always, I love hearing from you! You can reach me at [email protected]. Or at P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, AZ 85216.
Tara Taylor Quinn
A Son’s Tale
Tara Taylor Quinn
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over fifty-five original novels, published in more than twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling author. She is a winner of the 2008 National Readers’ Choice Award, four-time finalist for an RWA RITA® Award, a finalist for a Reviewers’ Choice Award, Booksellers’ Best Award and Holt Medallion and she appears regularly on Amazon bestseller lists. Tara Taylor Quinn is a past president of the Romance Writers of America and served for eight years on its board of directors. She is in demand as a public speaker and has appeared on television and radio shows across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. Tara is a spokesperson for the National Domestic Violence Hotline, and she and her husband, Tim, sponsor an annual inline skating race in Phoenix to benefit the fight against domestic violence.
When she’s not at home in Arizona with Tim and their canine owners, Jerry Lee and Taylor Marie, or fulfilling speaking engagements, Tara spends her time traveling and inline skating.
Books by Tara Taylor Quinn
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1446—THE BABY GAMBLE
1465—THE VALENTINE GIFT
“Valentine’s Daughters”
1500—TRUSTING RYAN
1527—THE HOLIDAY VISITOR
1550—SOPHIE’S SECRET*
1584—A DAUGHTER’S TRUST
1656—THE FIRST WIFE‡
1726—FULL CONTACT*
HARLEQUIN SINGLE TITLE
SHELTERED IN HIS ARMS*
MIRA BOOKS
WHERE THE ROAD ENDS
STREET SMART
HIDDEN
IN PLAIN SIGHT
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
AT CLOSE RANGE
THE SECOND LIE‡
THE THIRD SECRET‡
THE FOURTH VICTIM‡
*Shelter Valley Stories
‡Chapman Files
Other titles by this author are available in ebook format.
For my father, Walter Wright Gumser, and big brother, Walter Wright Gumser, Junior. Together as angels just as you were together on earth. I miss you both so much!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN HE FIRST OPENED his eyes, Cal Whittier had no idea what time it was. Squinting against the light from his bedroom window, he focused on the ceiling above him.
Memory came back in bits and pieces. Piling on top of him, weighting him down to the bed.
He’d had dinner with Joy the night before. Their standing Thursday night date. He and the petite banker had been dating for four months—longer than usual for Cal. He liked Joy.
But then he’d liked all of the women he’d dated. One thing he’d never had a shortage of was women.
He and Joy had each had a glass of wine at the restaurant—a steak place, he thought. He could remember ordering his medium-rare. They’d had patio seating. Joy had commented about the misters—an outdoor staple during Tennessee summers—making her hair frizzy.
She’d ordered a salad. And they’d decided to try the house wine.
He’d overindulged.
Cal was careful about his drinking. He had a nightly ritual. A glass of whiskey before bed to help him sleep. And if that didn’t work—if he was still up writing—he allowed himself another. But he never got drunk. And he almost always drank alone.
Last night he’d broken both self-imposed rules. After dinner, he’d consumed most of a new bottle of wine back at Joy’s place—and done it in front of her.
Like a bad movie, the reasons for his rudeness replayed with what seemed like sarcastic clarity in his mind’s eye.
Thursday had not been a good day from the start.
A promising student had appeared in his office the morning before, just weeks before her end-of-the-summer graduation, to tell him she was dropping out of school to join her boyfriend’s band. He’d been Courtney’s undergraduate adviser all four years of her college career. He’d had her in several of his classes, as well. She was carrying a perfect grade average. Dr. Caleb Whittier, Wallace University’s youngest English professor and department chair, was all for love and togetherness—as long as it didn’t involve him—but to throw away a lifetime of work, a more secure future, because of a new relationship?
And then his father had called to tell him that he’d canceled his fishing trip that weekend. It had taken Cal months to get the old man to agree to go—a thousand nonrefundable bucks to hold his spot for the seniors’ adventure holiday and to reserve a private room at his father’s behest—and the old man didn’t go.
He’d rushed home to load the car with the things he’d helped his dad pack the day before, determined to get the old man from the home they shared to the center where Frank would be loaded into a van and whisked away for the time of his life—only to discover that he’d have had to restrain his dad and then haul his ass out of bed, dress him and physically carry him to the Durango to get him out of their neighborhood.
The man might need Cal to prepare his food to get him to eat, but he was not in any way weak or disabled. He could still take Cal if he had a mind to.
He’d had a mind to when it came to him going on that fishing trip.
Then, because of Frank’s bullheadedness, Cal had been late for the lunch meeting with some bankers—possible supporters of the young artists’ league—Joy had arranged for him. It was hard to beg when you’d just kept your targets waiting for half an hour. He’d left the meeting without any kind of commitment for the scholarship money he’d been hoping to win for some very talented kids.
His body might be slow to move this morning but his mind wasn’t giving him any breaks. The day before continued to play itself out—as if living through it once hadn’t been enough.
After lunch he’d come back to his fourth-floor office at Wallace University in Tyler, Tennessee, to find an unwanted message on his answering machine.
Some dude named Ramsey Miller. A detective from Comfort Cove. The man gave up no other details about himself or the reason for his call, but he’d said that it was imperative that Caleb Whittier contact him immediately. Cal would bet his life the call he didn’t return regarded a cold case. A twenty-five-year-old ice-cold case.
Comfort Cove, Massachusetts. The place where two-year-old Claire Sanderson had lived when she’d been abducted from her home.
It was about that time in his mental wanderings that Cal realized he was lying on top of his still-made bed. And wearing the shirt he’d pulled from his closet the morning before.
His pants were undone; they’d slipped a bit, but he hadn’t taken them off, either.
And then he remembered.
Joy’s expressive green eyes.
The cups of coffee.
And the short drive home.
Alone.
* * *
MORGAN HADN’T SLEPT well. They were having their annual summer sock-hop and picnic on Saturday at the day care where she worked, and Morgan, as the nondegreed employee with the most seniority, and as executive assistant to the director, was in charge of most of the physical details, like organizing the game and food committees, the table setup and decorating.
She’d spent most of Thursday night cutting and pasting many mediums of primary colors because the woman who’d volunteered to do so several weeks before had forgotten. In spite of the many calls Morgan had made to ensure that the party’s decor was on track. She really should have asked to see some finished product when the woman had offered to provide samples.
But with her university courses, the day care and schoolwork she did in the evenings, she hadn’t had time to babysit a parent.
And rather than letting anyone else know that she’d done it again—she’d placed her faith in someone who hadn’t proven trustworthy—she’d taken care of the fallout on her own.
Someday she might learn not to always think the best of people, not to be so quick to believe they were going to do what they said they would—but she doubted it.
“Let’s consider Twain’s ‘The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg,’” Dr. Whittier said, looking straight at Morgan at that Friday morning’s lecture. She was sure he was looking at her because she’d been working on day-care decor yesterday evening rather than rereading the short story as she’d intended. You’d think, with only one last class to complete before graduation, she’d be able to keep up with the homework. He’d assigned the reading material at the end of Wednesday morning’s class, and although she’d read everything by her favorite American writer, she hadn’t read “Hadleyburg” since before Sammie was born.
Her son was ten.
“Twain was sixty-three years old and in Vienna when he wrote this story,” Whittier was saying. Didn’t matter how blistering the Tennessee sunshine made their city, the man always wore a tie. He’d left his jacket and long sleeves at home, but still…
Of course, the man did things—sexy things—to that ordinary tie. Things she was convinced no man had ever done before.
“Someone provide us with a quick overview of the plot,” Whittier said. He glanced her way.
Morgan’s stomach gave an irritating leap. She remembered the basics, but…
His gaze moved on. Her stomach didn’t settle.
Yes, she was attracted to her English professor. She and every other female student at Wallace University.
“It’s about, um, the corruption of an honest town.” One such female creature quickly grabbed the opportunity to snare Whittier’s attention. Bella Something-or
-Other was thin, blonde, about twenty, and didn’t have one responsibility on those perfect shoulders or one line on her equally perfect face. “Hadleyburg is known for its honesty. Then some guy sends money to someone in town for a good deed and everyone in town tries to claim the good deed to get the money.”
The Richardses, Morgan remembered. They were the old couple in Hadleyburg that the stranger sent the money to for safekeeping.
“Right,” Whittier said, and Bella preened. Sick. The girl was just sick.
Morgan tried to let her sleepless night catch up with her. To be bored in English class just for once. More to the point, she tried to be bored with the man who taught her favorite class.
“Hudson Long, a Twain biographer, claims that Twain uses this story to depict the pessimistic attitude that he had toward himself and the human race in general. Would you agree with that?”
He was asking the class.
“No.” Morgan blurted the word against her better judgment. She was as bad as the kids, preening for the man’s attention. Her better judgment had deserted her sometime between leaving her mother’s womb and landing in her cradle.
“Why not?” Whittier’s gaze was all hers.
In four years of being in the man’s classes, she should be over getting warm every time she had his attention.
But, recently, they’d been talking more.
“Because I think it’s unfair to label the man as pessimistic just because he had the ability to see deeply inside the human condition and then was giving and talented enough to bring out his vision in such a way that we can all take honest looks at ourselves.”
“So you think you know more about Mark Twain than an official Twain biographer?” His brown eyes were not unkind as he met her head-on. Instead, they had that peculiar light of enjoyment that kept her up nights.
“I’m not saying I know more than a Twain scholar,” Morgan replied, aware of the other, mostly younger students watching her. She felt ancient at twenty-nine. “But I agree with another Twain biographer, Jerry Allen, who says that Twain wrote ‘Hadleyburg’ because of all the maliciousness that he saw in mankind and the hopelessness that was our plight if we didn’t change. I think Twain was giving us a view of ourselves, exaggerated, as an analogy.”
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