by Susan Fox
Books by Susan Fox
Blue Moon Harbor Series
Fly Away With Me
“Blue Moon Harbor Christmas” novella in Winter Wishes
Come Home With Me
Sail Away With Me
Caribou Crossing Romances
“Caribou Crossing” novella
Home on the Range
Gentle on My Mind
“Stand By Your Man” novella
Love Me Tender
Love Somebody Like You
Ring of Fire
Holiday in Your Heart
Wild Ride to Love Series
His, Unexpectedly
Love, Unexpectedly
Yours, Unexpectedly
Also by Susan Fox
Body Heat
Writing as Susan Lyons
Sex Drive
She’s On Top
Touch Me
Hot in Here
Champagne Rules
Anthologies
The Naughty List
Some Like It Rough
Men On Fire
Unwrap Me
The Firefighter
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Sail Away With Me
SUSAN FOX
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Susan Fox
Title Page
Copyright Page
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FLY AWAY WITH ME
WINTER WISHES
HOME ON THE RANGE
GENTLE ON MY MIND
LOVE ME TENDER
LOVE SOMEBODY LIKE YOU
RING OF FIRE
HOLIDAY IN YOUR HEART
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Susan Lyons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-4598-4
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4599-1
eISBN-10: 1-4201-4599-1
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’m delighted to continue my Blue Moon Harbor romance series. Bookseller Iris Yakimura was introduced in the first book in the series, Fly Away With Me, and I knew she’d deserve her own love story one day. Musician Julian Blake was also briefly mentioned in that book, when heroine Eden saw him onstage and said he looked like a “tarnished angel.” Her comment was more perceptive than she realized.
If you’re familiar with my books, you know there’s always a heartwarming romance with a happy ending. You know that I write about characters who are complex, with weaknesses as well as strengths, with tough challenges to face, and with lessons to learn. And you know that I also address some serious contemporary issues. Sail Away With Me was in some ways the toughest novel for me to write, because of one issue it addresses.
Sail Away With Me is a story about strength and growth and moving forward with life. It’s about wisdom, the support of family and friends, and the journey toward finding true love. It deals with the heroine’s struggle to overcome her painful shyness and the hero’s attempt to overcome past trauma. The trauma of child sexual abuse.
Child sexual abuse is a crime, and it is a horrific subject to think about, but I wanted to write about it because it’s more prevalent than we’d like to think. It’s impossible to collect accurate statistics because the crime is underreported and because definitions of sexual abuse vary. However, I’ve seen information indicating that in the United States, a child is sexually assaulted every eight minutes, and that one in five girls and one in twenty boys is a victim.
In most cases, the experience is traumatic and has an impact on the child’s emotional development and on her or his adult life. It can cause suicidal thoughts.
The crime is underreported for a variety of reasons, including the child’s embarrassment and misplaced feelings of guilt and shame, as well as implicit or explicit threats from the abuser. Also, the child often fears that she or he won’t be believed, as against the word of an adult—and, sadly, that is often true.
If you know or suspect a child is being abused, your first priority should be the child’s safety. In an emergency situation, call 911 or any other local emergency service. There may be a legal obligation, in your jurisdiction, to report abuse. Obtaining counseling support for the child should be considered. There are numerous online resources to provide more information about the crime of child sexual abuse and the needs of victims, and to point you to resources in your community.
If you’re an adult who was abused as a child, you can find support resources as well. For example, do an Internet search for “adult survivors of sexual abuse.”
Moving on to a more pleasant subject, it’s time to say thank you. The first one goes to the readers who enjoy my books, tell their friends, maybe write a review, and occasionally drop me a note. Those notes are so very encouraging on the days when my writing muse is being ornery.
Thank you to all the wonderful folks at Kensington, especially my editor, Martin Biro, who is always a delight to work with, and his assistant James Abbate, who makes all the admin-type things run so smoothly. Thank you, too, to my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, of Prospect Agency. We’ve been together ten fabulous years!
I’m so grateful to my critiquers, who provided valuable feedback on this book: Rosalind Villers, Alaura Ross, and Nazima Ali. Thanks also to the following people who helped with odds and ends of research: Roberta Cottam, Vanessa Grant, Sharon Gunn, Solveig McLaren, Andrew Hull, Luranah and Alasdair Polson, Yvonne Rediger, and Éliane Verret-Fournier. All errors (and deliberate bendings of the truth) are mine, not theirs. Very special thanks to Roberta Cottam, who came up with the title of this book.
I love sharing my stories with my readers and I love hearing from you. You can email me at [email protected] or contact me through my website at www.susanfox.ca, where you’ll also find excerpts, behind-the-scenes notes, recipes, a monthly contest, the sign-up for my newsletter, and other goodies. You can find me on Facebook at facebook.com/SusanLyonsFox.
A footnote:
I finished this manuscript i
n the fall of 2017, having no idea how much our world—at least in Canada and the United States—would change in the coming year in terms of outing and condemning sexual abuse and sexual harassment. The #Me Too movement began in the fall of 2017 and Time’s Up followed at the beginning of 2018, and they continue to gain momentum. I’m encouraged to see that victims are feeling empowered to come forward, and also to see sexual predators being exposed and sanctioned for their actions. I wonder if the initial response by the police and community to Julian’s allegations would be any different today . . .
Chapter One
Carrying his favorite acoustic guitar in its travel-worn case, Julian Blake climbed into the old black van his dad and his dad’s bandmates used for their local gigs. Sitting in the driver’s seat, tears burned behind Julian’s eyes. Would he ever again feel the joy of sharing a mic with his father, Forbes, the man who’d taught him to play a miniature guitar before he was even forming full sentences? The team of doctors gave his dad a less than 50 percent chance of being able to play again, odds that Forbes was determined to beat.
Letting out a growl of impotent rage at how fucked up fate could be, Julian put the standard-shift van in reverse and backed down the driveway. A few minutes later, he reached the two-lane road that more or less bisected the tiny, largely undeveloped island into east and west halves. Turning north, he resisted the urge to speed. Deer, rabbits, and squirrels often darted onto the road regardless of oncoming vehicles. He would be a careful driver. Unlike the drunk off-islander who, two weeks ago, had lost control on a curve and smashed into Forbes, who’d been walking along the shoulder of this very road.
That accident had brought Julian rushing from Vancouver to Destiny Island, the place he’d fled as a teen. He hated even breathing the air here, and normally made only a couple of short visits each year. But now he had no choice, because Forbes and Sonia needed full-time live-in assistance.
Julian fisted his left hand and thumped the wheel. Enough with the negative thinking. Thanks to a professional development day at the high school, his stepmom was at home with his dad. Julian could escape to his longtime sanctuary, where the vibes of old guitars, bells, and laughter rang in the boughs of the ancient apple trees. In the late sixties and early seventies a commune had flourished briefly there, but since then the land had been deserted. There, with his guitar, he would find a few hours’ solace. With luck, the beginning of a song would come to him. He was behind in working on the next album. It was the end of October, and he’d told his bandmates and label he’d have the songs written by Christmas. The Julian Blake Band had booked tours for next year, promising new music.
Pressure crippled his muse, seductive and elusive creature that she was. He owed his life to her, to his music, and he would always honor them. The tattoo on his right arm, of a few bars of “Ache in My Soul,” the song that had saved his life, served as a constant reminder.
Passing Quail Ridge Community Hall, Julian remembered playing there with B-B-Zee, his dad’s band, on his last visit to the island back in May. Please let that not be the last time.
The scenery on either side of the road hadn’t changed since he’d last come this way. That was typical of Destiny, a pro-green island with a lot of agricultural land and parks. One of the farms had a “For Sale” sign in Island Realty’s distinctive blue and green, displaying Bart Jelinek’s white-toothed, horn-rimmed photo. Julian swallowed bile, forced air into his pinched lungs, and rubbed his fingers against the jeans pocket that held his much-mended guitar pick. His reminder; his talisman.
If all he saw of that asshole Jelinek was an occasional photo, he’d count himself lucky.
* * *
Iris Yakimura had worn lightweight Skechers to do her tai chi, but now she tugged them off and wriggled her bare toes in October-crisp yellowed grass. She also pulled off the twist of patterned silk that secured her ponytail, and shook her long black hair loose.
One of the aims of tai chi was to align your chi—vital force—and the seamless flow of exercise, stretching, and deep breathing gave her a sense of control, grace, and strength. Tai chi was the perfect way to exercise and center herself, a discipline where she knew exactly what to do next.
Practicing mindfulness, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the morning air tinged with the baked-in heat of dry arbutus leaves, a whiff of ocean freshness, and an indefinable something that confirmed that, despite the Indian summer days they’d been experiencing, it truly was autumn. Soon the rainy hours would outnumber the sunny ones, and Christmas was less than two months away. That knowledge was like an underpainting that lay beneath a finished work of art, mostly invisible and yet adding subtle, moody nuances. Didn’t every moment of life contain elements of yin and yang, dark and light, past and future as well as present?
She opened her eyes and gazed at the tumbledown remains of a cabin, smothered by blackberry vines, its weathered gray boards remnants from the commune or perhaps even the old homestead that predated the hippies. A robin trilled its cheerful song from the branch of a gnarled apple tree and she smiled, appreciating the present even more due to her awareness that winter was approaching.
Was it odd that she, whose life was governed by order and control, should be drawn to this gentle wilderness where once hippies had sung, danced, taken drugs, and made love? Here, the flower children had sought freedom from social constraints. Iris, in contrast, had been taught by her family to value conformity, to never stand out, because even such a basic right as freedom from persecution could never be taken for granted. As the old Japanese saying went, The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.
Clad in yoga pants and a light cotton sweater, she spread a striped blanket on the stubbly grass, sat on it, and took a water bottle from the woven basket she’d carried in from the road. The dirt track into the old commune was so badly overgrown and rutted that she always left the Chevy Volt in a small pullout a short way back on the narrow one-lane road.
These visits to the commune, a place she’d learned about as a teen from one of the old hippies who shopped at her family’s Dreamspinner bookstore, were her secret. Her parents wouldn’t approve of her trespassing. But this was abandoned property. Its ownership was tied up in a German trust, and the trustee and beneficiaries never visited. Nor did the islanders, who’d either forgotten it existed, didn’t want to trespass, or preferred the beaches, lakes, and parks. Iris was the only person who valued this place, so she felt no guilt over her visits.
She took the shiny new paperback from her basket. A voracious reader and a knowledgeable bookseller, she at least skimmed almost every book that Dreamspinner stocked, but her favorites were romance novels. They reinforced her belief that even a shy woman like her could realize her dream of finding a loving partner and raising children together.
And that made her think of her and her aunt’s planned trip to Japan next spring. It would be Aunt Lily’s second time in that country, but the first for Iris. Her Japanese grandparents came to Destiny every few years, and Iris was in regular touch with them and other relatives in Japan through email, social media, and old-fashioned letters and cards. She’d like to visit them, and to tour the country where her mom, Grandmother Rose, and Grandfather Harry’s ancestors had been born, even though she anticipated being in a more or less constant state of anxiety. The idea of so many new people, sights, and activities was overwhelming.
Might one of those new people be the man who’d play the role of hero in her real-life romance story? She didn’t believe in magical thinking, but still, she would be twenty-five then, and that age was significant in Yakimura family history.
Her dad and his father were both shy like her. When her dad traveled to Japan at the age of twenty-five, he had met her mom and found love. And, though his parents, Harry and Rose, had first met in British Columbia as young people, at an internment camp, they were separated when Rose and her family were deported to Japan. Harry and Rose had not reunited until Harry, aged twenty-five, traveled to Japan.
He brought Rose back as his bride.
If Iris didn’t share her dad’s and grandfather’s destiny, it wouldn’t be a disaster. She was young and had no need to rush. Her best friends hadn’t met their true loves until they were a few years older. But still, there was nothing wrong with dreaming.
She put down her book and lay on her back, gazing at the sky, no longer the vivid blue of summer but a faded, cool shade. In Japan, might she find a man who’d appreciate all aspects of her personality, who’d love her deeply and truly, who would return home with her to build a life together on the island she loved?
* * *
In an attempt to shut down his brain, Julian turned on the CD player and immediately recognized Peter, Paul and Mary’s poignant anti-war song, “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Forbes had created his own mixtapes, many featuring favorites from his youth.
Julian turned onto a side road, then another, its single lane fringed with woods. No homes were visible, only an occasional dirt or gravel lane asserting itself amid the greenery. He passed a small blue car tucked into a clear spot beside one of those rough driveways.
The old cutoff to the commune was obscured by trees and brush, and only long experience guided him to it. Even had there been space to park along the road, he wouldn’t have; the logoed van could draw attention to the hidden entry. The van was already battered, so he didn’t worry about the brushy fingernails that scraped its sides as he eased it through the foliage. He emerged onto a rutted, barely-there track overgrown by grass and salal. Since he’d first come here, when he was eleven, he’d never seen another soul. Only, in his imagination, the ghosts of long-haired hippies.