Книга - Falling into Forever

Falling into Forever
Phyllis Bourne


The Silk Sisters–longtime friends Janelle, Sandra and Vicki–have turned their business savvy into a top-tier event agency. And in the wealthy enclave of Wintersage, Massachusetts, there's an abundance of lavish parties, society drama and longing hearts to keep them busy. Growing up among the powerful and privileged, formal-wear designer Sandra Woolcott learned early on to never show weakness–just smile and hold your head high. And ten years ago, when her young heart was broken, she learned just how strong she really was….When Isaiah Jacobs left for the Naval Academy, he said he didn't want to hold Sandra back–although he really wanted to hold on to her forever. Sandra let him go, masking her hurt with a glittering social life and career. Now Isaiah is back in Wintersage to care for his ailing father. And when he and Sandra meet again, it's all they can do not to fall for each other once more.But they've built such different lives, and so many years have passed–is their long-ago love worth the risk? Can they bury the pain of the past and build a promising future together?







The Silk Sisters—longtime friends Janelle, Sandra and Vicki—have turned their business savvy into a top-tier event agency. And in the wealthy enclave of Wintersage, Massachusetts, there’s an abundance of lavish parties, society drama and longing hearts to keep them busy.

Growing up among the powerful and privileged, formal-wear designer Sandra Woolcott learned early on to never show weakness—just smile and hold your head high. And ten years ago, when her young heart was broken, she learned just how strong she really was….

When Isaiah Jacobs left for the Naval Academy, he said he didn’t want to hold Sandra back—although he really wanted to hold on to her forever. Sandra let him go, masking her hurt with a glittering social life and career. Now Isaiah is back in Wintersage to care for his ailing father. And when he and Sandra meet again, it’s all they can do not to fall for each other once more.

But they’ve built such different lives, and so many years have passed—is their long-ago love worth the risk? Can they bury the pain of the past and build a promising future together?


What in the hell are you doing?

Isaiah braced his hands against either side of the doorjamb and lowered his head until it touched Sandra’s front door.

He’d spent hours trying to talk himself out of coming here, staying at the rec center long after the party had ended.

It hadn’t worked.

“Go home,” he whispered. She’d never have to know he had come here.

But his body refused the direct order. It stood steadfast at the door, not caring about the fact that he had no reasonable explanation for being there or the very real possibility of Sandra slamming the door in his face.

All Isaiah knew was he had to see her again.

Now.

Exhaling, he slid one hand down to the doorbell and pressed. The chime preceded one of the longest minutes of his life.

“Forget something?” he heard her ask through the door before it swung open.

Sandra held out the blue diaper bag he’d seen slung over her shoulder earlier. He watched her brown eyes widen at the sight of him.

Before either of them had time to think, Isaiah wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She gasped as she stared up at him, and he caught the scent of cotton candy on her breath.

“Yeah, I forgot this.”

He leaned in and captured those pouty lips of hers—lips that had played a starring role in his dreams for four nights straight—in a kiss.


PHYLLIS BOURNE

is a native of Chicago’s South Side and began her writing career as a newspaper crime reporter. After years of cops and criminals, she left reporting to write about life’s sweeter side. Nowadays, her stories are filled with heart-stopping heroes and happy endings. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found at a makeup counter feeding her lipstick addiction.

You can find her on the web at www.phyllisbourne.com (http://www.phyllisbourne.com) and www.facebook.com/phyllisbournebooks (http://www.facebook.com/phyllisbournebooks).


Falling

into

Forever

Phyllis Bourne






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader (#ulink_852da910-4f35-5de7-bcd1-83e20cebc74d),

Family is the best thing about the Thanksgiving holiday—it can also be the worst.

In Falling into Forever Sandra’s and Isaiah’s parents are overbearing, embarrassing and hilariously obnoxious. They’re also loyal, loving and filled with high expectations for their offspring.

While Falling into Forever is foremost a romance, at heart it’s a story about us as children—from toddlers to gray-haired adults with kids and grandkids of our own. We never lose our desire to make our parents proud.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Phyllis


For Byron, who shoulders the heavy lifting so I can live my dream.



I’d like to thank my fellow authors in the Wintersage Weddings continuity series, A.C. Arthur and Farrah Rochon, for their support and encouragement. You ladies are the best!


Contents

Cover (#u99c4df27-4c85-5e9b-8e31-ca6b5adc753c)

Back Cover Text (#ube1e58db-d9b5-5bfa-a0d3-f39495d2ff72)

Introduction (#uf456c5d1-c282-5120-9be6-00f4188c548e)

About the Author (#u39770262-b1d6-5e91-b151-9ed9862b1519)

Title Page (#u1f736cbc-af7e-5276-9e70-da5bb2318054)

Dear Reader (#ulink_130c1598-7a25-5813-bf43-702547a6d705)

Dedication (#u59464faa-81de-5af9-9fcd-892bdcd68e37)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_729466f3-ce3c-5291-8ee7-5f5233f85fd0)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_d1f3f649-0746-5a18-915c-09d8c94ef69a)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_650170cc-e3f0-58d2-8e4c-a729a3529557)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_08c462bf-31ad-5902-b49a-c128280d10e4)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#ulink_3c8bc97b-5cd0-536c-91b0-20ea2118eada)

“I want that low-down, cheating bastard to eat his heart out.”

The edict echoing in her head, Sandra Woolcott swept the graphite pencil over the paper in bold, rapid strokes. Turning a client’s dream dress into reality was her business.

Still, this particular request was a first.

A revenge dress.

Sandra sat cross-legged on her living room sofa, sketch pad on her lap, and examined the illustration. A sleek, backless dress with a thigh-exposing split. Sexy and beautiful, the gown encapsulated the hallmarks of a garment worthy of bearing her Swoon Couture label.

She stuck the pencil behind her ear and gnawed at her bottom lip as she continued to study the sketch. Her client had a lot riding on this particular dress.

It had to be better than good. It had to be perfect.

She ripped the page from the sketch pad, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the direction of a wastebasket stationed near the sofa. It landed on the hardwood floor in a pile of similar wads filled with rejected ideas.

Sandra scrubbed a hand down her face in frustration.

She worked by appointment only, with a private clientele, her schedule packed months ahead with back-to-back appointments for consultations and fittings. She also had to handle the business end of running her custom shop.

Mondays were the day of the workweek Sandra focused solely on the creative side of Swoon Couture.

Instead of retreating to the studio at her shop, she’d decided to work from home, hoping a change of scenery would help her get caught up on the tasks she’d put on hold last week to help arrange her friend Janelle’s wedding.

No such luck.

She’d barely made a dent in her to-do list, which included ideas for Everley Madison, a pop singer she was scheduled to meet with in a few days to discuss a gown for her New Year’s Eve wedding, and the preliminary designs for clients preparing for the spring season of charity balls.

Instead, she’d spent the majority of the day stumped on the last-minute plea from one of the most prominent citizens of Wintersage, Massachusetts.

“We built that business together. Now he expects me to sit home alone while he strolls into the party celebrating its silver anniversary with his new skank on his arm,” Octavia Hall had complained during her design consultation. “A party I spent over a year planning. I didn’t even use Alluring Affairs, because I wanted to see to every detail personally.”

Sandra had listened patiently while Octavia spent the entire hour painstakingly listing her soon-to-be ex’s faults, without giving as much as a clue to the style of dress she wanted.

It didn’t matter.

Behind the older woman’s bravado, longing had lurked in her eyes. It told Sandra that, deep down, her client was really seeking a gown so breathtaking, the sight of her in it would make her estranged husband think twice about abandoning their marriage for a twenty-year-old.

It was a lofty goal for a dress. However, Sandra intended to do everything within her power to make Octavia, a former Miss Massachusetts, once again the most stunning woman in the room.

The clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed, and Sandra calculated she could squeeze in another hour of work before making the short walk from her house, overlooking the harbor, to The Quarterdeck for her weekly business meeting/gossip session with her two best friends and business partners. In the meantime, she needed to concentrate on coming up with a showstopper of a gown.

She stared at the blank sketch-pad page. A vague idea of a shimmering dress embellished with beads and sequins...no, satin in the same caramel tones as Octavia’s skin...danced on the edge of Sandra’s imagination.

She closed her eyes and focused as the details slowly unfolded. Excited, she opened her eyes and snatched the pencil from behind her ear. She needed to get this design down on paper quickly, while it was fresh in her mind.

The doorbell sounded. Both the jarring chime and the accompanying pounding on her front door jerked Sandra from her thoughts, and visions of the satin gown faded.

So much for thinking working from home was a good idea. Muttering a curse, she set the pencil and pad aside.

She peered through the peephole and frowned. What were her parents doing in town?

“I thought you two were in New York City.” Sandra shivered against a blast of late-October wind coming off the nearby Atlantic Ocean as she pushed the door closed behind them.

“We barely had time to visit with the Kings before your father began griping about getting back to Wintersage and returning to work,” Nancy Woolcott said, “and his girlfriend.”

Stuart Woolcott winked at his wife. “Don’t be jealous of my side piece. She may be sexy, but you’re still my number one.”

As they walked into her living room, Sandra couldn’t help smiling at her parents’ running joke over her dad’s prized 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS. He’d acquired the muscle car of his boyhood dreams back when Sandra was in elementary school, and the rare hours he wasn’t in his office he spent in the garage, restoring his girlfriend to her seventies glory.

“I got a call about a 454 engine. I need to take a look at it,” he said. “Afterward, I’m going into the office.”

“That office isn’t going anywhere. Surely it can wait until tomorrow morning,” her mother countered.

“Woolcott Industries doesn’t run itself, dear. And neither of our children can be bothered to help run it, either.”

Sandra felt her father’s pointed stare as she bussed her mother’s upturned cheek.

Here we go, she thought, and steeled herself for the lengthy lecture that always accompanied that look. Sure enough, he launched into it.

“Computer hardware was good enough for me, my father, my grandfather and his father, who started out selling typewriters and adding machines, but it’s not good enough for my kids.” Her dad walked past her into the living room. “Fred King’s daughter, Ivy, is vice president of his company, you know. Her husband also works for their company, and they’ve given Fred two beautiful grand—”

“Don’t start, Stu.” Her mother cut him off. “Sandra chose her career. When the time comes, she’ll choose a husband and when to have children.”

“She’s not getting any younger,” Stuart said, as if twenty-eight years old was ancient. “And I just happen to know Dale Mills has asked our daughter out several times.”

Sandra cringed inwardly at the mention of the Woolcott Industries’ executive. Every sentence the man uttered was bracketed with the words, Stuart says or Stuart advises.

No way she’d ever date that brownnosing suck-up.

“Dale’s a good-looking young man,” her mother added. “And so considerate. Last week, he stood in line overnight just so he could surprise your father with Red Sox tickets for game two of the World Series.”

Sandra willed her eyes not to roll. She looked away from her mother to see her father scooping a wadded sheet from her sketch pad off the floor.

Unfurling it, he frowned. “Just think, Fred’s daughter’s negotiating multimillion-dollar deals.”

Sandra reached out to snatch the discarded sketch from his grasp.

Her father shook his head. “Meanwhile, my daughter is determined to make her living doodling stick figures.”

Sandra stopped short as a long forgotten voice and a buried memory pushed their way to the surface.

“Whatcha doing, doodling stick figures?” a boy looking over her shoulder in her high school art class had asked.

Sandra remembered spinning around, prepared to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, her angry gaze had locked with the dreamy brown eyes of Isaiah Jacobs, one of the most popular boys at Wintersage Academy.

One smile from him had turned her insides to mush, and all Sandra could do was gawk openmouthed. When she’d finally spoken, her tongue had twisted and her words had spilled out in a jumble.

Sandra sighed. Isaiah had gone on to become her first boyfriend, her first love and her first heartbreak.

“Stu!” Her mother’s sharp tone roused Sandra from the errant flashback.

“What?” Her father raised his hands in the air, his expression perplexed. “The girl tested off the charts in math and science, but instead of being an asset to her family’s business, like Ivy, she squanders her natural ability as a dressmaker.” He made the word dressmaker sound like loser. “How am I the bad guy here?”

Frowning at her husband, Nancy snatched the sketch from his hand and placed it on an end table. “You start this up every time we visit the Kings,” she said. “Let. It. Go.”

Sandra shot her mom a grateful look. The fact that Swoon Couture specialized in custom dresses and catered to the wealthiest women in Wintersage was lost on her father. As far as Stuart Woolcott was concerned, if Sandra didn’t work for Woolcott Industries, she didn’t really work.

Noticing the garment bag draped over her mother’s arm, Sandra jumped at the chance to change the subject. “I see you had time to do some shopping.”

Nancy averted her eyes. “Uh...well, I found a few things, including the most adorable Halloween costume for little Mason. He’s going to be a Patriots’ player.”

While her mother prattled on about toddler football helmets, Sandra zeroed in on the garment bag. In particular, the embossed logo of a hot New York designer who’d been getting incredible buzz in the fashion world. It was obvious the contents weren’t for Sandra’s nephew.

“I know this is a busy time of year for you with the holiday season almost upon us. I thought I’d take some of the pressure off by trying a new designer I read about in Vogue magazine,” her mother said, in way of explanation. “In fact, he’s been in all the magazines.”

“B-but I already have a capsule collection of holiday dresses, designed especially for you.” As always, Sandra had prioritized her mother’s dresses, having nailed down the perfect cuts, colors and styles for her over the summer. “They’re waiting for you at the boutique.”

“I’m sure they’re beautiful as always, dear, but everybody who’s anybody in Wintersage will be wearing your gowns this holiday season. No one will have Zack originals.”

“So you brought the dresses to show me?” Sandra asked, trying hard to keep the slighted edge out of her voice.

To be honest, she was also curious to see what the competition offered that was so dazzling her mother had purchased off-the-rack dresses without even bothering to see the custom ones Sandra had prepared.

“Not exactly.” Nancy glanced uncomfortably at the garment bag. “Actually, I was hoping to drop them off with you.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you need to bring them to me?” Sandra asked, confused.

“W-well, you see, your father was in such a hurry to get back home, I didn’t have time for a fitting and alterations,” her mother stammered. “I thought, well, since you know my measurements. I only need two inches off the bottom of all of them and a little nip at the waist of the green one...”

Nancy held the garment bag out to her, and Sandra’s jaw dropped as realization dawned. Her mom expected her to handle the alterations.

Stuart took the bag and shoved it into her arms. “Why waste time waiting around when we already have a seamstress in the family?”

Still stunned, Sandra could only blink. She wasn’t sure what stung more, her mother’s disloyalty or her dad’s total disregard.

“I...I’m not a seamstress, Dad,” she stammered, staring down at the offending bag. “I’m a designer.”

“Bottom line is you can sew, right?”

Sewing was something she rarely had time to do as Swoon continued to grow, and she contracted three expert seamstresses to handle the task.

“Of course I can, but—”

“Good.” Her father nodded once, in his view making it a done deal. He glanced down at his wife. “Do you want me to drop you off at home or are you staying to visit?”

Nancy looked from her husband to her daughter. “I’d love to stay and chat a bit, but I need to order Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Why? Isn’t Milly cooking?” Sandra asked.

Her mother shook her head. “Milly’s taking Thanksgiving week off to visit with her grandchildren. I’d cook myself, but I’m committed to spending Thanksgiving morning delivering boxes of groceries for my sorority’s needy families program, and the early afternoon helping serve dinners at the church. I simply don’t have time to prepare a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.” She sighed. “I’ll need to order a pie from Carrie at the bakery, too.”

“But it isn’t even Halloween yet,” Sandra said, disappointed that her parents’ longtime cook and housekeeper wouldn’t be preparing a turkey basted in the sage butter she loved.

“In terms of Thanksgiving in Wintersage, it’s already too late. The two best chefs in town aren’t taking any more orders, so finding someone to prepare a good meal won’t be easy.”

A snort came from her father’s direction. “Too bad I didn’t manage to finagle an invitation from Fred King for Thanksgiving dinner.” He turned to Sandra. “Did I mention Ivy prepared a five-course meal while we were there? It was superb.”

Sandra pressed her lips together. She loved her Dad, but today he was bouncing on her last nerve like a kid on a trampoline.

Ever since she’d returned home from college and refused to come to work at Woolcott Industries, he’d constantly compared her to the Kings’ daughter. The digs had become even more frequent since Ivy had married an executive from her father’s company.

Ivy was perfection in the daughter department, while Sandra had descended from Daddy’s girl to a big disappointment in her father’s eyes. Nothing she did pleased him. All they seemed to do was butt heads.

“Ivy’s dinner tasted like it came out of a Michelin starred restaurant. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven with every mouthful,” Stuart continued. “And that pie!”

Sandra bit the inside of her lip, hoping her mother would shut him down again.

Instead, Nancy licked her lips. “Which one? The salted caramel chocolate pecan pie or maple bourbon sweet potato pie? Goodness, they both practically melted in your mouth, didn’t they?”

“The entire meal did. And to think Ivy made everything from scratch, after putting in a full day helping run their family business.” Stuart leveled his gaze at Sandra.

“I run a business, too, Dad,” Sandra countered, although she knew it wouldn’t matter. “I love what I do, and I’m very good at it.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about loving what you do, it’s about living up to your potential. When you were in school, I’d brag on you to Fred King every time you brought home your grades. He’d be so envious. Now he’s the one boasting about how his daughter’s efforts have resulted in record profits for their business. Not to mention she’s also a wife and mother.” He exhaled. “Guess who’s the jealous father now.”

Sandra swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She could show him statements proving Swoon Couture had also raked in sizable profits. She could also reveal, depending on the outcome of next week’s election, that she was in the running to design the inaugural ball gown for the wife of Massachusetts’s next governor-elect.

But she didn’t.

Sandra already knew he wouldn’t be impressed or proud.

Besides, she’d had enough of family for today. At this point, her best course of action was to get rid of them.

Now.

“Well, I know you two were eager to be going,” she said, mentally shoving them toward her front door. “I’ll take care of the dress alterations.”

Her parents didn’t budge. They were apparently still too overwhelmed by Ivy’s cooking to take the hint.

“She doesn’t even bother with recipes. Just uses a pinch of this and a little of that,” Nancy said.

“That girl’s amazing,” Stuart exclaimed. “The Kings definitely don’t have to be concerned about their holiday dinner, because their daughter can do it all.”

Sandra’s fingers dug into the garment bag still in her arms. She kept her lips pressed together in a firm line as her father smacked his lips loudly.

“Just thinking about what Ivy could do with a turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings sets my mouth to watering,” he said.

“Actually, she mentioned jerk turkey was on the menu for Thanksgiving,” Nancy added.

Sandra stifled a grunt, along with an overwhelming wave of jealously, which was ridiculous. So what if the Kings’ daughter was a great cook, and Sandra wasn’t?

It had nothing to do with her. She had nothing to prove.

Then why did she feel that it had everything to do with her, and she had everything to prove?

Stuart raised a questioning brow at his wife. “I could try to wrangle us an invitation to the Kings’ Thanksgiving table. It would be terribly pushy, but worth it.”

Nancy shook her head. “We can’t do that. What about the rest of our family? I’ll get to work ordering our holiday dinner as soon as I get home. It won’t be Ivy’s jerk turkey, but...”

Just when Sandra thought the sensible adult in her had reined in her jealousy, the green-eyed monster inside her broke rank.

“I’ll cook,” she blurted out.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

The words continued to bubble out of her mouth of their own accord. “We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year,” she said. “I’ll do the cooking.”

Two pairs of surprised eyes swung toward her. Sandra was sure her own eyes reflected surprise, as well.

“You’re kidding, right?” Her father howled with laughter.

When the laughing subsided, he brushed at the tear rolling down his cheek and rested his arm on her shoulder. “Thanks, anyway, but none of us wants to spend the holiday doubled over in the bathroom, or even worse, getting a visit from the fire department.”

He burst into another laughing fit, while a giggle her mother had apparently been holding back escaped.

Sandra tried not to feel insulted. Admittedly, she did have a track record in the kitchen that indeed made her offer laughable.

If she was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t a cook. She didn’t even own a pot or pan. Breakfast was usually coffee and a granola bar. Lunch consisted of a gourmet cupcake from the bakery and dinner was either a hastily eaten deli sandwich or salad in her boutique’s studio.

“Don’t pay us any mind,” her mother said, with a wave of her hand. “It’s just, you and the kitchen...”

“Are a match made in hell,” her father finished.

Sandra looked on as her parents collapsed into yet another bout of laughter. Increasingly irksome laughter that would have made a less tolerant daughter boot them the heck out of her house.

Instead, Sandra cleared her throat. She’d show her father she was no joke and that there was a lot in her for him to take pride in—starting with Thanksgiving dinner.

“I’ve got our holiday meal covered,” she said firmly, “including a delicious jerking turkey.”

“That’s jerk turkey,” her mother corrected.

“Regardless, I’ll expect you two, along with our entire family, here on Thanksgiving Day, ready to eat.”

Then she made a mental note to figure out what exactly she had to do to make a turkey jerk.


Chapter 2 (#ulink_81c5f87d-e2ef-5f09-8c8b-d94dc3c20d22)

“I know, Dad,” Isaiah Jacobs answered for the umpteenth time.

His old man was spoiling for a fight, but he wouldn’t get it. Not today. No matter how hard he tried. Not with the news Isaiah had been blindsided by just two days ago still sinking in.

Isaiah tightened his grip on the old Ford pickup’s steering wheel and navigated the winding state road leading back to Wintersage. He was barely a week into civilian life, but tension stiffened his posture as if he was awaiting a fleet admiral’s inspection.

“I don’t need you hauling me around like a soccer mom, either,” Ben Jacobs groused. “I drove myself back and forth for six weeks of treatments. I can certainly do it this last week.”

“I know, but I’m here now, and I want to drive you.” Isaiah’s conciliatory tone belied the fact that he hadn’t given his father a choice in the matter. He’d parked the old pickup, which he’d driven back in high school, crossways, blocking the door to his parents’ four-car garage.

“It’s bad enough your mother’s got me on this god-awful macrobiotic diet. She also banned me from my own office. Threw the fact it’s technically her family’s business in my face and dismissed me like some grunt. After all these years.”

Isaiah glanced at the passenger’s seat. His father’s arms were crossed over his chest and weight loss had made the mulish set to his jaw more pronounced.

“Mom’s trying to look out for you,” Isaiah said. “And as far as work goes she just insisted you take sick leave. Like she would have done with any Martine’s employee in your situation.”

“I’m not any employee.” The elder Jacobs’s thunderous baritone rattled the windows of Isaiah’s old truck. “I’m president of that damn company.”

A president who had been outranked by Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ worried chairwoman, Cecily Martine Jacobs, who’d resorted to a power play to force her husband to make his health a number-one priority.

“Mom’s doing what she thinks is best to—” Isaiah began.

“Don’t need mothering or smothering,” his father interrupted. “I’m not some kid. I’m a grown man.”

So am I. The words sat unspoken on the tip of Isaiah’s tongue.

The logical part of him understood his folks’ reasoning for not revealing his father’s status as soon as they’d found out, camouflaging it in every email, phone call and Skype chat. They hadn’t wanted to worry him.

However, the son in him wished he’d been told immediately that his father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two months ago. Instead of being blindsided by the news his first day home in three years.

“Don’t need you patronizing me, either,” Ben groused. “We may have the same military rank, Lieutenant, but I’m still the parent here.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Isaiah stuck with the same noncombatant phrase he’d repeated all afternoon.

“I know, Dad.”

His mother had warned him that while the course of radiation therapy wasn’t painful, it had left his father fatigued and ornery.

“And we should have taken my Benz instead of your old truck,” his father added. “When was the last time this beater was taken through a car wash, anyway? The neighbors are going to think I’ve hitched a ride with some backwoods hillbilly, instead of a decorated navy lieutenant.”

“Retired lieutenant,” Isaiah corrected.

A harrumph came from the passenger’s seat. “Who the hell retires at twenty-nine years old?”

I do, Isaiah thought.

Like his father and grandfather, he’d gone from Wintersage Academy to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Isaiah had graduated a commissioned officer and dedicated the next seven years of his life to the navy, proudly serving his country.

Now, for the first time in over a decade, he was a free man. No longer weighed down by tradition, expectations or duty, he was finally going to follow his own life plan and fulfill his long-held dreams.

Ambitions he hadn’t shared with anyone.

Actually, there was one person who knew, he thought. They’d even made plans to pursue their goals, together.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Before he could banish it, a faint recollection of a teenage girl with deep chocolate skin and a long raven mane swept up in a high ponytail popped into his head.

Sandra Woolcott.

Isaiah felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a half smile at the sweet memory of the first girl to claim his heart. He’d driven along this same road, in this same truck, with a brand-new driver’s license in his pocket and Sandra in the passenger’s seat.

He could almost hear her laughter as the wind freed her hair from her ponytail and her hair whipped around her face that long-ago spring day.

Isaiah had traveled the world and dated his fair share of women, but he’d yet to come across one more beautiful than Sandra.

Curiosity replaced his musings, and he wondered how her life had turned out. Had she pursued their big plans on her own, after he’d put family expectations and tradition ahead of his own desires and her?

“Hey!” His father’s strident tone jarred him out of his reverie. “Have you been gone so long you forgot your way home? You were supposed to make a left at the intersection.”

“I know, Dad.”

Staring through the windshield at the gray skies, and trees nearing the end of their autumn peak, Isaiah banished thoughts of Sandra to the back of his mind, chalking up the out-of-the-blue flashback to being back in Wintersage.

Ben heaved a drawn-out sigh. The one he used when he was on the brink of losing his patience. “Son, if you say ‘I know, Dad’ to me one more time...” His father’s voice trailed off.

“Sorry,” Isaiah said.

“Well, aren’t you going to turn this heap around?” Ben groused. “Or do I have to drive us home.”

Isaiah shook his head. “We’re not going home yet. So just sit tight.”

“We’re headed downtown?” Ben asked after Isaiah made a left turn.

He nodded, bracing himself for inevitable blowback.

“For what? To give the town busybodies something else to gossip about?” his father protested. “‘Poor Ben Jacobs. He looks like a scrawny chicken,’” he mimicked. “Then they sanction their tongue wagging by tacking the words bless his heart on the end of every juicy tidbit.”

“You may have lost a few pounds, but you look fine,” Isaiah said.

His father rested his chin on his chest. “I have my pride, son,” he said finally. The volume of his usual booming baritone was so low Isaiah strained to hear.

He swallowed hard, pushing a lump of emotion down his throat, and along with it the urge to turn his truck around and take his dad home.

“Give me ten minutes. After that if you still want to go home, I’ll be more than happy to drive you.”

Isaiah slowed the truck to the lower posted speed limit as they approached the downtown area near the waterfront. Main Street, usually bustling with tourists and traffic during summer and early autumn, unfurled before him, with only a few residents walking along it.

As his father appeared to be mulling over his offer, Isaiah continued, “Life is short for all of us. Don’t let something as trite as pride keep you from enjoying every moment.”

He caught his dad’s nod in his peripheral vision as he pulled the pickup into an open parking space in front of the bakery. The place had changed ownership in the years he’d been away. A purple awning hung over the storefront window, which boasted a red, white and blue placard asking citizens to vote Oliver Windom to the state house of representatives in the upcoming election.

Both of his parents had raved about the new baker in their emails. His mother was partial to the cinnamon rolls, while his father was wild for the cupcakes. Their enthusiastic reviews had Isaiah raring to try one.

He climbed out of the truck. His first instinct was to go around to the passenger side and help his father, but he decided not to push his luck. Instead, he leaned into the cab.

“Coming?” he asked.

“But what about your mother and that miserable diet?”

“You telling her about this?”

A blast of cold wind and the aroma of cinnamon-laced baked goods wafted through the truck’s open door. His father’s nose twitched.

“No. I don’t think I’ll mention it to her, son.”

“Good,” Isaiah said. “Neither will I.”

Ben bounded from the truck with more energy than Isaiah had seen in the few days he’d been back. His father stopped short at the bakery door. He frowned, and then grunted at the sign in the window. “I wouldn’t vote to elect Windom dogcatcher,” he grumbled.

A rush of heat and more heavenly smells greeted them inside the bakery. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d only picked at his breakfast and skipped lunch altogether.

“Ben!” A woman clad in a purple apron with the bakery’s logo etched on the front greeted his father with a warm smile. “Long time no see. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

His father mumbled something about being busy, not quite meeting the woman’s eyes.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I thought I’d lost one of my best customers to some cockamamy low-carb diet.” She turned to Isaiah. “And this must be the son you’ve told me about, because he looks just like you.”

His father perked up, any self-consciousness pushed aside by his deprived sweet tooth and the array of cupcakes on display behind the glass case. He briefly introduced Isaiah to the middle-aged woman called Carrie, before the two launched into a discussion about her latest culinary creations.

“I know you’re partial to the red velvet.” Carrie held up a cupcake heaped with white frosting and red sprinkles. “But you’ve got to try my new salted caramel and corn candy cupcakes.”

Ben pressed a finger against his lips as he glanced from the cupcake in her hand to the ones in the display.

“I’m only baking the corn candy ones until Halloween, on Friday. After that they won’t return until next year,” she coaxed.

“I’ll take two of the corn candy,” Isaiah said, not sharing his father’s indecisiveness.

Carrie put two cupcakes smothered in orange icing and topped with corn candy on a purple plate. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled again as she placed them on the counter.

“Okay, give me one of the salted caramel,” his father finally said.

“One?” Carrie raised a brow. Ignoring his request, she placed two of the oversize cakes on a purple plate and handed it to Ben.

Isaiah retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a twenty to pay.

Carrie shook her head, refusing it. “It’s on the house. Thank you for your service, son.” She glanced briefly at his father and back at him, understanding brimming in her warm brown eyes. “And for bringing one of my favorite customers back.”

Isaiah nodded and returned his wallet to his pocket.

“Have a seat,” she continued. “I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll bring some over when it’s done.”

He retrieved his cupcakes and followed his father. After his old man’s initial reluctance to even step inside the bakery, Isaiah was surprised to see him select a table by the window, overlooking the town’s main thoroughfare.

Not bothering with preliminaries, they immediately took huge bites out of the tower of creamy icing covering their confections.

One mouthful and Isaiah knew why his father was hooked. The rich, sugary rush of flavor was addictive.

“Mmm.” Ben closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Is this not the best thing you ever tasted?”

His own mouth stuffed with another huge bite, Isaiah could only nod.

Neither man looked up from his plate until Carrie returned with coffee and a purple box with the bakery’s logo.

“I wrapped up a cinnamon roll for Cecily.” She glanced down at their nearly empty plates and winked. “You two make sure she gets it.”

After Carrie left, Isaiah sipped his coffee and looked at his father, who was staring out the window. His face still bore the fine lines of weariness, but he sat a little straighter and the pastry appeared to have elevated his mood.

Ben took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for bringing me here,” he said, continuing to gaze out at the passing cars and occasional pedestrian. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”

“No big deal.”

The sun made a sudden appearance, poking through the blanket of gray clouds dominating the skies. His father squinted against the beams streaming through the storefront window.

“We can move to another table,” Isaiah offered.

“No, it’s cool.” Ben faced the sun. “Other than driving back and forth to Boston for my treatments, I’ve been holed up at the house.”

Isaiah figured as much. It was why he’d insisted on bringing him here.

His father turned away from the window. Wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, he looked down at the still-steaming brew before focusing his attention on Isaiah. “You haven’t said what your plans are now that you’re out of the military,” he said. “I don’t suppose they include staying in Wintersage permanently.”

They didn’t. He’d intended to spend only the next month with his folks. The day after Thanksgiving, he was booked on a flight bound for London.

He shook his head. Although his father’s prognosis was excellent, the cancer diagnosis had shaken Isaiah. He didn’t want to think about leaving. Not yet. Not until after his father completed his course of radiation therapy this week, and they’d gotten a follow-up report from his doctors.

“I’m here now,” he said.

Ben smiled, sunlight washing over his drawn face.

“Then how about doing your old dad a favor?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

His father rubbed a hand over the stubble along his chin.

“As you know, Martine’s Fine Furnishings still sponsors the children’s Halloween party at the recreation center. This year, I’d like you to stand in for me and your mother.”

The tradition had started with Isaiah’s maternal great-grandfather, a Halloween night nearly a half century ago, when the town’s residents had taken shelter in the basement of the recreation center as a late-season hurricane battered the Massachusetts shoreline. It went on to become an annual event and a Wintersage institution.

Isaiah speculated that his father was more exhausted than he’d let on if he’d consider missing it.

“No problem. You just take it easy and rest up for next year.” Isaiah drained the last of the coffee in his mug with one gulp.

“Rest?” Ben laughed. “I can rest when I’m dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been sitting here thinking about what you said about life being short. Cancer has hung over me like a dark cloud the past few months. Even before my diagnosis, life for your mother and I revolved around the company,” he said. “I can’t think of the last time either of us has done anything unrelated to the company and now illness.”

Isaiah listened as his father continued.

“I plan to remedy that. Starting this Friday with Halloween,” Ben said. “My last radiation treatment is Friday morning. Afterward, I’m going to persuade your mother to take off work and spend the day in Salem for some good, scary fun. We can take one of those corny ghost tours, visit the House of the Seven Gables and the Salem Witch Museum and then spend the night at a local bed-and-breakfast.”

Isaiah couldn’t help wondering if his father was moving too fast. Four more days of treatments would leave him more fatigued than he was now.

Isaiah looked down at his empty coffee mug and searched his brain for a diplomatic way of saying so without offending him.

“Our first date was on Halloween, you know,” his father said. “I took her to see one of those gory slasher films that were all the rage back then. Somewhere between the on-screen screams and Cecily spilling an entire tub of popcorn on me, I fell in love.”

His father’s reminiscence caught Isaiah off guard. It was the first time he had heard that story.

While Isaiah was growing up, Ben’s references to the past had focused exclusively on stories of the Jacobs men who’d come before him, and Isaiah’s duty to follow in their footsteps to Annapolis and then the navy.

Isaiah credited the uncharacteristic sentimental recollection to the cancer diagnosis.

“Perhaps you should give your body a little recovery time before playing tourist and considering an overnighter. Who knows how you’ll feel come Friday?”

Ben opened the box Carrie had left on the table, pulled out the cinnamon roll earmarked for his wife, and took a bite out of it. He appeared to mull over Isaiah’s concerns as he chewed. “Salem’s right down the road, and a shorter drive from here than Boston. If I get tired, we’ll check into the bed-and-breakfast early.”

“How about renting a scary movie and chilling out at home?” Isaiah suggested.

“I’m not asking your permission, son. All I’m asking is for you to stand in for us at an event sponsored by our family business.” Picking up a napkin, Ben wiped white icing from his fingertips. “Will you do that for me?”

Isaiah nodded.

He wanted to spend his short time in Wintersage helping his folks, and if that meant playing host at a children’s party, so be it.


Chapter 3 (#ulink_5b01193c-c55e-5d1a-a64f-da5c17def38e)

Why couldn’t she have just kept her mouth shut?

Sandra walked the short blocks to The Quarterdeck restaurant in a zombielike stupor.

Autumn was her favorite season. Yet she couldn’t appreciate the scent of firewood permeating the crisp night air or the wind rustling the few leaves still clinging to trees. The jack-o’-lanterns and campaign placards in the shop windows she passed were a blur.

Reality had set in, and all she could think about was the big fat Thanksgiving mess she’d gotten herself into. Thanks to a childish need to constantly prove herself to her dad.

She yanked open the door to the restaurant and blinked as she walked inside.

The usual elegant ambience of her Monday night haunt had undergone a transformation since last week. Paper lanterns adorned with bats and witches riding brooms hung from the rafters, while faux cobwebs, plastic skeletons and gravestones held up the corners of the restaurant’s spacious dining room.

Sandra gulped. First Halloween, then before you knew it, Thanksgiving would be upon them.

Looking up at a witch silhouetted on one of the paper lanterns, she briefly wondered if it could cast a spell that would give her Martha Stewart’s kitchen skills in less than a month.

Sandra sighed. Probably not.

She scanned the room and easily spotted her friend seated at a table near the bar. The old-fashioned, schoolmarm bun Vicki Ahlfors kept her long hair swept up in had given her away.

Sandra smiled, the sight of her friend buoying her sagging spirits.

“Sorry I’m late.” She leaned over and gave her a quick hug.

“Where have you been hiding all day?” Vicki asked. “I came upstairs to see if you were free for lunch, but the lights in your studio were off and the door was locked.”

Best friends since high school, Sandra, Vicki and Janelle Howerton were also business partners. The trio ran their complementary businesses out of a three-story Victorian located a block from Main Street.

Vicki’s flower shop, Petals, occupied the first floor, Sandra’s Swoon Couture was on the second, while Janelle operated her events planning business, Alluring Affairs, from the top floor. The arrangement had been profitable as well as convenient, and the three of them often collaborated on some of the town’s splashiest weddings and social functions.

“I worked from home today.” Sandra plopped down at the table across from her. “Then my folks stopped over.”

Vicki frowned. “But I thought they went to New York City right after Janelle’s wedding to visit friends.”

Sandra’s gaze flicked to the empty chair at their table, before turning to the waiter who’d come to take her drink order.

“White wine?” the college kid who often waited tables on Monday nights guessed.

Sandra looked across at Vicki’s white wine spritzer. She automatically nodded, but changed her mind. She definitely needed something stronger this evening.

“On second thought...” She picked up the drinks menu. Within moments she’d narrowed down her choices to either a manhattan or a red apple cidertini.

“It’s not on the menu, but this week’s special is a pumpkin martini,” the waiter suggested.

“Sounds great,” Sandra said. “I’ll take it.”

When he’d left to retrieve the drink, Sandra noticed her friend eyeing her suspiciously.

“What did your dad say this time?” Vicki asked.

Sandra’s mouth dropped open. “How’d you know he...”

“The combination of your folks dropping by unexpectedly and you ordering a cocktail make it obvious,” she said. “So what did he do? Call your sketch pad a coloring book again? Complain you were rotting your brilliant brain playing paper dolls and dress up?”

“Doesn’t matter what he said now,” Sandra said. “I’m the problem. Me and my big mouth.”

She quickly filled her friend in on her parents’ visit, from them dumping another designer’s dresses on her to alter, to her father’s nonstop praise of his friend’s superdaughter, and finally Sandra’s big, dumb Thanksgiving offer.

Vicki’s eyes widened to the size of Ping-Pong balls.

“But...” her friend began. The horrified look on her face matched the restaurant’s scary decor.

Their waiter returned with Sandra’s martini. When he left, Vicki leaned across the table. “I know your dad can sometimes be a bit much, but what on earth possessed you to say such a thing?” she asked. “You can’t cook.”

“That’s an understatement.” Sandra took a tentative sip of her drink, the syrupy sweetness of pumpkin and maple syrup disguising the vodka’s kick.

“Remember when you baked chocolate chip cookies for the cheerleader fund-raiser?”

Sandra rolled her eyes skyward and snorted. “Don’t remind me. I think my dad is still getting dental bills from people biting down on those hockey pucks.”

The waiter reappeared to take their dinner orders. Again, Sandra opted for one of the restaurant’s Halloween specials, pumpkin ravioli in a lobster cream sauce, while her friend ordered the broiled haddock.

“So what are you going to do?” Vicki asked after the waiter left.

Sandra sighed. “The way I see it, I only have two options. Either tell my folks I misspoke, or buy myself a cookbook, a set of pots and pans and start practicing. I could do a trial run with a small dinner party with you, Janelle and Ballard.”

“Oh, no. I’m not playing guinea pig.” Vicki put her hand up and shook her head. “And I’m sure Janelle isn’t going to subject her new husband’s stomach to your kitchen experiments.”

Again, Sandra glanced at the empty chair. “But you’re my best friends, and I need you,” she said, her tone a mixture of whining and pleading. “We’re The Silk Sisters, remember?”

She’d hoped tossing out their old high school nickname, now the name of the corporation the trio had formed with their businesses, would soften Vicki’s stance.

Instead, the florist frowned. “As your best friend, I’d suggest you swallow your pride, go crawling to your dad and beg off cooking Thanksgiving dinner.” She took a sip of wine. “Or for that matter, any meal.”

Sandra took an unladylike gulp from her own drink. “Crawl and beg, huh?”

Vicki nodded once. “Exactly.”

Fifteen minutes later, their waiter slid hot plates bearing their dinner in front of them. Sandra gazed down at her food. It looked and smelled delicious, but all she could think about was the smug expression on her father’s face when she reneged after insisting she’d cook.

“I know you’re right.” Sandra sighed. “But my dad would never let me hear the end of it. He’ll be ribbing me until New Year’s.”

Vicki speared a piece of fish with her fork. “Better than your entire family spending Thanksgiving in the bathroom, at the dentist or even worse, the emergency room at Wintersage Hospital.”

Sandra opened her mouth to protest, but knew she didn’t have a case. Instead, she helped herself to a mouthful of ravioli.

“Okay, I’ll call off the bet,” she said, having decided to see her parents first thing tomorrow morning and cancel plans to have Thanksgiving at her place. “So what’s going on with you, besides being inundated with orders for fall harvest floral arrangements?”

Vicki looked up from her plate. “Planning my parade float for the annual Wintersage Christmas Celebration. I know it’s a while away, but I still have so much to do. I got sidetracked helping with Janelle’s wedding.”

“Same here,” Sandra agreed. “But it was a beautiful wedding. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy.”

This time they both cast a glance at the empty chair at their table. Sandra wasn’t sure how long she stared at the seat that usually would have been occupied by their friend.

“Janelle didn’t leave town for good, you know,” Vicki said. “She’s just on her honeymoon. She’ll be back next week, in time for the election.”

“Yeah, I know.” Sandra shrugged.

No way would Janelle miss the election, not with her father running against Oliver Windom in the most talked about race in the state.

“Then why that face?”

Sandra didn’t need a mirror to know she looked as if she’d lost her best friend, because no matter how Vicki put it, the reality was she had. While Vicki hadn’t come on the scene until she transferred from the local public high school to Wintersage Academy in the tenth grade, Sandra and Janelle had been friends since kindergarten.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled for Janelle,” Sandra explained. “Yet the selfish part of me is a little sad, because things won’t be the same once she and Ballard return from Tahiti.”

The waiter cleared their empty plates and rattled off the dessert offerings. They ordered a second round of drinks, and a slice of cheesecake to share.

Vicki stared at her nearly empty wineglass. “I was thinking about it earlier at the shop. You’re right. It won’t be the same. Janelle is a happily married woman now, and we’re single. It’s a different mind-set.”

Sandra nodded. “Her life will revolve around her husband, and before you know it, the babies will start coming...” If their friend didn’t return home from her honeymoon already pregnant, she thought, downing the last of her first martini.

“Well, hopefully, love, weddings and lots of babies are in our futures, too.” Vicki’s tone softened along with her gaze. “Sooner rather than later.”

Sandra coughed, nearly choking on her drink.

“S-speak for yourself,” she sputtered. “I’m not in the market for a husband, and my nephew is enough baby for me.”

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you tired of having no one to come home to at the end of a long, hard day?”

“Nope, it’s why I moved out of my parents’ house and into one of my own as soon as Swoon became profitable.”

The waiter returned bearing their drinks and dessert. Sandra immediately reached for the fresh cocktail, its sugary rush reminiscent of a milk shake. However, if she thought the decadent slab of New York cheesecake at the center of the table was going to dissuade her friend from pursuing the current topic of conversation, she was mistaken.

“Well, aren’t you sick of wasting your time on meaningless dates with guys you know would never make the cut for Mr. Right?”

“Nope. At twenty-eight years old, it’s called being young and having fun. In fact, I have a date Friday night with a cute Mr. Let’s-Just-Have-a-Good-Time lawyer. We’re going to a Halloween party in Boston.”

Vicki sighed. “I’m all for fun and good times, but I want to start having them with a special someone. Janelle already has her Prince Charming. I’m ready for mine and my happily-ever-after.”

“Not me. I have goals to achieve.” Sandra picked up one of the two forks that had accompanied the cheesecake. “They don’t include being sidetracked by a needy Prince Charming and a drudgery-filled, so-called happily-ever-after spent catering to him.”

She shoved a forkful of cheesecake into her mouth.

Already a die-hard romantic, Vicki was simply swept up in the romance of Janelle’s wedding, Sandra thought. No wedding, or for that matter, no man was going to sway her from her dream of taking Swoon Couture beyond Wintersage.

If next week’s election went the way she hoped, and her design was selected by the governor-elect’s wife, it would garner her design business statewide, perhaps even national, attention.

Vicki dug into the cheesecake with her fork. “A man who’s truly your Prince Charming won’t divert you from your goals. He’ll want to be there to cheer you on as you achieve them.”

Sandra rolled her eyes. “Maybe in fairy-tale land, where Mr. Right and Prince Charming reside, along with the fictitious Knight in Shining Armor.”

Her friend helped herself to another bite of cheesecake, staring at her as she chewed. “If you say so,” she said.

“I do.”

Vicki shrugged. “Back in the day, I’d have bet money you would have been the first one of us to say ‘I do’ and start living a happily-ever-after, with your high school sweetheart.”

Isaiah.

After years of not giving him much thought, Sandra found his name popping into her head for the second time that day. Again, images of the tall athletic boy with the dreamy eyes washed over her. They’d been so in love and had made so many plans for the future.

Plans that years later seemed as absurd as the notion of her cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

“That was a long time ago, and we were just kids,” Sandra said.

“Yeah, but you two seemed so perfect for each other. Do you ever wonder how things would have turned out if Isaiah hadn’t left?”

For the entire summer after he’d gone to the naval academy, Sandra had stayed awake nights asking the same question. What if... But back then she’d been a naive seventeen-year-old girl who hadn’t known squat about real life.

“Isaiah was just a high school sweetheart, who I haven’t seen since he left Wintersage,” she said. “I think about him as much as I do Mrs. Sterling’s chemistry class or after-school cheerleader practice, which is never.”

Sandra took a sip of the sweet martini. Isaiah’s mother, Cecily, was one of her private clients, but she hadn’t seen much of her lately. When she did come into the boutique, neither of them brought up the subject of her son.

Isaiah had come home to see his parents from time to time over the years, however Sandra hadn’t run into him during those brief visits.

Vicki exhaled, one of those drawn-out, dreamy, love-conquers-all sighs. “After all these years, I still remember the way he used to look at you,” she said, “like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.”

Sandra rolled her eyes again. It was time to shut down the subject, otherwise her friend would continue on the path of blowing a long-ago adolescent infatuation totally out of proportion.

“I’m sure Isaiah Jacobs is somewhere on the other side of the world, with his choice of beautiful women,” she said, picking up her fork again to dig into the dwindling slice of cheesecake.

“You’re probably right,” Vicki agreed.

“So my brainpower would be better utilized thinking about the here and the now, like how I’m going to catch up on a backlog of work and get out of turning Thanksgiving into a fiasco.”

Her friend scrunched up her nose. “Especially the part about Thanksgiving.”

Sandra laughed and reached for her drink. Then a man standing at the dining room entrance caught her eye, and she froze, martini poised in midair.

The shoulders beneath the leather bomber jacket were broader, the once lanky body packed with lean muscle, but it was his face, those familiar eyes.

Isaiah.

It couldn’t be. Sandra blinked, and whoever she’d thought she had seen vanished.

“What’s the matter with you?” Vicki asked. “You look like you saw a Halloween ghost.”

“It was nothing.” She put her martini down and picked up her water glass instead.

She’d obviously already had more than enough to drink. Too much alcohol, the spooky Halloween ambience and out-of-the-blue thoughts of Isaiah today had wreaked havoc on her imagination.

They’d simply stirred up the devil, that’s all. The sexy devil who’d broken her teenage heart.

* * *

One glimpse confirmed it.

After all these years, Sandra Woolcott was still the most beautiful woman Isaiah had ever seen.

He’d left before she’d noticed him standing at the entrance of the restaurant’s dining room, watching her.

Spellbound.

Drinking in her familiar, yet now mature, features like a man who’d stumbled across an oasis after walking the desert for days.

Isaiah slowed his truck at the entrance of Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ headquarters and punched a pass code into the keypad to open the gate. His plan had been to sidestep another one of the macrobiotic meals his mother had delivered to the house daily. Tonight’s entrée, a corn-and-bean casserole, held little appeal.

He’d craved steak and figured The Quarterdeck still served the best in town. But instead of the satisfying meal he’d anticipated, Isaiah had left the restaurant with an altogether different craving. An overwhelming longing for the girl he thought he’d gotten over a decade ago.

And he had gotten over her, he reminded himself, as images of Sandra throwing back her head and laughing at something her longtime friend Vicki had said played through his mind. A laugh that reached her eyes and illuminated her entire face.

He used to make her laugh like that, he thought. Back then the pitch of her laughter was higher, giggle-infused and incredibly sweet.

Tonight, it had been softer, and held a husky note he found incredibly sexy.

Isaiah drove the truck past the three-story office building that housed Martine’s business and design centers. He stayed on the path that wound through the complex, driving past the huge warehouse from which they shipped furniture ordered at any of their fifteen showrooms, located throughout Massachusetts, Maine and New Hampshire.

He shifted the truck’s gear stick into Park next to a storage shed that had been the company’s original warehouse when it opened for business seventy-five years ago. No matter how many times they’d painted the old shed red, it didn’t stay that way long. Within a year the combination of salty ocean air, summer sun and harsh winter nor’easters turned the wood back to a weather-beaten gray.

Using the same key code he’d punched in at the gate, Isaiah waited for the electronic lock to click before pulling open the shed’s wide double doors and turning on the fluorescent overhead lights.

It was odd being out here without his father by his side giving orders.

Ben had always set up the children’s games for the recreation center Halloween party personally, saying it gave him an opportunity to get out from behind his desk. They’d done it together when Isaiah was growing up.

Surprisingly, his old man hadn’t protested when Isaiah had volunteered to do it alone this year. They both knew the radiation treatments had sapped the stamina needed to lift the heavy wooden props used for most of the games.

Since the unexpected Sandra sighting had vanquished his hunger, Isaiah decided to dig the games out of storage and check their condition tonight before hauling them over to the recreation center Friday. The physical labor would reignite his appetite and give him something to do besides dwell on a woman he no longer knew.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder.

Had Sandra gone through with the plans they’d made together, after he’d left for Annapolis? Had she spent that summer in Chicago attending the prestigious School of the Art Institute’s early college program? Did she study fashion design there after graduating Wintersage Academy?

Isaiah shook his head, as if the gesture could shake off the onslaught of memories and questions that seeing her again dredged up.

“Whatever Sandra Woolcott did then or is up to now is none of your business,” he muttered.

Easily locating the games in the same corner of the dusty shed they’d always occupied, awaiting their annual Halloween appearance, Isaiah pulled work gloves from his back pocket. He lifted the two six-foot wooden panels used for the giant beanbag tosses from the floor, and leaned them against the wall. One was in the shape of a giant pumpkin and the other a giant tricolor corn candy.

Both looked shabby. Their once bright orange paint had either faded, peeled or chipped away.

Isaiah sighed. It was a good thing he’d made a trip over here before Friday. These definitely needed work, and he suspected the rest would, too.

He walked back to his truck to grab his phone, planning to make a list of things he’d need to get them looking festive again. He opened the driver’s side door, leaned inside the cab and opened the armrest compartment. He paused at the sound of his name.

“Is that you?” a voice called out in the darkness.

Isaiah straightened and watched a tall, heavy-set man approach. As he got closer the lights illuminating the complex revealed a round, vaguely familiar face.

“Hey, it is you.” The man’s eyes brightened. He slapped him on the back as Isaiah struggled to place him. “When did you get back into town?”

“I got home on Friday.” Isaiah’s eyes narrowed. “Tony?” he asked, the voice jogging his memory.

“Yeah, it’s me.” The round face split into a wide grin as he patted a belly threatening to pop the buttons on his jacket. “Me and fifty pounds of my wife’s good cooking.”

Isaiah laughed and gave his old teammate’s hand a vigorous shake. “Great to see you. How’ve you been, man?” He looked down at his friend’s stomach. “Besides well fed.”

During Isaiah’s stint as quarterback of Wintersage Academy’s football team, Anthony Green had been his go-to receiver.

The two of them had been a powerful combination guaranteed to make big plays and put points on the board. Unfortunately, their efforts were rarely enough to keep pace with the points their team’s notoriously weak defense gave up every game.

“I’m good. The wife and I are expecting again, twins this time. Fortunately, I survived the latest round of layoffs here, and your mom recently promoted me to warehouse supervisor.”

Layoffs? His parents hadn’t mentioned letting employees go. Isaiah made a mental note to ask them about it.

“Congratulations all around,” Isaiah said.

“What about you, Lieutenant Jacobs? You on leave?”

“Yup, permanently. I put in my time, and I’m officially an honorably discharged civilian.”

“Cool.” Tony leaned against Isaiah’s truck. “Figured you’d be back sooner or later to take over the company.”

Isaiah shook his head. “I’m just visiting with my folks for a couple of weeks.”

Retrieving his smartphone from the truck and tucking it in his pocket, Isaiah inclined his head toward the shed. “I came out to check over the games for the children’s party at the rec center on Friday. I just got started, but from what I’ve seen so far they’re going to need some work.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” Tony fell in step beside him as he walked back to the shed.

“Are you sure? After all, you have a family at home waiting.”

“My mother-in-law’s in town. I got off an hour ago, but I’m trying to drag the workday out until she either leaves or goes to bed.”

Isaiah laughed at the pained comical expression that crossed his old high school classmate’s face.

Inside the shed, Tony wasn’t much help. However, he kept Isaiah company with a steady stream of chatter, updating him on happenings in Wintersage.

“Wintersage Academy’s football team actually has a shot at making the finals this year,” Tony said.

A spider skittered across the gravel floor as Isaiah brushed a coating of cobwebs off another old board with what looked like a black cat painted on it.

“Didn’t they manage to win a championship a few years after we graduated?” Isaiah thought he’d read a brief about it in the online edition of the Boston Herald.

“They made it to the finals, but lost the championship to Bourne High School.”

Isaiah let out a low whistle and shook his head. “Those Bourne High Canelmen were some big boys, weren’t they? I remember them sacking me like I was a rag doll.”

Tony pinched a chunk of fat above his waist between two fingers. “I feel a twinge in the ribs they bruised every time it rains.”

Isaiah chuckled, his smile fading as he looked at the pitiful assortment of Halloween-themed games.

More than worn and faded, they all seemed terribly dated. It made him wonder if they were worth the trouble of salvaging. However, with only three days left until Halloween, he’d have to think of something. Fast.

“Hey, Tony, your kids attend the Halloween party at the rec center, right?”

“Every year.” His friend nodded. “Along with every other kid under ten in Wintersage.”

“What do they think of it? Do they have a good time?”

Tony averted his eyes and kicked at a pebble with his shoe. “I usually volunteer to help, along with a dozen or so Martine employees.”

“Do your kids have a good time?” Isaiah asked again.

“Depends,” he said finally. “Am I talking to an old teammate or the boss’s son?”

“My folks are Martine’s Fine Furnishings. Not me. Speak your mind.”

“Well, my toddler liked it okay, but my other two, who were five and seven last year, were only interested in the candy.” Tony cast a glance at the boards stacked against the wall. “They said the games were boring, and wanted to leave to go trick-or-treating.”

Isaiah couldn’t blame his friend’s kids for wanting to ditch the party. Now that Tony had mentioned it, he could remember feeling the same way when he was around seven. He’d always attended the party, not just because of his family connection, but because it was what kids in Wintersage did on Halloween.

An idea began to form in his mind as he continued to stare at the antiquated games. He didn’t run the family business, but he was the host of this party. It was time to shake things up. Give it a twenty-first century update and make it fun.

Fun.

He turned the word around in his head. Then it hit him. What could be more fun than a fun house?

Excited about a concept he could sink his artistic teeth into, Isaiah pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. First he checked Friday’s weather forecast, and then he began making a list of items and people he’d need to turn the recreation center into a Halloween-themed carnival fun house by Friday.

He could make a hardware store run after his father’s treatment tomorrow. He’d also stop by the art supply store, where he already had a running list of items he wanted to pick up, including the Conté crayons he liked to use for sketching.

Isaiah hoped to do some drawings of the seacoast at dawn and dusk before he left for London, and perhaps capture the late-autumn beauty of Wintersage’s beach in a watercolor if time permitted.

“So have you seen Sandra yet?” Tony asked.

Isaiah froze at the sound of her name. He’d been so caught up in thoughts of sketching on the beach, he’d forgotten Tony was there.

His old teammate took his silence as a memory lapse. “Sandra Woolcott. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten her. Not as tight as you two were back in school.”

No. He’d never forgotten Sandra, Isaiah silently admitted.

“Yeah, I saw her tonight.” His outer cool belied the inner mayhem that seeing her again had stirred up.

He kept his eyes glued to the list he’d been making on his phone as his friend continued. “She was cute in high school, but now...” Tony shook his head. “Man, is she hot. And those hourglass curves of hers.” He shook his head again. “Mmm, mmm. Thick in all the right places.”

Looking up from his phone, Isaiah frowned, ticked off for no good reason. “Don’t you have a wife?”

Tony pointed a finger in his direction. “Yeah, and if she gets wind of what I just said you’ll be responsible for the bruising of my other ribs.”

Isaiah threw his head back and laughed. Just like in high school, his old teammate’s good-natured sense of humor made it impossible for anyone to stay annoyed with him long.

Besides, what did he care if Tony checked out Sandra on the sly? She’d been seated when he’d seen her at the restaurant earlier, so he couldn’t cosign on his friend’s assessment of her figure.

Yet the little he’d seen of her had left an indelible impression. Luminous dark skin, pillow-soft lips and a sultry laugh that shot straight to his groin.

Tony snorted. “If anyone had told me back then that I’d be the married one and you’d still be a bachelor, I wouldn’t have believed them. I’d thought for sure you and Sandra would have gotten hitched as soon as she graduated.”

His friend had handed him the perfect opening to ask the question buzzing through his mind ever since he’d seen her earlier at The Quarterdeck.

Was she seeing someone? Engaged, or maybe married, with a couple of kids?

She’d looked happy in the restaurant. Radiant.

Reminding himself it was none of his business, Isaiah stuffed his phone back into his jacket pocket. Deep down, he knew he didn’t want to hear his friend’s answers to the questions. Isaiah didn’t want to think of his first love with another man.

An ancient wooden pin from the bowling game fell away from the rest. Isaiah picked it up and tossed it back on the pile.

“We were just kids with a bad case of, what do they call it...” He paused, trying to think of the term, and then snapped his fingers when it came to him. “Yeah, puppy love.”

Tony shrugged. “All I know is she had your nose wide open.”

“Hardly.” The lie rolled off Isaiah’s lips as if it were truth.

“Come on, man. I was there,” his teammate said. “Remember the time when we were doing our pregame warm-ups, and you spotted Sandra on the sidelines in her cheerleader uniform?”

Isaiah shook his head as he automatically reached to touch an old scar, hidden by his short-cropped hair.

“Uh-huh.” Tony looked at Isaiah’s hand. “Isn’t that the spot where you damn near split your head open after you ran into the goalpost because of gawking at her?”

Busted, Isaiah shoved his traitorous hands into his jacket pockets.

Good thing high school was over, and he never had to worry about seeing Sandra Woolcott in a cheerleader uniform again.


Chapter 4 (#ulink_17ce3473-eaaf-5321-9819-1e7b4db75733)

Three days later, Sandra steered her yellow MINI Cooper with one hand and answered her cell phone with the other.

“Where are you?” Vicki demanded.

“Stopped at a red light, but I’m almost there.”

“Good, because the longer you wait, the worse it’ll be for you.”





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