Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | A Letter for Annie

A Letter for Annie
Laura Abbot


The last time Annie Greer saw Eden Bay was in her rearview mirror.And she'd keep it that way if not for the SOS from the only family she has. While she may have come home, she has no intention of reconnecting with the town that thinks the worst of her. Too bad fate has different plans–namely Kyle Becker.Despite her attempts to avoid him, the attraction between them grows. But can they overcome their shared history? The obstacle seems too great. Then Kyle gives her a letter–a voice from the past–that could hold the key to their future.












Kyle felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes


Annie stood in front of him, her lip trembling. He rose, mere inches from her.



“It’s Auntie G.” She paused, as if unable to go on. “They’re…hospitalizing her. Dehydration, the doctor said. And other complications. Fluid buildup and…”



He couldn’t help himself. He reached for her. “I’m so sorry.”



A sob choked her and she pressed herself into his arms, dampening his shirtfront with her tears. “Oh, Kyle, what am I going to do?”



He held her in his embrace, breathing in her floral scent, thinking of all that had happened between the two of them. It didn’t matter. None of it did. Because he knew the answer to her question. This. Simply and inevitably this.




Dear Reader,



Recently I spent a week with our youngest grandchild. Eight years old, she told me, “Nana, I want to be an author.” As we chatted about writing, I suggested that every story needs to give a sense of place and every protagonist should undergo a positive change. She was off and running, filling pages with the fruits of her fertile imagination.



A Letter for Annie came from several trips to Oregon. The ruggedly beautiful Pacific Coast inspired the setting of this book. As for change in the main characters? Initially, Annie is simply marking time in her life. When circumstances force her to return to Eden Bay, she is not prepared to meet former classmate Kyle Becker. Remembering how Annie broke his best friend’s heart, Kyle resents her presence.



Good storytelling involves a journey that betters the main characters, and good romances focus on the redeeming power of love. I hope you will find both Annie and Kyle become better people and deserve the love they share.



Enjoy,



Laura Abbot



P.S. I always appreciate hearing from readers. You may write me at P.O. Box 373, Eureka Springs, AR, 72632-0373, or at LauraAbbot@msn.com.




A Letter for Annie

Laura Abbot








For our talented, motivated and loving

grandchildren.

You give us constant joy, fill us with pride and

promise us a hopeful future.

May your lives be forever blessed.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Afghanistan

Early 2003

BORED AND CHILLED, Sergeant Kyle Becker huddled in the driver’s seat of the Humvee, watching a watery sun sink behind the rugged, snow-covered peaks. As soon as the guys finished securing the last pontoon of the river crossing, they could head out of this godforsaken wilderness back to base. They’d been lucky this time. No Taliban guerrillas harassing them. No toothless mountain men glaring at them or big-eyed children begging for chocolate. Just another friggin’ mission.

The first of the Guard engineers loaded their gear and climbed in. The rest followed quickly. Kyle turned on the ignition so they could hightail it as soon as the stragglers were aboard. Pete brought up the rear. He opened the passenger door to ride shotgun, then paused and reached into the pocket of his parka.

“Save it, Nemec.” Kyle revved the motor. “We’re getting the hell out. Now.”

“Just one peek while it’s still light.” Pete turned his head to get a better look at the photograph of a smiling girl with reddish-brown hair and soulful hazel eyes. It took only a fraction of a minute. One fraction too long.

Before any of the Guardsmen could react to the movement behind the rock, Pete lay on the ground, blood from a temple wound pooling in the dirty snow.

“Shit!” Heart thundering, Kyle slid from the truck, shouldered his weapon and crawled to his friend’s side. There was no sign of the sniper, a crumpled body the only evidence he had ever been there.

With his lifeless buddy’s head resting against his shoulder, the drive back to base seemed interminable.




CHAPTER ONE


Eden Bay, Oregon

Early April, 2009

FOG VEILING the rugged Oregon headlands and an angry ocean were unmistakable omens: Turn back. You don’t have to do this. Ignoring her internal voices, Annie Greer pulled in front of her great-aunt Geneva’s seaside cottage and sat for a long moment in her battered Honda, gathering herself to face what lay ahead.

Only Auntie G. could have compelled Annie to return to the town she’d fled a decade earlier. Out of the blue the call had come to Bisbee, Arizona, where she earned her living waiting tables and creating individually crafted handbags. On the day she celebrated her first sale to a pricey boutique in Scottsdale, the telephone had shattered her euphoria. Carmen Mendoza’s summons had been brief and urgent. “Your tia Geneva, she has put off asking me to call. But now I think I must. She has not so long. I am with her, of course. But I am not family. She should not die without family. She has only you. Please to come home.”

A gull shrieked overhead, and Annie gathered her windbreaker closer to ward off a sudden chill. Home. She snorted. Once, Eden Bay had been exactly that. Once, she had imagined a future here. But on a cloudless May night ten years ago, her dreams—and her innocence—had died swiftly, mercilessly. She had hoped never to set foot in Eden Bay again, never to confront painful memories.

However, she couldn’t turn away from her great-aunt Geneva, now that the elderly woman was suffering from congestive heart failure. Not after all Geneva had done in those days when Annie had desperately needed to hide where no one from this town could ever find her. Although Carmen had been her aunt’s faithful caregiver and companion for years, she was right. She wasn’t family.

Only Annie was family.

After the death of Annie’s mother the summer following her junior year in high school, Auntie G. had become Annie’s sole living relative. Even so, because of Geneva’s frequent world travels, they had seen little of each other in the past few years. It would be good to share this precious time.

Annie continued staring at the cottage, fending off memories that filled her with shame.

Finally, knowing Auntie G. needed her, she opened the car door and stood gazing at the roiling ocean, licking sea salt from her lips. She loved her great-aunt, but returning to Eden Bay was the second most difficult decision she had ever made in her life.



GENEVA GREER SPREAD the afghan over her legs and adjusted the nosepiece of her portable oxygen tank. She had been reluctant to uproot Annie, but the truth was, Geneva didn’t want to depart this world without seeing her great-niece again. Without making one more attempt to help Annie come to terms with the past.

Glancing around the room, she hoped Annie would find solace in the familiarity of the Greer family beach house. The fireplace with its hand-crafted mantel and built-in wood box, the brass telescope on the window ledge, the ship’s model on top of the bookcase—all of these things had been here since Geneva’s father built the Cape Cod–style cottage in the mid-1930s. Some of her happiest childhood memories were of carefree days with her younger brother, running wild on the beach, wading into the surf, studying marine life in the tide pools.

Now the house was nearly as weathered as Geneva. The railing on the front porch was dangerously loose and a water stain marred the ceiling in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She wondered what Annie would think of her legacy. Whether it would tether her to Eden Bay. Or provide her with the means of leaving the place behind, once and for all.

Lost in her thoughts, she roused at the sound of a car door slamming. In years past, she would have raced out to greet her beloved great-niece. Now, she could only wait.

Peering through the window, Geneva feasted her eyes on Annie, whose shoulder-length auburn hair stirred in the wind. Her pale, freckled face, unadorned with makeup, reminded Geneva so much of her own long-dead brother. Dressed in jeans, a shapeless maroon windbreaker and purple Crocs, Annie paused, shading her eyes with her arm to look toward the sea. Then with a resolute lift of her shoulders, she turned and walked toward the house, rearranging her expression from wistfulness to welcome.

Geneva sighed. Annie was home. But pain, she knew, would dog her niece’s every step. She shouldn’t have summoned her. Selfish old woman.

If only…if only she didn’t need her so.



OPENING THE DOOR, Carmen engulfed Annie in a warm hug. “It is good you are here,” she said, before standing aside. Annie set down her backpack and stood silently, soaking it all in.

First came the familiar smells—musty books, lemon oil, bread fresh from the oven. Then the sights—the brass umbrella stand, the ornate upright piano that had belonged to her grandmother and Geneva’s easel, splotched with every color of the rainbow. Annie took a deep breath, propelled into a time when this house had been a happy place, her sanctuary.

“Annie?” The voice was faint, raspy, anxious. Nothing like the lilting alto she remembered. Carmen nodded toward the bay window facing the ocean.

Moving into the room, Annie found her great-aunt huddled beneath a multicolored afghan. Auntie G. had always been vibrant, larger than life. Her robust laughter, expansive gestures and bohemian clothing had made her, for Annie, the most exotic and beloved of creatures. She forced a smile so as not to betray her shock, then knelt beside the pale husk of a woman engulfed by the chair she had once dominated. “Auntie G., I’m so happy to see you.” Annie struggled to control her voice. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you, petunia.”

Use of the pet name melted away the years, and for a fleeting moment, Annie could feel her father’s arms hoisting her over his head. Touch the sky, my little petunia.

Geneva rested a frail hand on Annie’s hair. “I didn’t want to ask this of you.”

“I know. But you’re worth it.”

“Maybe it’s time you came back anyway.” Geneva fingered the fringe of her afghan. “It’s hard work burying the past, but it needs to be done.”

I don’t want to talk about this. Please, not now. “I doubt that’s possible. Anyway—” Annie projected a cheerfulness she did not feel “—I’m here for you, not me.”

“The point is to make the most of every moment. I want time with you, but we have to be realistic. It won’t last long.”

Annie buried her face in her aunt’s lap, silent tears falling on the afghan. When she raised her head, her voice broke. “I need you. I can’t face this place by myself.”

“You can and you will, with or without me.”

Despairing, Annie had no answer. Like a diabolical metronome, the oxygen tank ticked off Geneva’s breaths. Annie fought the impulse to run to her car, throw it in gear and race far away. Yet, if not for her great-aunt, where in God’s name would she be now?

Stark raving mad, probably. The automatonlike life she’d lived since leaving this town was safer. At least in Arizona she’d been able to keep memory at bay. If only she could barricade herself in this house that had once sheltered her. Simply be with Geneva. Not let anyone else know she’d returned.

“Tea?” Carmen entered holding a tray with a cup of tea and homemade brownies.

Annie rose, took the tray and settled in the cane-bottomed rocker across from Geneva. “Thank you,” she said, struggling to smile at Carmen. “I forgot about lunch, so this is a welcome snack.”

“Save room for dinner. My special enchilada casserole. Maybe we can tempt Señorita Geneva.” Carmen’s brown eyes signaled her concern.

Annie studied her aunt. “Aren’t you eating?”

Geneva waved her hand dismissively. “I’m on a diet.” She managed a chuckle. “All my life I’ve wanted to be svelte. A pity I had to wait until now.”

Annie appreciated the attempt at humor. Still, Carmen had not exaggerated the severity of Geneva’s condition. Annie took a sip of tea, mentally vowing to set aside her own pain to alleviate Geneva’s. But was that possible here in Eden Bay?



“DAMN IT TO HELL.” Kyle Becker stood on the roof of the Brady place, staring at the half-assed job the roofer had done. No wonder it leaked. Shoddy workmanship and shortcutting on materials. Kneeling, he pried up a layer of shingles and cursed again. What was so hard about doing a job right? But then, if everyone did a perfect job, he’d be out of work. Repair jobs helped pay the bills, but they weren’t nearly as satisfying as remodels where a guy could feel he’d actually created something. Cleaning up other people’s mistakes wasn’t his idea of fun.

Standing, he holstered his claw hammer and, fighting the wind, moved carefully toward the ladder. From here he had a clear view of other houses dotting the coast and of the Pacific beyond, frothing with whitecaps. This was what he wanted—a home overlooking the ocean. In your dreams, buddy. The day you have a house in the six-or seven-digit range is the day a tsunami swamps the whole damn West Coast.

Swinging over the edge of the roof, he started down the ladder, then stopped, his eyes fixed on the Greer cottage in the distance. Isolated from its neighbors, vulnerable to sun and storms, it represented the quality craftsmanship of a bygone era. He squinted. Lights shone from the windows. Was the old lady back? Odd. She hadn’t been here in a long time. Parked in front of the house was an older-model car. Surely not Geneva’s. She drove only flashy foreign cars. Usually red or yellow. Shrugging at his idle train of thought, he clambered to the ground.

Bubba, his half Lab, half German shepherd, jumped from the bed of Kyle’s pickup and danced delighted circles around him, as if knowing they would shortly be on their way home. Kyle knelt beside the dog, scratching the thick fur behind his ears. “Hey, fella, ready for the barn?” Nonstop tail-wagging provided a clear answer. Kyle opened the door of the cab. “Hop in, buddy. But don’t get too excited. We have to stop by the office on our way home.”

It was nearly five-thirty when they rolled into the lot of Nemec Construction. The company vehicles were already aligned in rows, and the warehousemen were heading out the door. Clouds gathering in the west obscured the weak April sun, so Kyle tucked his sunglasses in the pocket of his denim work shirt. “Wanna come see Rita?” The dog perked up his ears and eyed Kyle expectantly. Kyle climbed out of the truck. “C’mon, then.”

This was their evening ritual. Bubba wouldn’t leave the cab until Kyle invited him. And every evening, Rita, the plump, friendly receptionist, had a doggie treat waiting in the office.

When they entered, Rita looked up from her computer. “Hey, handsome, who’s your friend?” She winked at Kyle, as she always did. Bubba sat beside her desk, his tail wagging. “Have you been a good boy today?” The dog lifted one leg and pawed the floor, a trick she had taught him. “Okay, Bubba. Here you are.” She pulled a box of dog biscuits from her drawer and gave him one. He mouthed it and scurried off to a corner to enjoy the morsel.

“You’re spoiling him.”

“Nonsense. He just needs some good mommy-loving.” She raised an eyebrow. “Something he sure can’t get from you.”

Kyle laughed. “Jeez, I hope not. We’re manly bachelors.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you found a better bed partner than a hairy beast?”

“Meddling again?”

“Somebody needs to, you big blockhead.”

“I suppose you’ve got somebody in mind?” The minute the words left his mouth, he wished them unsaid.

Rita nodded imperceptibly toward the office area behind the glass divider at her back.

Kyle followed her gaze, then shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Rosemary. It figured. “Wouldn’t that be a cliché? Dating the boss’s daughter?”

Rita tapped a pen impatiently. “Nonsense. You know darn well you’re practically like one of the family already. You could at least try to make it official.”

Kyle sighed. He’d had this conversation more than once and usually offered a litany of excuses. Rosemary was younger. He couldn’t date the bratty little sister of his best friend. He might be accused of currying favor with the boss. She was a nice girl, but nice girls weren’t his type. None of it had deterred Rita.

Nor Rosemary, who continued to flirt and look at him with hope. Rosemary, who had Pete’s eyes. In a way, Kyle wished he could be attracted to her. Rita was right about one thing. It did get damn lonely in that mobile home of his. And he was sick to death of his own cooking. Even so, he was better off not encouraging Rosemary. He needed to keep his relationships with the Nemecs on as businesslike a basis as possible, to know he’d earned every responsibility Bruce Nemec had given him.

“Here.” He thrust his notes into Rita’s hands. “Can you write up the bid for the Brady place and mail it to them?”

“Sure.” Rita tucked the paper into a folder and stood. “Got big plans for tonight? After all, it’s Friday.”

“I figure I’ll treat myself to an evening at the Yacht Club,” he said, referring to a local bar near the fishing pier.

“That’ll be a novelty. Do you ever go anyplace else?”

“Nah, why change my routine?”

Rita picked up her sweater from the back of her chair and shrugged into it. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s why you love me, right?” He threw Rita a roguish grin. “See you Monday.” Then he called Bubba and they headed for the truck.

On the way home, Kyle drove slowly, pondering Rita’s comments. The rut he was in, though comfortable, was also paralyzing. Bruce had made no secret of the fact he was grooming Kyle to take over Nemec Construction someday. Putting him in charge of their home repair and remodeling division, AAA Builders, was a tacit step toward that end. But the company should have been Pete’s. Damned if Kyle would worm his way further into the family by marrying Rosemary. Besides, she deserved more than he could give.

He didn’t want to think about any of this. Especially not about Pete. Remembering was too painful. More than anything, he missed the friendship they’d shared ever since they were happy-go-lucky kids riding their bikes all over Eden Bay.

But that was then. Kyle was far from happy-go-lucky now. He survived one day at a time. Nose to the grindstone. Minding his own business. Expecting nothing.

A fog rolling in from the ocean forced him to concentrate on driving. Beside him, Bubba licked his chops, then pressed his nose to the passenger-window glass.

A man and his dog. It was enough.



THE MORNING AFTER her arrival Annie stood at the window facing the sea, watching rivulets of water smear the panes. The rain had started late last night shortly after she’d moved all her belongings to this upstairs front bedroom, the one that had always been Geneva’s. Now, because of her weakened condition, Auntie G. stayed in the downstairs bedroom. The damp Pacific coast was a far cry from the dry desert air. No welcoming sun greeted Annie here. But what had she expected? In memory, she’d always pictured Eden Bay through a scrim of gray mist.

Pulling the oversize plaid flannel shirt closer around her, she turned to study the room. Although most of her aunt’s belongings had been moved, the double bed with the inlaid wood headboard and its matching dresser were still here, as were several of Geneva’s oil paintings, including the one Annie had always liked best—a rocky beach scene with white-tipped, emerald waves crashing against the shore.

A wide, six-foot-long table stood against the north wall. Annie didn’t know where it had come from, but Geneva’s thoughtfulness of providing a worktable made Annie feel at home in a way little else could have.

Moving to the first box, she unpacked multicolored scraps of upholstery material and stacked them beneath the table. In a second carton she located shears, scissors, spools of thread, braiding and her large button box. She arranged these items neatly on the left, then pulled a piece of cranberry floral material from the fabric pile and spread it across the surface, visualizing the exact way she wanted to cut it to transform it into a satin-lined tote. For the first time since Carmen’s call, she felt the coils of tension ease.

Keeping busy was the answer. Between caring for Geneva and burying herself in work, there would be no time to think, to remember.

At the sound of a light tap on the door, she said, “Come in.”

Carmen waited with a tray. “Breakfast, Annie? Your tia, she is still sleeping.”

With the first whiff of blueberry scones and coffee, Annie realized she was ravenous. “Thank you, Carmen.” She moved across the room and took the tray. “But I don’t need to be waited on.”

“Maybe just for today.” In the woman’s eyes, Annie read understanding.

Annie set down the tray. “Will you call me when Geneva is awake?”

“Sí. Your visit, it is bringing her joy.”

“What have her doctors said?”

Carmen shook her head. “Better to ask her. It is not for me to tell.”

“I need the truth.”

“She is strong. She is not afraid of that truth.” Carmen nodded at the tray. “If you want more, come to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” Annie closed the door behind Carmen, then sat with her breakfast in a chintz-covered armchair. The scone was buttery and delicious and the coffee strong and hot. Neither, however, filled the empty place within her.



LATER THAT MORNING when Annie entered the living room, Geneva looked up and smiled. “Good morning, petunia.” She gestured toward the bay window. “Nice day for ducks.”

“Typical Oregon.” Taking the chair across from her aunt’s, she noticed that Geneva was wearing a colorful Moroccan-style caftan. “How are you? Did you eat your breakfast?”

Geneva gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’d rather not dwell on my health, but I did eat a poached egg.”

Annie tried to match her aunt’s bantering tone. “And that’s a cause for celebration?”

“Bells, whistles and firecrackers.” Geneva cocked her head, studying Annie. “Did you sleep well?”

“Fine,” Annie lied. No point mentioning the hours she’d lain awake listening to the wind and wishing Geneva still felt like trotting around the globe gathering information and anecdotes for her travel books.

“I don’t believe you.” Her aunt hesitated. “Everything must seem strange to you. The town, the cottage—” she gestured airily “—and me. No wonder. I feel strange to myself. I keep thinking I can run upstairs, walk on the beach, drive a car.” She sighed. “I guess I should be thankful I’m still breathing, because we have work to do.”

“Work?”

“See that chest over there by the piano? Bring it to me.”

Annie pushed the heavy container across the floor to Geneva, who leaned over and, with effort, opened the lid. Inside were sheafs of paper, along with photo albums.

“This, my dear niece, is Greer family memorabilia. You are my only descendant, and I don’t want our history to die with me.”

Annie picked up a packet of letters tied with binding twine. “You’re the only Greer I really know. I have sketchy memories of my father, but I was only five when he died. It’s as if he’s the star of a long-ago movie that I can scarcely remember, no matter how hard I try to rewind.”

“We can’t bring him back, but we can certainly flesh out some of those memories and more. If nothing else, Greers have always been unique individuals. Look at me. I’ve been to six continents, had lovers on three—”

“Auntie G.!”

“Don’t look so shocked. Just because I never married doesn’t mean I didn’t have good times. But more about that later.” She paused to cough wetly into a tissue. “I thought each day we might make some headway with what’s in the chest. You can work in the afternoon while I rest.”

“I’d like that,” Annie said quietly.

“You know, this house is falling apart. The porch railings are loose and there are water spots upstairs. I don’t want to even think about dry rot around the doors and windows. Would you mind going through the place to check for problem areas?”

“Not at all.”

“I’ll phone my neighbor Frances Gardner for recommendations for a repairman—it’s been so long since I lived here. I want to get this done.”

Annie recognized the steel in Geneva’s voice and the implied message: before I die. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Good. Then after my nap, I’m challenging you to a game of gin rummy. Winner gets an extra glass of wine.” Her eyes glinted mischievously.

“Are you even supposed to drink?”

“One glass. But that’s if I lose. Which I won’t.”

Annie wanted to argue, to implore her aunt to do exactly what the doctor had ordered. Yet, if her days were numbered, what harm could a second glass of wine do in the big scheme of things?

The phone rang and Annie heard Carmen answer it in the kitchen. After a few moments, she appeared in the doorway, her expressive eyes filled with tears.

Geneva stretched out her hand. “Carmen, what is it, dear?”

“My daughter. She’s had her baby. A niño, a boy. Too soon. Three months soon. I…She needs help with my granddaughter.”

“Of course, you must go.” Geneva’s tone brooked no argument. “As soon as you can.”

“But you are sick and—”

“Annie is here and she will take care of me.”

Carmen wiped her eyes. “Gracias, señorita. I go now and pack. Annie, you come and I tell you about caring for your tia.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of instructions and arrangements. At Geneva’s insistence that she could be left alone, Annie drove Carmen to catch a shuttle at the nearby beach resort.

When Annie returned to the cottage in the late afternoon, she noticed there were no lights shining from the house. She found Geneva asleep in her chair, her skin ashen and her breath labored, despite the oxygen tank.

Annie panicked. What did she know about caring for a dying woman? With Carmen away, Annie would be forced into the community—to the grocery, the pharmacy, the gas station. There would be no avoiding people. People who would not welcome her presence. People who would blame her.



MONDAY MORNING Kyle dragged himself into consciousness, battling images of his recurring nightmare. Drenched in sweat, he sat on the side of the bed cradling his aching head in his hands. Damn it, damn it, damn it! The dream always started so innocently, luring him into the vortex of horror. The details might change, but the ending never did. Dressed in period costume, he stood on a scaffolding, holding in his hand a long-handled ax, dripping with blood. And staring up at him with a gentle but distorted smile was Pete, his head severed from his neck.

It didn’t take a shrink to get the symbolism. The hell of it was, he lived it every day, with or without the dream. Each time he passed the field where he and Pete had played American Legion baseball, reported to the National Guard Armory or shook hands with Bruce.

Why couldn’t it have been him? What did he have to live for compared to Pete? A mother who’d abandoned him and a father who beat the crap out of him on a regular basis? Certainly not a beautiful girl he loved with every fiber of his being. Nor a future full of promise.

Kyle shut his eyes to the photo on his dresser of him and Pete, arms around each other’s shoulders, caps tilted cockily, on their last day of leave before deployment to Afghanistan.

Slowly the sensation of Bubba licking his toes pulled him from his thoughts.

After a long, hot shower and a bowl of instant oatmeal, he felt minimally better. It would be a relief to go to work. There he wouldn’t have time to brood.

Rita eyed him speculatively when he arrived at the office. “You’re late.”

“So?”

“Just commenting because you’re almost never late.”

He shrugged, disinclined to engage in their usual banter.

“Well,” she drawled, “maybe you’re excused just this once. Besides, if you’d already been on the job, you’d have missed this.” She handed him a phone memo.

“Huh? The Greer place?” He studied the message requesting an estimate on repairs. “I thought I saw a car there last week.”

“Frankly, Geneva didn’t sound good. Told me she wants to get her place fixed up ASAP. Before she dies, she said. Talk about a conversation stopper. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I told her we’d have someone out today.”

The Greer cottage had always had a special charm. He was sorry about the old lady, but he’d love to get his hands on that house.




CHAPTER TWO


THE MORNING HAD NOT gone well. Figuring out Auntie G.’s medications and dressing her had taken longer than Annie had predicted. Then she’d burned the toast and undercooked the eggs. Geneva had waved off her apology, daintily dipping a corner of her toast in the runny yolk, but beyond that, eating nothing.

After breakfast, even though she seemed tired, Geneva insisted that Annie help her into her living room chair. Managing the walker and the oxygen tank at the same time was difficult, but finally she had her aunt settled, the afghan over her knees, a book in her lap.

“I’ll be fine here. Go, get the kitchen cleaned up, take a shower. Don’t worry about me.”

After loading the dishwasher and wiping down the counter, Annie checked on Geneva, who sat staring out the window with her open book facedown. Annie bathed quickly, worried that she wouldn’t hear Geneva if she called. Or fell. Annie toweled her hair, then threw on a shapeless blue T-shirt over gray sweatpants and was slipping on her Crocs when she heard Geneva ring the bell she’d given her to use as a summons. Annie raced down the stairs. “What is it?”

“Calm down. The repairman I’ve been expecting is coming up the walk.”

Through the bay window Annie saw a white pickup with red lettering on the door. AAA Builders Home Repair and Remodeling. “That was fast.”

“I told you I wanted the cottage fixed. And I want it done properly. This company came with high recommendations.” A heavy knock sounded on the door.

Running her fingers through her damp hair, Annie walked to the front hall and threw open the door.

The world fell away. She couldn’t breathe, much less utter a sound. She leaned against the doorjamb, a wave of dizziness threatening her balance.

“Annie?” The blond-haired man hovered over her, his strong, broad-shouldered body blocking the sun, his chiseled facial features pale beneath his tan. Then he turned away, swiped the ball cap from his head and paced to one end of the porch and back, stopping in front of her, his gray eyes icy. “You’ve got some nerve showing up in Eden Bay.”

Annie gripped the door, focusing on his chest, on the forest-green of his chamois shirt, on anything but those accusing eyes. If she could focus there, she could stop the memories—Pete, Kyle…her reasons for leaving town. “I…I…” She faltered, realizing there was absolutely nothing she could say to Kyle.

“Don’t even try to explain.” He placed the cap back on his head. “Find someone else for this job.”

“Annie?” Geneva’s imperious voice pierced the silence. “I want to see that young man.”

Kyle hesitated.

“Look,” Annie said in a low enough tone that Geneva couldn’t hear, “my aunt’s sick and wants this place fixed up.”

“There are plenty of guys who can do it.”

“You were recommended.”

He peered over her head into the interior. “All right. I’ll tell her no myself.” He stepped around her and strode into the living room.

Struggling for equilibrium, Annie sank onto the stairs, listening to the rise and fall of voices. After Kyle told her great-aunt he would be unavailable to do the repairs, she heard Geneva’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. After a few minutes, Kyle returned, his expression grim. He paused in the doorway. “Have your damn list ready. I’ll be here Wednesday morning.” He put his hand on the doorknob, then spoke again. “One more thing. Stay out of my way.” Then he was gone.

Slowly Annie released her death grip on the banister. Why had she ever thought she could hide out here? Avoid the disapproval, even hatred, of those in Eden Bay?

Her muscles tensed. She longed to leave this place. Now.

“Annie?”

She took a deep breath, then went into the living room.

Her aunt’s color had improved and her face bore a triumphant smile. “Well, everything’s settled. That’s a very professional young man.” She adjusted her nosepiece. “Did you know him when you lived here?”

Annie nodded, dreading further questioning.

“He seems nice. Maybe you should get in touch with some of your old friends.”

“No.”

The smile faded from Geneva’s lips. “It was a long time ago, dear.”

“They haven’t forgotten. Or forgiven.”



ADRENALINE PUMPING, Kyle gunned the truck down the driveway then onto the Coast Highway where he abruptly pulled into a scenic overlook. Oblivious to Bubba’s quizzical look, he gripped the wheel, stared at the ocean and swore at the top of his lungs. Finally, with the cab closing in on him, he climbed out and gulped in sea-fresh air, haunted by what that bitch Annie had done to Pete ten years ago.

As if it were yesterday, he was in Pete’s bedroom listening to his friend’s voice break with emotion. “She’s gone, man. Just like that. What did I do?” Pete clutched a crumpled envelope.

Kyle had thought to be supportive by telling him no girl was worth it. Wrong tactic. Pete loved Annie with an intensity that defied reason. They were the perfect couple, the ones who would be as crazy in love in their nineties as they were in their teens. That’s why her abrupt departure was so twisted, made no sense.

“You don’t get it, Kyle. I can’t live without her. I’m going after her.”

Kyle picked up the Dear John letter and scanned it. “Forget her. It says right here she wants a new life. Without you. Besides, you can’t go after her. We leave for National Guard training tomorrow.”

Pete howled Annie’s name. Kyle wrapped him in a bear hug, while Pete said, “Something’s not right. Something’s not right.”

The roar of the surf filled Kyle’s head. A lot of somethings weren’t right. Annie had no business coming back to Eden Bay and stirring up the past. Her presence would remind everyone of Pete, of his never-ending search for her—a search that bordered on desperate—of the way her disappearance had slowly drained the vitality from him.

Worse, she would remind Kyle of all the ways he’d let down his best friend and all the reasons why that sniper should have hit him, not Pete.

What a mess. And so typical of Kyle’s life. The chance to work on a gem of a house like he’d always wanted tainted by seeing her every day. Every time he saw her—still beautiful, damn it, despite the lack of makeup and the too-big clothes—he could remember how close he came to betraying Pete.

Kyle sighed. The least he could do was protect the Nemecs from her. The last thing they needed was her stirring up their grief. Man, she was trouble. He had hoped never to see her again because he was afraid of what he’d say to her, do to her.

Yet when she’d opened the door this morning, his breath had stopped. A part of him was glad to see her. And that’s the part of himself he damned to hell.



PROPPED UP on three bed pillows, Geneva stared at the ceiling, wide-awake. When she was younger, she’d hated such sleepless nights. Now they were a blessing. They meant more time to remember, to plan, to be. She’d asked Annie to crack the window so she could hear the waves lapping the rocky beach in a soothing lullaby. And smell the tangy salt air that transported her to so many of the places she’d visited—the Greek Islands, Australia, Tahiti. It had been a good life, full of adventure and fascinating people. And no small measure of success. For most people enough satisfaction for a lifetime.

But not for her until this one last thing was done—helping Annie live.

Geneva rued the fact she’d been halfway around the world when Annie had needed her all those years ago. Annie had fled Eden Bay in a panic, for reasons she had never shared. Geneva had been unable to help. The best she’d been able to do from so far away was direct Annie to Nina Valdez in Bisbee, Arizona.

Geneva had first met Nina at a women’s consciousness-raising retreat in Mexico where they’d struck up an enduring friendship. Nina owned a small café and herb shop, and under Nina’s wing, Annie had found sanctuary, but not the happy, fulfilling life Geneva wished for her. The way Nina described it in a letter, Annie was simply doing what people expected of her. Making no waves. Forming no close friendships. Calmly and dispassionately existing. Annie deserved more. Needed more. Needed to live.

For a brief time this morning, Geneva had thought the appearance of Kyle might offer Annie a connection to the town. But Annie had made it perfectly clear that she wanted no part of him or anyone else she had once known.

Something continued to eat at Annie. Something that had happened here. And until she faced it directly, she was doomed to a half-life.

Geneva closed her eyes. Give me time, please, to help this lost girl. Then, lulled by the wash of the ocean, she drifted to sleep.



WEDNESDAY MORNING Kyle parked his pickup beside Annie’s well-used Honda, wishing he had not let the old lady get to him. She had skillfully used both flattery and her failing health as inducements for him to take on this work. Ever since, he’d been cursing his gullibility and stupidity. He did not need this job. He did not want this job. And, especially, he did not want to be on the same planet with Annie Greer, much less in the same house.

He let Bubba out for a brief run, then had him hop into the truck bed. “Stay. Be a good boy, fella. Stay.” As if sensing the undercurrent in his master’s voice, Bubba’s ears perked up. “Yeah, I know. I’m not the happiest camper.” Kyle grinned wryly, then picked up his tool chest and plodded toward the cottage, noting, without conscious effort, the loose guttering on the ocean side. Hopefully there wouldn’t be that much on the repair list. But the sagging front door, the weatherworn shingles and the loose shutters were not good omens. He set down the chest, took a deep breath and rapped on the door.

When Annie answered his knock, she stood aside and directed him to the living room. He nodded coolly, then brushed past her. Geneva sat before the bay window. Two chairs faced her and on the table between them was a typed list. Without a word, Annie indicated he should take the chair closer to the window. Then she perched on the other, as if poised for a quick getaway.

To Kyle’s relief, Geneva broke the tension. “Well, young man, I’m delighted you’re here. My niece has gone over the house thoroughly and prepared a list.”

As he read, the silence was broken only by the melodic tinkling of an outdoor wind chime and Geneva Greer’s oxygen tank. Beside him, Annie sat primly, back straight, fingers laced, jaw rigid. Yeah, well, she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to be here.

Still, the house lured him. He took in the crafted mantel and staircase, the patina of the hardwood floors, the high ceilings, the beveled glass in the built-in break-front. This house was a woodworker’s paradise.

“Well?” Geneva studied him with alert blue eyes.

“It looks like a complete list, although I’ll have to inspect everything myself.”

“I would expect that. I’m prepared to pay well for you to complete this job quickly. As you know—” she paused, as if summoning strength “—I have little time left to enjoy your handiwork. And it is your handiwork I want.”

He heard Annie’s quick intake of breath, but still she said nothing.

“I’ll have to leave occasionally to check on my men. Yours isn’t the only project we’ve got going.”

“Understandable, but I want the best, so I’d prefer that you do the bulk of the work.”

“I’ll try.” He rose to his feet, wondering if he’d lost his senses. “Perhaps Annie will give me a tour and point out what needs to be done.”

When Annie stood, a fragrance like summer roses engulfed him, taking him back to senior prom and the two dances he’d had with her. The two dances Pete had grudgingly relinquished to him. And if Pete had known what was going through Kyle’s head, he would have never let Annie within ten miles of him.

“We’ll start outside,” she said, as she led the way to the front door.



OUT ON THE PORCH, her turtleneck sweater offering little protection against the raw wind, Annie wanted to push Kyle away, avoid the man who represented her demons. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, somehow release the panic welling in her. Yet her loyalty to Geneva took precedence. “This is on the list,” she said, indicating the rickety porch railing.

Hugging herself against the chill, she waited while he tested each post. When he finished, she walked around the side of the house and pointed at the guttering.

“I saw that earlier,” he said.

She was grateful when the tour continued in this manner: him carefully appraising each flaw, her accommodating him only so far as was necessary. When they came to her bedroom, though, she stopped in the doorway, blocking his entry. She didn’t want him in her space, violating her privacy. Just thinking of his having personal knowledge of her worktable, her bed, her toiletries laid out on the dresser made her feel exposed.

He came up beside her, crowding her with his hard, toned body. “Excuse me,” he said, “but isn’t this where the ceiling leak is?”

More in an effort to get away from him than to allow him entrance, she stepped away. He strode into the room, dwarfing the dainty rocker by the door. She pointed to the northwest corner. “Over there.”

As he studied the telltale signs of water damage, she watched for any change in his expression. Any time now he would ask her the question hanging between them: Why did you treat Pete so heartlessly?



FOR DINNER THAT EVENING Kyle fixed a frozen pizza, then grabbed a bottle of beer and settled on his dilapidated couch to watch the Mariners game. Bubba, quite a pepperoni fan, made a pass at his plate. “No way, buddy. You had your supper. Alpo. Yummy.”

Bubba gave up and settled, head on his paws, under the small kitchen table.

Kyle took a swig of beer and fixed his gaze on the screen. Bottom of the seventh inning. Two outs, two men on base. He let his mind wander to the upcoming weekend. Friday night’s company softball game. Then the party at the Nemecs’ to celebrate Rosemary’s birthday. His Saturday fishing date with Buzz Royer, the company electrician.

Then, diabolically, his thoughts turned to Annie. Her aloof behavior. The way she’d looked at him in her bedroom, as if he were an intruder bent on no good. Her whole snow-queen routine would get old. Because the hell of it was he was going to be spending considerably more time than he liked at the Greer cottage, which had been neglected too long and needed a great deal of work. He didn’t appreciate her treating him like the bad guy. He wasn’t the one who’d run away. He wasn’t the one who’d devastated Pete. Sure, Kyle had his own sins to atone for, but he’d stuck by Pete to the end.

Still, one thing was for damn sure. Before Kyle finished with the house, he’d get some answers from her. She owed him. More important, she owed Pete and the Nemecs.

He tossed back the rest of the beer, then glanced at the TV. Bottom of the eighth? Hell, he’d missed more than half an inning. He swung to his feet and snagged a second brew from the fridge. Enough about Annie, he told himself. You don’t need this aggravation in your life. Tomorrow, weather permitting, he was working outside. He would concentrate on the job. Put her out of his mind. Exactly where she belonged. Where she always should have belonged.



AFTER SUPPER Annie undertook the task she’d been putting off—making an inventory of food supplies. Although Carmen had left a well-stocked pantry and some frozen casseroles, Annie would have to make a trip to the supermarket, even if a raging case of cabin fever was preferable. For a change of scene and to work off tension, she’d been walking on the beach each afternoon while Geneva napped.

Annie was compiling a grocery list when the phone rang. The warmth of Nina Valdez’s voice was a balm. “Your friends are missing you. So am I. And the customers? They’re always asking after you.”

Annie doubted she had left such a void in the lives of Bisbee residents. Maybe in Nina’s, though. “I miss everyone. I wish I were there.”

“How is she, honey?” Nina’s voice registered concern.

“I’m not really sure.” As she talked, Annie carried the phone onto the front porch and curled up in the swing. “She isn’t giving me all the details and for now, she’s holding her own. But I can see it’s a struggle for her, and one day she’ll have to give in.”

“Do you have help?”

An onslaught of loneliness blindsided her. “Mmm, not really. Not now. But Carmen will be back soon.”

“Have you considered hospice care?”

Nina might as well have socked her in the stomach. Hospice. The word floated in her awareness like a circling vulture.

“Annie?”

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. But I don’t want you facing this on your own.”

“She’s really dying, isn’t she?” Annie had known that intellectually, but she’d avoided saying it aloud. Somehow verbalizing made it real.

“Yes, honey, she is. You know that’s why I encouraged you to go home to Oregon.”

Tears rolled down Annie’s cheeks. “She’s…she’s…” Her voice caught. “My family.” My only family was left unsaid.

From that point, she couldn’t focus on the conversation, but she did hear the empathy and love in Nina’s voice.

After Annie hung up, she stayed on the porch to pull herself together. Then she went into the living room, where she and Geneva played two games of gin rummy. At nine, after a fit of coughing, Geneva declared she was ready for bed. Annie helped her undress. When Geneva was finally tucked in for the night, she reached up and grabbed Annie’s hand. “Thank you for making the list for Kyle Becker. I can’t wait to see how the renovation turns out.”

Hearing the delight in her aunt’s voice, Annie realized this house project had given Geneva a purpose. But when it was completed…?

As she gently squeezed her aunt’s hand and leaned over to kiss her, she wished she could ask Kyle to take all the time in the world to finish his work.

Oddly, when she was finally in her own bedroom, it seemed as if the man himself were there. His scent lingered in the air and the memory of his presence made her pulse race. She found herself remembering the fun-loving eighteen-year-old jock who had been Pete’s best friend. Her friend, too, teasing her unmercifully about her studious ways, about the glints of red in her hair, and, of course, about how gaga she was over Pete. Most of the time Kyle had been full of laughter and jokes, but every now and then she had sensed that beneath his cheerful facade lay a serious side, even a vulnerable one, possibly a result of his troubled home life.

Today she’d seen only the serious Kyle. It was the hurt she saw. Unexpectedly, that made her feel sad—and guilty. Pete’s death clearly haunted them both.




CHAPTER THREE


BY FRIDAY AFTERNOON Kyle and Annie had settled into a kind of compromise. So long as he worked outside, she stayed inside. The two times he’d had to work in the house, Annie had pulled on a shapeless gray crewneck sweater and headed for the beach. They only communicated when necessary.

By contrast, the more he was around Geneva, the greater his respect for her. So few home owners really knew what they wanted, and he often spent as much time undoing their decisions as he did on the actual work. No such problem with Geneva. Insofar as was possible, she wanted the house restored to its original splendor, and she knew exactly what that would look like. Best of all, she was willing to pay.

This morning she had shown him photos of the exterior, circa 1936. Built to withstand the coastal weather, the cottage was functional yet beautiful in its New England simplicity. The design had been lovingly executed, and Kyle wanted it to be lovingly preserved. Some jobs were merely that—jobs. The rare few, like this one, stirred something deep in his soul.

As he was leaving for the day, he met Annie returning from the beach. He couldn’t just ignore her, but what came out of his mouth was sarcastic. “Got big plans for the weekend?”

She looked straight through him. “I’m not here for fun,” she said, and continued to the house.

No, in a real sense, she wasn’t here for fun. But the way she frowned and kept to herself suggested she didn’t know much about fun anymore. Not that it was any of his business.

Bubba gave a short bark of greeting, happy to run around for a few minutes before hopping into the cab. Kyle watched him, but his thoughts were on his senior year in high school. They’d all had fun then. Pete the quarterback, him the running back. Annie, in her short-skirted cheerleading outfit, her shining hair caught up in a big blue bow. Postgame parties on the beach, sparks from a bonfire spiraling into the starry sky, beer flowing freely. Sometimes Pete brought his guitar and, accompanied by the rat-a-tat of makeshift driftwood bongos and the cadence of the surf, they would all sing along until gradually, one by one, the couples slipped off into the darkness.

Almost as a self-protective device, he realized now, he’d cultivated a devil-may-care, bad-boy image, and there had been no shortage of willing girls climbing all over him. But none of them had been Annie.

A burning sensation filled Kyle’s throat. He fought the disturbing images.

And what about his own weekends these days? Compared to Annie, he had only minimal bragging rights. How many alcohol-buzzed evenings could a person spend at the Yacht Club playing pool and flirting with the barmaids? Or, big deal, watching ESPN until his eyes glazed over?

At least tonight he had the softball game to look forward to. That was the good news. The bad news? Rosemary’s birthday party, where subtly and not so subtly the matchmakers would be zeroing in on him.

“Bubba, I swear to God, I’m gonna die a bachelor.”



ANNIE PULLED a deck of cards from the pocket of her overalls and sat down across from her aunt. “Gin rummy tonight, Auntie G.?”

“No, petunia. I want to start on the family history.” From the chest, which had remained by her chair, she reached for a stack of photographs. “We’ll begin with my father and mother.” She drew out a picture of a handsome, dark-haired young man, wearing a World War I uniform and looking directly into the camera. “This is my father. He went over to France with the first wave of Yanks. In all the years I knew him, he never once talked about his war experiences. Only about the fine friends he’d made, many lost in the trenches.” She paused, thinking of all those soldiers who never returned home. “One of those friends gave my father a wonderful piece of advice in early 1929. ‘Sell your stock,’ he said. Because of my father’s respect for the man, he did exactly that, only a few short months before the October crash.”

“I’ve always wondered how he managed to build this house during the Depression.” Annie fingered the faded photograph. “What about your mother?”

“Lucy Windsor was from a wealthy Connecticut family that summered in Maine. Shortly after the war, she fell madly in love with William Greer and, despite her parents’ objections that he didn’t come from the ‘proper’ stock, she defied them by marrying him and, in essence, living happily ever after.”

The ghost of a smile teased Annie’s lips. “I’m beginning to see where your independent streak may have originated.”

“You come from a strong line, my dear.” Geneva pointed to a photo of a blond beauty with bobbed hair, clad in a fringed flapper-style evening gown. “My mother. People always loved being around her. My father built the cottage for her. She longed for the sea of her childhood, and he gave her the next best thing. Even though we lived in Portland, we spent every summer here. Happy times.”

“I’ve always thought this house had ghosts, the good kind.”

Geneva nodded. “That’s why it’s so important to me to preserve this place.”

In her great-aunt’s words Annie heard the plaintive melody of nostalgia. “I hope new owners love and honor the cottage the way you do.”

“New owners? I’m not fixing up the house to sell it.” Geneva smiled, then picked up Annie’s hand and held it in her own. “Oh, my little petunia, this place will be yours.”

Annie’s mind reeled. Hers? That would mean staying in Eden Bay. “Auntie G., I’m not sure—”

“This is your home. In time, I pray you will come to embrace this place.”

What could she possibly say to her great-aunt? The gift of the cottage was more than generous. How could she disappoint Auntie G. by telling her she had no desire to remain in a town with such distressing memories? “I can’t promise anything.”

The older woman nodded in understanding. “Not now, maybe. Just promise me you’ll give Eden Bay a chance.”

It was a lot to ask, but under the circumstances she had little choice but to murmur, “I’ll try.”

Later, as Annie snuggled under the comforter that smelled vaguely of lavender, she pondered how different things might have been for her in Eden Bay, if only…She shuddered and drew the spread up over her shoulders. So much had changed, and her future was a huge question mark. In another world, she might have been the one to continue the line of Greers living in the cottage. Now they would die out with Geneva.

Perhaps that was just as well.



BY THE TIME Kyle raced home from the softball game, showered, changed and drove to the Nemecs’ house, the party was in full swing, the celebration enhanced by the Nemec Construction Tigers’ 10-3 win. “The conquering hero arrives,” trumpeted Wade Hanson, the finish carpenter. The men clustered around a beer keg looked up and cheered. “Great pitching, Becker,” one of them said.

“You guys weren’t too shabby yourselves. Fifteen hits, no errors. You know what?” He grinned and ambled toward the keg. “I think we all deserve a beer.” Somebody thrust one into his hand. He made quick work of it and refilled the cup. It was a clear, cool night, and if he had a choice, he’d stay out here talking about the upcoming NBA playoffs and shooting the breeze with the fellas. He pictured the women gathered in the family room, undoubtedly talking about kids and recipes and stuff. Times like this, he was glad he wasn’t married.

As if that thought had summoned her, Wade’s wife, Carrie, appeared, hooked her arm through Kyle’s and started toward the house. “Come on in, you guys. It’s time for the cake.”

With Kyle in tow, Carrie walked through the kitchen, past the dining room table laden with assorted appetizers and into the family room. “Here he is,” she called to the assembled throng, as if she’d just reeled in a prize salmon. “The winning pitcher.”

Bruce Nemec sidled up behind him and whispered, “Into the frying pan, son.”

The women cooed their congratulations. One stood outside the circle, smiling, never taking her eyes off him. Rosemary. “Sit down,” Bruce’s wife, Janet, urged. “There. Next to the birthday girl.”

Kyle complied, even throwing in a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Rosemary.”

“It is now,” she said, lowering her voice and laying a hand on his knee.

Someone dimmed the lights and Pete and Rosemary’s older sister, Margaret, entered the room, bearing a sheet cake with lit candles. The crowd began singing “Happy Birthday,” and when Margaret set the cake on a table, Kyle could finally read the message written in frosting. This is the year! Happy twenty-fifth!

The year for what? The girl had only one goal, one dream—marriage. Just then somebody had the nerve to call out, “Make a wish, Rosie.”

And damned if she didn’t blow out every one of those twenty-five candles.

While everyone was eating, Kyle excused himself and escaped down the hall toward the bedrooms and guest bath. The door to Pete’s old room, normally closed, stood open. Against his instincts, Kyle went inside, shutting the door behind him. He turned on the table lamp and stood in the middle of the room, trying to recall what it had looked like when he and Pete had spent hours sprawled on the floor with their Hot Wheels track or sitting at the desk playing Tetris on Pete’s computer. The army reserve recruiting poster was gone, as were those of assorted athletes and rock stars. The walls had been painted a dove-gray, and the NASCAR curtains had been replaced with something floral. Kyle closed his eyes, summoning the essence of Pete. Nothing. Finally he moved to turn off the lamp.

There—carved in the wooden surface of the table—were the initials PN and KB with the date—6/6/90. They had just finished fifth grade. Kyle remembered the day vividly. His father had come home drunk from the job at the fish cannery. In memory, Kyle could still smell his rank body and sour-sweet bourbon breath. Joe Becker had taken one look at the sink full of dirty dishes and turned on Kyle. “You worthless piece of shit,” he’d shouted as he slammed him into the wall of their shoddy trailer house. Over and over. Eventually Kyle had escaped and run as fast as he could to the Nemec home. He’d rapped on Pete’s bedroom window. Pete had come out into the yard and led Kyle silently down the hall and into the bedroom. This bedroom. Pete had left long enough to get an ice bag, some towels and analgesic. No medic ever treated anyone more tenderly.

Kyle studied the surface of the desk, then ran his finger over the carved indentations. It was that night they had become blood brothers, vowing to cover each other’s backs. The evidence lay in the paired initials staring up at him.

Sinking onto the bed, Kyle held his head in his hands, gritting his teeth against the howl that threatened to explode from his chest. One of us failed.



“SON, YOU ALL RIGHT?” Bruce stood in the doorway, frowning with concern. Son. From early on, Mr. Nemec had called him that. The word used to flow over him like warm honey, causing him to feel special, as if he belonged. Making him believe, at least for a pocket of time, that the ratty trailer house and the brute who lived there didn’t exist. But now the true son was dead, and Kyle was no substitute, no matter how warmly the Nemecs drew him into their lives. No matter how hard he wished he could fill the empty place where Pete should’ve been.

Raising his head, Kyle wondered what he could say. The truth was too painful. “I just needed a moment.”

“With Pete.” It was not a question.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “There are times I still can’t accept the fact he’s gone.”

“I know what you mean.” Bruce strolled about the room, tracing the same path Kyle had taken earlier. “For a while, you know, we kept this room just as it was. If Janet had her way, it would have remained a shrine. But that wasn’t healthy. We had to move on.” He stopped in front of Kyle and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long time. You need to move on, too.”

Kyle wondered if he ever could, living in this town, working as Bruce’s heir apparent, being embraced by the Nemecs in every possible way. Maybe he should bite the bullet and extricate himself from them. If he stayed in Eden Bay, what would be his role? How much did he owe this family who had accepted him as one of their own since he’d been a terrified little boy?

“I think Rosemary’s wondering where you are.”

There was his answer. He knew they were generous people who would understand if he couldn’t love their daughter, but shouldn’t he at least try? Yet if he did and things didn’t work out between him and Rosemary, he would have knowingly hurt another Nemec.

He rose to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a damper on the party.”

Bruce clamped an arm around his shoulder as they walked down the hall. “You didn’t, son.”

Afterward, Kyle couldn’t remember what had snapped within him. He only knew he had been helpless to control what he said next, as if the impulse had been building in him all week. “Bruce,” he said, and stopped at the end of the hall. “There’s something I need to tell you. It, uh, it’s not easy.” Then he uttered the words that removed any trace of celebration from the man’s face: “Annie Greer is back in town.”



ANNIE ROSE early Sunday morning, her nerves jangling. Today was the day. No longer could she put off the trip to town. They needed both groceries and medicine. So long as she had been sequestered at the cottage, she felt safe, as if nobody could see her through the fog that obscured sections of the coastline. Today, however, the skies were a brilliant blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and bright sunlight glared off the beach sand. She could hide no longer.

After breakfast she helped Geneva to her chair. Annie had arranged for Frances to come while she was gone, but left her cell number on the pad on the table and made sure the phone was at her great-aunt’s elbow. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

Geneva huffed. “Frances and I will be fine. What about you?”

Annie chose to misunderstand the implication of her aunt’s pointed question. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” That, at least, was the truth. She’d strategized that Sunday morning would be the best time for this ordeal. People would be sleeping in, at church or maybe golfing. She could dart in and out of the store, unrecognized. Anonymous.

She drew the baggy University of Arizona sweatshirt she’d bought at a flea market over her overalls, covered her hair with a ball cap and put on her sunglasses. Maybe she’d look like a tourist. Certainly not like Annie Greer, Homecoming Queen.

To her relief, the supermarket was nearly deserted. A bored clerk stood at Register Two, and a pimply faced teen was replacing the baggies in produce. A couple of perplexed-looking men in sweats stood in front of the coffee display, and one elderly lady was picking each and every egg out of a carton, checking for cracks.

Annie grabbed a cart and made her way tentatively up and down the unfamiliar aisles. This store had not been here when she’d lived here, but it was the closest to the cottage. As a few more customers entered and the market grew more crowded, Annie felt the keen edge of panic. She had to get out of the place. She grabbed the last few items off the shelves, and it was only when she got to the checkout stand that she realized she’d selected the wrong brands of several things.

“Paper or plastic?”

She couldn’t think. Finally, she blurted, “Paper.”

By the time she paid and started for the car, her knees had turned to rubber. She had escaped. She imagined a comic-book bubble of dialogue floating above her head: “The invisible woman triumphs again!”

In the car, she turned on the radio and headed down the street toward the ocean and home. A radio evangelist’s voice filled the air. Annie twisted the dial again. This time it was gospel music. Granted, it was Sunday morning, but surely some station was playing pop or jazz. So intent was she on tuning the radio that she nearly rear-ended the last car in a long line of vehicles stopped at the Coast Highway light. Two highway patrol cars blocked the intersection. There must’ve been an accident. Traffic was being diverted. Northbound to the right onto a side street; southbound to the left. Annie inched along until she made it to the side street, which wound through a brand-new subdivision. Still fiddling with the tuner and paying scant attention to her whereabouts, she followed the line of detouring cars as it entered a more established neighborhood.

Maybe it wasn’t about the tuner at all. Maybe she’d been subconsciously trying to block out her surroundings. But when the line of vehicles—including her Honda—made the next turn, she saw the large hacienda-style house in the middle of the block—33 Kittiwake Road. With trembling hands she managed to pull over to the curb and open the car door before vomiting into the street, her vision blurred by tears.



HANDS FOLDED in her lap, Geneva sat quietly, waiting, worrying. She’d always tried to be a positive person. If only she could be positive about Annie and her future. Isolating herself here indefinitely was unhealthy. If Annie didn’t open up soon about what was worrying her, Geneva would have no choice but to force the conversation.

She remembered that morning after high school graduation when Annie had called her at the hotel in Bangkok and told her she had to get away. She’d begged her great-aunt to help her. When Geneva had pressed Annie for details, the girl had refused to say anything more. Yet there’d been no mistaking the panic in her voice. Reluctantly, Geneva had given Annie instructions, called her friend Nina and wired money to Bisbee.

From that time to this, despite Geneva’s frequent probing, Annie had never spoken about any of her friends, about her mother and George Palmer, her stepfather, or about why she had needed to flee Eden Bay. Geneva shuddered to think what hideousness lay beneath her niece’s refusal to talk.

She brooded, unaware of the passage of time. When the front door opened, she started. “I’m back,” Annie called.

After putting away the groceries, Annie came into the living room. Her pallor highlighted the faint freckles running across the bridge of her nose and under her reddened eyes. “I think I’ll lie down,” she said. “Something must’ve disagreed with me. I’m a bit queasy. Can I get you anything before I go?”

What Geneva said aloud was “No.” What she was thinking was Child, you can get me the truth.



ANNIE BURROWED into the folds of the downy comforter, overwhelmed by a storm of long-buried emotions. She had thought never to see 33 Kittiwake again, her happy home for six years. The summer before her seventh-grade year her mother had married George Palmer, president of the local bank. Before that, she and her mother had lived in a cramped bungalow near downtown where Liz Greer owned a gift shop. They had struggled on occasion, but even when times were good, her mother had never seemed satisfied. When she started dating George, all she could talk about was his country club membership, the fancy dining establishments where they ate and his elegant home in one of the best neighborhoods.

When George had proposed, Annie remembered feeling happy about having a new dad and the prospect of a beautiful room with a canopy bed, a horse of her own and all the clothes any girl could desire. Instinctively she had warmed to George’s smile, his fatherly hugs and the way he called her “sweetie.” On their wedding day, Annie stood proudly by her ecstatic mother. She had never seen Liz Greer so happy. Holding a bouquet redolent with the scent of lilies and listening to her mother promise to love, honor and obey, Annie finally believed in fairy-tale endings.

Whatever George wanted, her mother gladly supplied. Both Liz and George expected Annie to behave in a way that reflected favorably their standing in the community. However, no matter how hard she tried to live up to their expectations, there was always the lingering suspicion that she never quite satisfied them. Even so, she’d reveled in the affection George showered upon her.

Gradually, though, she began to see that her mother’s attention was almost totally fixed on George. He, on the other hand, doted on Annie and seemed more a parent than her own mother. Over time Annie began to question her mother’s love, and a hole opened in her heart, ever widening, until Pete came along.

She muffled her sob. It was too painful to remember him and his gentleness, his devotion. And to remember what she’d had to do to him. To herself.

Auntie G. had sent her Pete’s obituary. For two weeks she never left Nina’s house, paralyzed by grief and memory. Pete represented the only time in her life when she had known the meaning of love and the sacrifices it required. Auntie G. and Nina could talk all they wanted about “moving on,” but the truth was that when she abandoned Pete, she lost any chance of knowing enduring love.

Now Pete had been dead six years. Two years ago George had died of a heart attack. She had thought she’d escaped Eden Bay forever. Rolling over on her back, she stared at the ceiling, the water stain resembling a cracked heart.

Suddenly the room seemed suffocating. If she stayed here, images from the past would loom and her stomach might again revolt. Leaping up, she pulled on her old Nikes, grabbed a sweater and bolted down the stairs. Geneva assured her she would be fine if Annie left for a while.

She jogged down the drive toward the ocean. Breakers were rolling in, crashing against rocks, spilling on the sandy beach. The sun sparkled on the whitecaps, turning the foam to spun sugar. It was a beautiful day, she kept telling herself. She had to live in the moment. Anything else was too painful.

She stood for several minutes at the edge of the sea, letting its roar and rhythm soothe her. As she caught her breath and her heart rate slowed, she made up her mind. She was here. In Eden Bay. It was unreasonable to suppose she could hide indefinitely. She was an adult. It was time to begin acting like one.

Feeling better, she started off at a brisk walk, following the curve of the shore. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the figure walking toward her, until the person said, in a shocked tone, “Annie? Annie Greer?”

The woman’s face was obscured by a broad-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses. But Annie knew the voice, and her heart plummeted. “Margaret?”

Slowly Pete’s older sister removed her sunglasses and then stood blocking Annie’s way. “My father told me you were back in town. I’m sorry about your aunt, but I hope to God you’re not staying long. You are not welcome in Eden Bay, not now, not ever.” She stepped around Annie, put on her sunglasses and strode off down the beach.

Annie remained glued to the spot, the words “not now, not ever” echoing above the thundering surf.




CHAPTER FOUR


MARGARET’S WORDS didn’t surprise Annie, but that didn’t make them any less hurtful. Walking back to the cottage, she reminded herself of her resolution. She wasn’t about to let the disapproval of other people interfere with her reason for being in Eden Bay. She was here to care for Geneva, and that was exactly what she was going to do.

Not that she could blame Margaret. Annie had never wanted to hurt Pete. But on that long-ago night and in the painful morning hours that followed, she’d had no choice. Giving up the dreams she and Pete had shared had taken every ounce of her strength and had left her hollow.

Auntie G. was right. She needed to face her demons. Yet the immediacy of her revulsion when she’d seen the Kittiwake house had scared her. She didn’t want to revisit the past, even as a means of healing. In Bisbee she had avoided the issue; here, it confronted her everywhere.

When she reached the cottage, Geneva was dozing in her chair, her veined hands resting on a stack of photographs in her lap. In repose, the crepelike skin on her face sagged and she looked every one of her eighty years. Her chest worked to pull in air, and with each exhalation, a ragged sigh escaped her lips. Annie smoothed back the wisps of hair on her forehead, and then went into the kitchen to make a fruit salad and warm some soup for supper.

“Annie?”

“I’m in the kitchen.” She lowered the heat on the stove and went into the living room.

“I must’ve dropped off. Did you have a nice walk?”

Erasing the image of Margaret’s stony face, Annie nodded.

“Could we eat in here on trays?”

“No problem.”

“After supper I want to give you more of the family history and it’s just easier to stay here to eat.”

The truth, but not the whole truth, Annie suspected. Each day, in increasingly obvious ways, her great-aunt was failing.

Famished from skipping lunch and walking on the beach, Annie wolfed down her supper. Geneva, on the other hand, moved fruit around on her plate before finally spearing a chunk of pineapple and eating it. She did better with the soup, but still left half a bowl untouched. “I’m finished,” she said, dabbing her lips with her napkin.

“Auntie G., you need to keep your strength up.”

“I’m trying. But who are we fooling? I’m not going to live forever.”

Annie seized the opening. “What have your doctors said?”

Geneva gazed directly into Annie’s eyes. “That I’m terminal. Complications from my weak lungs and congestive heart failure will ultimately make breathing nearly impossible and affect other systems.” She handed her tray to Annie. “That’s why we have to make the most of the time I have. Starting with tonight.”

In the kitchen, blinking back tears, Annie rinsed the dishes and quickly loaded them in the dishwasher. Nina had tried to warn her and she’d understood the seriousness of Geneva’s situation, but hearing the word terminal from her great-aunt made the prospect unavoidably real.

“Do you remember your grandfather at all?” Geneva asked when they were settled in the living room.

“I saw him only a few times. When Daddy died, he came to the funeral. He brought me a doll. But I never played with it. It reminded me too much of the day of the funeral and the way the house smelled sickeningly of flowers and macaroni and cheese.” Annie recalled looking up at her tall, slender grandfather with his gray hair and sad blue eyes. The man who had come not just to comfort her with a doll, but to bury his son.

Geneva stared into space before continuing. “When Caleb was born, I thought he’d been created solely for my entertainment. I was four and, from the beginning, mothered him. Summers here at the ocean were magical. I loved holding his little hand and leading him down to the beach for family picnics. As he grew older, he was a natural athlete who shared my zest for adventure. One day just before World War II we hiked so far down the beach we didn’t get home until nearly dark. Our mother was frantic.” She smiled at the memory, then was quiet for a moment, the hiss of the oxygen a reminder of how far removed she was from that time when she and her brother had romped at the shore.

She shuffled through the photographs, handing Annie one of a skinny young man in a swimsuit balancing on a rock, waves crashing around him, a delighted grin on his face. “He was such fun. He had a talent for friendships and a wicked sense of humor.”

“What about my grandmother?”

“Jody? Like Caleb, she thrived on seeing new places, trying new things. They were married in 1951 just after they graduated from college.” She sorted through the pictures until she found one of her brother in a white dinner jacket gazing adoringly at a dark-haired young woman with short, curly hair and a pixie-like grin. “Here they are. During the Korean War, Caleb joined the Marines. While he was overseas, Jody lived here in the cottage.”

“I never knew that.” Annie tried to picture the young woman living here alone, isolated, worrying about her husband.

“Practically the minute Caleb returned home, Jody got pregnant and nine months later, along came your father. Shortly after John’s birth, Caleb was hired by a New York City bank and they moved.”

“That explains why they didn’t often get to Oregon.”

“One reason.”

Something in Auntie G.’s tone grabbed Annie’s attention. “Another reason?”

“You may as well know. Caleb and Jody didn’t care much for your mother. They found her attractive enough, but, well, somewhat superficial. Not well suited to John.”

Annie wished she could defend her mother, instead of acknowledging the fairness of the judgment. “What about Daddy? Did he love her?”

“Yes, I think so. He did everything he could to please Liz.”

Annie knew the outcome before she voiced it. “But it was never enough for her, right?”

“Oh, child, what are we doing probing into the long-ago relationships of other people? Marriages are what they are.” She paused, then sighed. “I’m so tired. Please help me to bed.”

Annie assisted her great-aunt to her feet and followed close behind with the oxygen tank as Geneva slowly made her way to the downstairs bedroom.

Once she had helped her into bed, Annie sat for a long time in the silence of the living room, poring over the photographs of her family—the family that now consisted only of her beloved Auntie G. and herself. She knew it was a matter of a few short weeks until that family would be reduced to one. Loneliness—so acute it was physically painful—washed over her.



KYLE FINALLY GAVE UP trying to sleep. He’d been tossing and turning since four in the morning, the sheets a tangle around his legs, his pillow lumpy and warm. Bubba’s snores added to his insomnia. He’d had the nightmare again. The one about Pete. Damn Annie, anyway. Seeing her had been like picking at a scab and reopening a wound.

He sat on the edge of the bed holding his head in his hands, once again picturing Pete pausing that fatal few seconds to look at Annie’s photo. Why couldn’t Pete have moved on? Forgotten the high school sweetheart who’d punted him without an explanation? But no. Pete had carried the torch up to the instant he was killed. Oh, sure, after they’d finished Guard training, Pete had tried to find Annie. He’d talked to everyone who’d ever known her, interviewed the bus station agent and pored over cab company records. But he’d gotten nowhere. Her stepfather, George Palmer, was as clueless as Pete. And since Geneva Greer had not been living in Eden Bay at that time, Pete had no idea how to contact her. It was as if Annie had dropped off the face of the earth. But Pete never gave up. He lived as if he expected Annie to turn up on his doorstep any day. And the hell of it was, Pete would have welcomed her, no questions asked.

Kyle lurched to his feet. What in blue blazes was the matter with the woman? Seeing her here in Eden Bay infuriated him. Why had she waited so long to return? Crap, now he had to consider what to do about the damned letter.

Stumbling into the kitchen, he made coffee and turned to see Bubba standing in the bedroom doorway yawning. “Yeah, I know. Too early. Sorry, buddy.” When he went outside to retrieve the morning paper, clouds scudded across the sky and a cool breeze ruffled the scraggly bushes in front of the mobile home. Kyle drew a deep breath before going back in. Bubba lay on the floor eyeing him curiously. Kyle shrugged. “Hell if I know why I can’t sleep, fella.”

When the coffee was done, he poured a cup and settled on the sofa to read the Sunday ball scores. But he couldn’t concentrate.

He kept replaying Margaret’s voice on the phone last night: “Kyle, what are you thinking working for the Greers? How dare Annie Greer show her face in this town! It would’ve been bad enough while Pete was alive, but now…? So help me God, I’ll never know why my brother couldn’t get over her.”

And he kept seeing Annie’s face, her tortured hazel eyes dominating her pale, freckled skin, her auburn hair blowing in the wind. There was something hauntingly lovely about her.

“Damn!” He threw down the paper and raked both hands through his hair. “We’re going for a run, Bubba.”

It was still dark when the two started down the road for the beach. Kyle pumped his arms rhythmically, punching the air in front of him. He picked up the pace, his breath coming in tortured gasps. And all the while, with the regularity of his heartbeat, came one word over and over. Annie, Annie.

What in the name of everlovin’ God was that about? He didn’t need a replay of high school angst.



LATER THAT MORNING, Kyle picked up the clipboard in his office and scanned the jobs in progress. He needed to check on the Swenson deck remodel and be at the Whites’ when the crew knocked out the kitchen wall. “Rita, I’ll be making the rounds today. You can catch me on my cell.”

“Not going to the Greer cottage?” Her voice was studiously neutral, but the cocked eyebrow gave her away.

“I’m sending Vince. Weather forecast looks good. He can repaint the front porch.” Geneva Greer surely wouldn’t expect him to handle that part of the job.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/laura-abbot/a-letter-for-annie/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.