by Edie Claire
And certain public ordinances.
“Does that answer your question?” Laney asked breathlessly.
“It does,” Jason whispered, his voice rough. “Now let’s go.”
She grinned. “Back to the condo?”
“Not yet,” he said cryptically, releasing her to pick up his board again. He took her hand in his and began leading her back towards the car. “First, we’re going shopping.”
Laney stopped walking. “Shopping? Are you kidding?”
He raised an eyebrow.
Laney looked down at her outfit. The Hawaiian dress was in the wash; all she’d had to put on this morning was more from the lost and found bin. Some saggy, ill-fitting Bermuda shorts and a misshapen tank advertising a pizza shop in Vancouver. She sighed. As much time as she spent admiring his appearance, she really should step up her own a bit. “I suppose I could afford a few decent things,” she conceded, walking again.
“I couldn’t care less about decent,” Jason replied. “I’m buying you a bikini.”
She stopped again. “A bikini?” she protested. “I’ve never worn a bikini in my life! And anyway, you can’t—”
“Sure I can,” Jason interrupted with a grin. “A man’s entitled to buy nice things for his girlfriend, isn’t he?”
Laney closed her mouth. After a long, rather pleasurable moment of reflection, she reached a hand up to his face. She traced a finger along his perfect jawbone, then down his neck and across one muscular shoulder. She’d been wanting to do that for a while now. She’d been wanting to do a lot of things.
“Yes,” she agreed, grinning back. “Yes, he can.”
Epilogue
Four Months Later, Tofino, British Columbia
Laney laughed out loud as the tallest surfer on the lineup made a lame attempt at an alley-oop, separated from his board completely, then fell back into the ocean with an entirely unnecessary show of flailing and splashing.
“That’s very good, dear!” the woman sitting on the log next to Laney called out to her husband sarcastically, favoring him with a grin and a thumbs up as soon as he resurfaced. “He’s such a ham,” she said to Laney as an aside, her eyes full of affection. “I don’t know why he enjoys surfing so much when he’s obviously so bad at it. Still, I have to say, he’s gotten a lot better lately. Jason is a very good teacher.”
“Yes he is, isn’t he?” Laney’s face glowed with pride as she smiled back at her friend. Ben and Haley had been spending a lot of weekends in Tofino over the spring, which was only fair, since Laney and Jason had spent at least as much time at their condo on Maui. This weekend was a parting celebration, of sorts, since the lawyer and her husband would be spending their summer on the move. Ben’s research required the collection of ocean samples from all over the world, which should make for an exciting few months for them.
Laney was envious of the opportunity, but only a little. Though she fully intended to travel the world someday, for now she was content with her lot. The Tremblays’ guest house in Ucluelet was sufficiently private, yet allowed for plenty of family time, which she was enjoying every bit as much as her grandparents were. Gordon and Joan had been true to their word, not forcing her to assume Jessica Macdonald’s identity, but supporting whatever identity she chose to forge for herself. She was a Canadian citizen now, legally known as Laney Jessica Miller, which everyone involved seemed to think a fair compromise. US citizenship would take much longer to establish, if she was successful at all, but as time went on she found it mattered less.
Gordon and Joan were indeed good people, and she had quickly learned to love them, much as — she knew with certainty — her toddler self had done before. She was equally certain she had always loved her Uncle Richard, who despite his dour-looking picture in the art magazine was both kind and hysterically funny. Laney adored every member of her new family, even as she stayed close to her existing one.
No one on either side contested the facts. The DNA test had proved that she was not Christi Miller’s child, and no further testing seemed necessary. When June and Amy had been told the story, they’d been frankly horrified, dispelling any doubts Laney might have had about her aunt’s complicity in the fraud. Instead, June had confirmed that she had not seen Christi and Jimbo’s child for nearly a year at the time of the tornado, that all she’d ever heard about the Macdonalds’ child was that it was a baby, and that no hint of suspicion had ever crossed her mind. Perhaps if the couple who’d found Laney had turned her over to the police first, or if the missing child’s remains had ever been found, the whole scenario might have played out differently. But Laney had no desire to look back anymore. And neither, thankfully, did anyone else.
The Tremblays’ attorneys had handled the whole affair with both brilliance and discretion, and although it was too much to hope that no one in Peck would ever find out what Christi had done, they appeared none the wiser yet. Perhaps, Laney reasoned, the passing of time would render the revelation less sensational anyway. In any event, the big brick house had been sold to a nonprofit for use as a group home, and Laney felt little need to return to the town, except for an occasional, brief trip to check in with old neighbors and visit the cemetery. From now on, though, any such trips would be made in conjunction with a visit to Jimbo Miller’s family plot in Dade County, where she had made a tribute of her own. The Ontario tombstone bearing Jessica Macdonald’s name had been removed, but Laney couldn’t bear for the daughter of Christi and Jimbo to be forgotten. Though the lost child’s existence couldn’t be trumpeted in Peck, Laney Carole Miller did at last have a pink granite memorial of her own — right next to her biological father and grandmother.
Laney still worried about her Gran. On her first visit after returning from Maui, she had made a point of reassuring May that the truth was out now, that Jessica’s family had been notified, and that everything was okay. Sometimes May seemed to understand this, and sometimes she didn’t, but Laney chose to believe the knowledge helped her. Whenever May began fretting over hell and damnation, the staff were instructed to repeat that mantra, and it did seem to calm her down. Gran hadn’t mentioned the issue in a couple months now, even when Laney was present. And while Gran didn’t always recognize Laney by sight or voice, when reminded who was visiting her, May smiled and spoke to her great-granddaughter in the same loving way she always had.
“You know,” Haley said confidentially, jolting Laney from her thoughts. “Ben takes personal credit for you and Jason getting together. He says he could see the sparks between you from a mile away, even though you both worked so hard to fight it. He was sure Jason would cave eventually, if the two of you could just spend enough time together.”
Laney chuckled as she watched the two men riding a wave together toward the shore. “Well, he was right, wasn’t he? He can take all the credit he wants.” She let her eyes linger on the pleasing lines of Jason’s wetsuit. He was all hers now, and she fully intended to keep him. Looking back on the first few days of their acquaintance, all their confusion and deliberation seemed ridiculous. How could they have seemed so different, when they were really so much alike? Adrenaline-junkies, both of them. Lovers of life. Adventurers. She hadn’t recognized those qualities in herself until she met him. And he hadn’t known what love was. Not till it smacked him upside the head.
Now it all seemed crystal clear, even the niggling discontent she’d felt while living in Missouri and Oklahoma. The whole time she’d been pining for the ocean, unwittingly and involuntarily, because it was a part of her. Maybe in a past life she’d been a fisherman or a sea captain or a narwhal… she didn’t really know how it was possible. But the sea flowed through her veins now, and she knew she could never bear to be parted from it again. When she picked up her graduate studies, it would be at the University of Victoria. She was still determined to apply her passion for the weather toward more accurate computer storm modelling. She could hardly help it if her thesis turned out to be applicable to surf forecasting as well.
�
�Yo!” Jason called out as the men trudged up the beach in their surf boots. “It’s your turn, Laney.” He closed the distance between them and grinned at her. “No more lounging around.”
Ben made a show of collapsing next to Haley, spattering sand all over her. “I’m exhausted,” he complained. “It’s tough to be great. But yes, go on, Laney. You can have all the master’s attention now. Who knows? A few more lessons, and you may be almost as good as me.”
Everyone laughed. They all knew that Laney’s skills had surpassed Ben’s ages ago. Jason insisted she was a natural, and Laney didn’t argue. Surfing was the single most fun activity she’d ever experienced.
Jason held out his hand, and Laney, clad in a wetsuit nearly identical to his own, took it. As they touched, his eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Correction: Surfing was the second most fun.
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed Tofino Storm! If this is the first book you’ve read in the Pacific Horizons series, please check out Alaskan Dawn to see where it all begins. If you’d like to read the rest of the series at an affordable price (including a special bonus scene for Alaskan Dawn), please check out Edie Claire Collections on my website. To be notified when new books are released, just sign up for my New Book Alert. For audiobook lovers, several of the Pacific Horizons books (as well as my other romances!) are also available from Audible with a host of award-winning narrators.
To sample one of my other works of romantic women’s fiction, skip ahead for an excerpt from the award-winning Meant to Be, one of my Fated Loves collection. Each of the stand-alone novels in this collection tells the story of a woman facing a harrowing life journey that is in turns heart-pounding, heartrending, and heartwarming. In Fated Loves, as in all my books, readers can be assured of a happy ending as well as an occasional touch of humor!
To find out more about my other romantic series, as well as the USA-Today bestselling Leigh Koslow mysteries, please visit www.edieclaire.com. I always enjoy hearing from readers via email, so if you’re so inclined, please drop me a note at [email protected]. Thanks so much for reading!
Books and Plays by Edie Claire
www.edieclaire.com
ROMANTIC FICTION
Fated Loves Collection
Long Time Coming
Meant To Be
Borrowed Time
Pacific Horizons Series
Alaskan Dawn
Leaving Lana'i
Maui Winds
Glacier Blooming
Tofino Storm
Hawaiian Shadows Series
Wraith
Empath
Lokahi
The Warning
WOMEN’S FICTION
The Mud Sisters
LEIGH KOSLOW MYSTERIES
Never Buried
Never Sorry
Never Preach Past Noon
Never Kissed Goodnight
Never Tease a Siamese
Never Con a Corgi
Never Haunt a Historian
Never Thwart a Thespian
Never Steal a Cockatiel
Never Mess with Mistletoe
Never Murder a Birder
Never Nag Your Neighbor
HUMOR
Corporately Blonde (originally entitled: Work, Blondes. Work!)
COMEDIC STAGE PLAYS
Scary Drama I
See You in Bells
Excerpt from Meant to Be
Copyright © 2004 by Edie Claire
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
When the call came, I had been thirty years old for all of one day. Yet the lemon cake I had baked was already down to crumbs and a smudge of frosting on the plate. The bottle of champagne that I had fully intended to sip slowly stood empty on my counter, surrounded by the tattered bits of cork I had chipped out of it with a screwdriver. My head ached, and my mind was murky. I was unaccustomed to alcohol in general, cheap champagne in particular. All I knew was that last night, I had felt the need to celebrate.
It had been a long time since I had celebrated much of anything.
The beeping of the phone reverberated painfully through my skull, displacing, albeit temporarily, the relentless ringing of my own words in my ears—resolutions made in the midst of my revelry; resolutions I was, even in the excruciating light of morning, determined to keep.
If it was Todd again, I wasn’t going to talk to him. He could beg and he could plead, but I would not let him get to me. I would simply hang up—and if that was rude, so be it. The man was not a part of my life anymore. Period.
I picked up the phone.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said politely. She identified herself as an administrator at a hospital I’d never heard of. “Is this Ms. O’Rourke? Meara O’Rourke?”
I confirmed that it was.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she continued, “but we have your mother here as a trauma patient. She was in a car accident several days ago, and has only now been able to give us enough information to contact you.”
I lifted the receiver away from my ear and stared at it with bleary eyes, as if doing so would somehow result in the woman’s words making sense. The effort failed.
“I’m afraid there must be some mistake,” I answered, returning the phone to my head and rubbing the opposite, throbbing temple. “My mother passed away over a month ago.”
My voice was steady as I said the words, and I was proud of that. My mother’s death had not been a surprise; it had come at the end of a protracted illness, as had my father’s, five years before. In both instances I had functioned as the primary caregiver, the emotional rock. But the reality of my mother’s death had hit me far harder than anticipated. I had been an only child; now I was alone. There was no extended family to lean on, no one with whom to share my grief. Only Todd.
What a joke that had turned out to be.
There was a long pause on the line before the woman spoke again. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Ms. O’Rourke. Ms. Sheila Black is a patient here, and she has identified you as her daughter and next of kin. A Mr. Mitchell Black, her husband, was killed in the same accident. We spoke with his family when Ms. Black was admitted, but apparently the couple had only been married a short while. His children were not able to provide any information about her, or we would have contacted you sooner.”
The throbbing ceased—replaced with a gnawing coldness in the pit of my stomach.
Sheila. Could it be?
My mind began to replay the image of an afternoon six years before, an afternoon I had resolved to forget.
I had taken only two steps inside the coffee shop before catching sight of the woman I was there to meet. I had known her at once; even a child could see the resemblance. Though her auburn hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, the wavy tendrils that escaped around her face betrayed the same, unruly tresses I was obliged to battle. Her eyes were just as brown, her cheekbones high, her lips full. Her face was only slightly rounder than my own, her nose a tad more prominent. Physically, she appeared fit and around forty, yet something about her countenance implied a greater age. Or perhaps, experience beyond her years.
When her gaze caught mine, her eyes widened. Her wrist faltered, and a liberal dollop of coffee splashed onto the red and white checked tablecloth below.
So, I had thought with a smile. My clumsiness must be inherited.
Meara? The woman had asked hopefully, attempting to mop up the coffee with a tiny square of napkin.
Yes, that’s me, I had responded, my heart pounding against my breastbone. And you must be Sheila.
The voice on the other end of the phone now grew concerned. “Ms. O’Rourke? Are you all right? I’m sorry about the confusion, but we do need to straighten this out. Do you know this woman? Sheila Black?”
My response caught in my throat. Did I know her? No, I did not. I had met her only once. A cup and a half of coffee for me; three for her, plus the spilled one. Two Danishes, neither finish
ed. We had both been far too nervous to eat.
I’m so very glad you could meet me here, she had said, studying my face as if trying to memorize it. I had found myself doing the same. I’m sure you must have a lot of questions, she had continued, fidgeting with her cutlery.
Questions? Of course I had questions. My parents had been two of the most loving people on earth, but because they had had a tendency to panic whenever the subject of my adoption was raised, I had learned at an early age to consider the topic taboo. Only after I had finished school and was living on my own did I even contemplate searching for the woman who had given birth to me. Once I made the decision to sign on to a registry, however, I had received a call within days. Yes, the intermediary had explained, my biological mother was also registered. And she wanted to meet me.
I trained my mind back on the present. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. Then I winced. Ceasing to apologize for anything and everything had been Resolution #2—broken already. “What I mean to say,” I corrected, “is that I may know of the woman you’re referring to. Was her maiden name Johnson?”
Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. “The only other name I have is Tressler. Are you saying that you are not this woman’s daughter, then? Perhaps we misunderstood. She is having some difficulty speaking.”
I let out a breath, and my lungs shuddered. “No,” I answered. “You probably heard her right. My birth mother’s name is Sheila, that much I know.” Tears of frustration welled up behind my eyes. I had worked hard to close this particular door, and I didn’t want anyone muscling it open again. Particularly Sheila herself.
“I’m sor—” This time I caught myself. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t make the connection at first because I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. And the truth is, I’m not sure I wish to see or hear from her now.”
