A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  ALSO BY JULIANNE MACLEAN

  CONTEMPORARY WOMEN’S FICTION

  The Color of Heaven Series

  The Color of Heaven

  The Color of Destiny

  The Color of Hope

  The Color of a Dream

  The Color of a Memory

  The Color of Love

  The Color of the Season

  The Color of Joy

  The Color of Time

  The Color of Forever

  The Color of a Promise

  The Color of a Christmas Miracle

  The Color of a Silver Lining

  CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE

  Promise You’ll Stay

  HISTORICAL ROMANCE SERIES

  The American Heiress Series

  To Marry the Duke

  An Affair Most Wicked

  My Own Private Hero

  Love According to Lily

  Portrait of a Lover

  Surrender to a Scoundrel

  The Pembroke Palace Series

  In My Wildest Fantasies

  The Mistress Diaries

  When a Stranger Loves Me

  Married by Midnight

  A Kiss Before the Wedding: A Pembroke Palace Short Story

  Seduced at Sunset

  The Highlander Series

  Captured by the Highlander

  Claimed by the Highlander

  Seduced by the Highlander

  Return of the Highlander

  Taken by the Highlander

  The Rebel: A Highland Short Story

  The Royal Trilogy

  Be My Prince

  Princess in Love

  The Prince’s Bride

  Dodge City Brides Trilogy

  Mail Order Prairie Bride

  Tempting the Marshal

  Taken by the Cowboy

  STAND-ALONE HISTORICAL ROMANCE

  Adam’s Promise

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Julianne MacLean Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503904453

  ISBN-10: 1503904458

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson Design

  For Stephen and Laura

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  Intuition is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s a gut feeling, and you look around and just know something bad is about to happen. Other times, it’s elusive, and later you find yourself looking back on certain events and wondering how in the world you missed all the signals.

  Tonight, I’m on my way home after Sunday dinner with my mother. It’s a one-hour drive on a dark two-lane highway.

  As I turn the key in the ignition and shift into reverse, my mother comes running out her front door, waving her hands. “Wait! Abbie! Wait!”

  I see a look of panic in her eyes and wish she wouldn’t rush down the concrete steps as if the house were up in flames behind her.

  Careful, Mom . . .

  I shift into park and lower the car window.

  My golden retriever, Winston, rises in the back seat and wags his tail. Mom reaches toward us and passes an enormous Tupperware container through the open window. It’s full of chicken leftovers from the dinner she just cooked for me.

  “You forgot this,” she says, out of breath.

  I take it from her and set it on the passenger seat beside me. Winston sniffs and paws at my shoulder, wanting to know what’s under the blue plastic lid. I give him a pat on his big, silky head.

  “Settle down, mister. This isn’t for you.” Then I turn to smile at my mom, who is shivering in the late-November chill.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say. “The guys would never forgive me if I came back empty-handed.”

  By guys, I am referring to my husband, Alan, a cardiologist I’ve been married to for twenty years, and my seventeen-year-old son, Zack, who didn’t come with me today because he had a hockey game this evening.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take some of that pie with you?” Mom asks, speaking to me through the open window as she wraps her sweater around herself to keep warm.

  I know it’s not a conscious thing, but it’s obvious that she wants me to stay a little longer. She’s never enjoyed being home alone in that big, empty house—especially on cold, dark nights like this. You would think that after more than twenty years of widowhood, she’d be ready to downsize, but I can’t fault her for anything. I love her too much. It’s why I drive over an hour from the city every Sunday afternoon to spend time with her in the house I grew up in.

  “No, thanks,” I reply. “Alan’s trying to cut calories again.”

  Truthfully, he isn’t, but I don’t have time to wait because I’m hoping to make it back to the city in time for Zack’s game. Then I have an early-morning case in the OR—a gallbladder surgery scheduled for seven o’clock.

  Mom gives my hand a squeeze. “Okay, dear. Wish our boy luck on the ice tonight, and say hi to Alan for me. Tell them I missed them today. And please drive safely.”

  “I will. Now get back inside, Mom. It’s freezing out here.”

  She nods and hurries back up the stairs, while I feel a familiar twinge of guilt over leaving her alone. I can’t help it. I always feel like I should do more for her or call her more often than I do. But I tell myself not to worry. She’s independent, and I know she’ll be fine as soon as she turns on the TV.

  Winston turns in circles on the back seat, then finally settles down to sleep for the next hour. I shift into reverse and back out of the driveway.

  Despite the heavy fog, the roads are dry as I make my way out of my beloved hometown. Lunenburg is a picturesque fishing and shipbuilding community and a burgeoning center for the arts, and the Old Town area is designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site to preserve its historic architecture. As might be expected, it has a robust tourism trade in the summer.

  As I pass by the b
rightly lit restaurants along the waterfront, I can’t help but glance wistfully at the sparkling reflection of the moon on the harbor and the undulating shadows cast from a tall ship’s masts over the dockyard. The image is beautiful and serene, yet I feel a pang of sadness, and I’m not sure why. Something just feels off today. Maybe it’s because Mom has seemed so much older these past few months. She never used to refer to herself as a senior citizen, not even when she turned sixty-five, but lately she’s been making jokes about it, saying things like “Old age ain’t for sissies!” and “If only I could remember what it is I’m forgetting to remember!”

  Today, when she couldn’t figure out how to get the messages off her phone, she said, “Look out, nursing home. Here I come.”

  While I love that she has a sense of humor about growing old, it reminds me that she won’t be around forever and eventually our Sunday dinners will be a thing of the past.

  I find it rather unsettling how time has been flying by so quickly lately. What is it about growing older that makes the clock hands start to spin like a whirligig? I suppose it doesn’t matter, as long as I’m happy with my life.

  Am I happy?

  Surprisingly, I have to think about that for a few seconds.

  Then I wonder . . . am I nuts? Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be? My life is perfect. I have a job that I love, a beautiful home, a brilliant husband, and a son I’m incredibly proud of. In his final year of high school, Zack is captain of the hockey team and president of the student council, and his grades are top-notch. Most importantly, he’s a decent human being—sensible and kindhearted.

  But Zack will head off to university next year, and then it will just be Alan and me. I can’t imagine what our lives will be like without Zack living at home. There are always activities to work into our busy schedules. There’s noise, music, and laughter when Zack’s friends come over. The house is going to be shockingly quiet.

  Boy, oh boy. These solitary drives home from Lunenburg make me think too much. I remind myself that college is a whole year away.

  Winston’s heavy sigh in the back seat pulls me out of my reverie. I glance over my shoulder to see him curled up on his woolly blanket with his eyes closed, which makes me feel sleepy because I worked late in the OR again last night.

  I turn on the radio to help me stay awake, crack a window to let in the chilly air, and shake my head as if to clear it. I check the dashboard clock. It’s only seven, so I have just enough time to make it home, drop Winston off, and reach the hockey rink before the game starts at eight fifteen.

  I flick my blinker on and merge onto the main highway, switching to cruise control and tuning in to a classic rock station.

  It all happens in an instant, so fast I don’t have time to think.

  An oncoming vehicle crosses the center line, and I’m blinded by headlights. Adrenaline sizzles through my veins. Instinctively, I wrench the steering wheel to the right to swerve around the oncoming car, but it’s too late. It clips my back end with a thunderous crash of steel against steel and sends my SUV spinning like a top, as if I’m on a sheet of ice.

  My head snaps to the left. I shut my eyes and hang on for dear life as my car whirls around in dizzying circles. Winston yelps as he’s tossed about in the back seat. Suddenly, we catapult into the air. The vehicle flips over the edge of the highway, and then we bounce like a ball—crashing and smashing—as we tumble down the embankment.

  Something strikes me in the side of the head, and I feel multiple slashes cutting the flesh on my cheeks. I realize it’s Winston, who yelps as he’s thrown back toward the rear.

  I want to hold on to him, to keep him safe in my arms, but there’s nothing I can do. It’s all happening so fast. All I can do is grip the steering wheel with both hands while the world spins in circles in front of my eyes and glass shatters all around me.

  We crash hard against something—the bottom of a ravine?—and then everything goes quiet, except for the pounding of my heart as it hammers against my rib cage.

  Panic overtakes me. My eyes fly open. It’s pitch-dark outside, but my headlights are shining two steady beams into the shifting mist, and the dashboard is brightly lit. I blink repeatedly and realize blood has pooled on my eyelashes. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

  Think, Abbie. What do you need to do?

  An alarm has been beeping since we came to a halt, as if it’s confused and wants me to fasten my seat belt. Or is there some other urgent problem? Is the engine about to explode? I quickly shut off the ignition. I am enveloped by darkness.

  With another rush of anxiety, I fumble for the red button on my seat belt, desperate to escape, but my hands are shaking so violently I can’t release it. I shut my eyes and pause, take a few deep breaths, then try a second time.

  Click.

  The seat belt comes loose, and I think—for one precious second—that I am free to move, but I’m not. My legs are stuck. I’m trapped.

  I fight to break loose, but I’m pinned under the dash. The roof is pressing painfully on the top of my head, and I can’t free myself. I try to open the door, but it’s dented and won’t budge.

  My heart pounds faster. I feel light-headed, and I’m certain I’m about to pass out from shock and fear.

  I shut my eyes again and fight to remain calm. Breathe. One thousand one, one thousand two . . .

  “Help . . . ,” I whisper in a trembling voice.

  I realize I don’t hear Winston and turn my head to the side. “Winston? Are you okay?”

  No response. I twist uncomfortably, struggling to see into the back seat. There’s no sign of my dog anywhere, and the rear window is completely blown out.

  “Winston!” I shout. “Winston!”

  I can’t make out anything in the darkness, and I worry that he’s injured or dead, lying somewhere outside the vehicle. I fight wildly to free myself, but it’s hopeless.

  I reach frantically to find my purse on the seat beside me to locate my cell phone and call for help, but the seat is empty. Everything’s flown out the windows.

  Then I hear sirens in the distance, and I exhale sharply with relief. Thank heavens. Help is on the way.

  I let my head fall back on the headrest and try to calm my racing heart.

  If only I had my phone to call Alan. It’s all I can think about as I wipe blood from my forehead. Alan, I just want to hear your voice . . . to hear you tell me that everything’s going to be okay . . .

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Try and stay calm,” a young firefighter says as he removes a glove and takes hold of my hand through the driver’s-side window. It has no glass left in it. “We’re gonna get you out of here. What’s your name?”

  “Abbie. Abbie MacIntyre.”

  “Hi, Abbie,” he says. “I’m Troy. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

  “Have you seen my dog?” I ask. “He was with me in the car, but he must have been thrown out the back window.”

  “What kind of dog is he?”

  “A golden retriever. His name is Winston.”

  “As in Churchill?”

  “Yes.”

  Troy directs one of the other first responders to use his walkie-talkie to report my missing dog and search the area.

  I hear the wail of more sirens and vehicles arriving—fire trucks and cop cars and ambulances. Colored lights flash up on the highway, but they’re swallowed by the fog.

  I shake my head, fearing I might be sick. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “No wonder. You just took a nasty tumble, but don’t worry. You have a whole team coming to help you.”

  Two other firefighters do a 360 around the vehicle, shining flashlights everywhere. I watch the beams sweep across the dark ravine. One of them speaks on a walkie-talkie to someone above us. I can make out his words that the patient appears to be stable.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize that he’s talking about me. I’m the patient.

  “If I could just get my legs free,” I say wi
th a grunt, fighting to move them, but it’s hopeless, and any movement makes my head hurt.

  Troy pats my forearm. “Don’t strain yourself. Just relax, and leave it to us to get you out. We have all the right tools. It’ll just take a few minutes to get the equipment down here.”

  I nod my head. “Can someone please call my husband? I don’t know where my phone is.”

  “Sure thing. What’s his name?”

  “Alan.”

  Troy whistles and waves to the police officer who is skidding down the steep embankment. “Can you call Abbie’s husband?”

  The cop arrives and peers in at me. “How are you doing in there, ma’am?”

  “I’m okay. Just pretty shaken up, and I can’t move my legs.” I don’t know why I’m telling him I’m okay when I’m nothing of the sort. “Can you please call my husband?”

  “Absolutely.” He pulls out a cell phone and dials the number as I recite it. I watch as he waits for a reply, then shakes his head. “There’s no answer. Should I leave a message?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation, frustrated that Alan isn’t answering his phone when I need him most.

  The officer reports that I’ve been in an accident and will be taken to the Fishermen’s Memorial Hospital in Lunenburg, only five minutes away.

  “I’ll try again in a few minutes,” the cop reassures me.

  I thank him, then realize I’m shivering uncontrollably. I focus hard and try to relax my body, but not even my most determined force of will can stop the shaking.

  “Just try and stay calm,” Troy says. “You’re in good hands, and we’ll have you out of there before you know it. Here come the firefighters now.”

  I nod and try to be patient, wishing this nightmare would hurry up and end.

  A team of five firefighters arrives with heavy equipment, which they set down around my SUV. This includes a noisy generator, a giant steel cutter, and a powerful spreader.

  I turn to Troy, who is still at my side. He looks so young—not much older than my son.

  “Any sign of my dog yet?” I ask.

  Troy turns toward the cluster of flashing lights and emergency vehicles on the road above. “I don’t think so.”

  “Can you please find out?” One of the other firefighters is letting the air out of my tires and placing blocks under the wheels to stabilize the car. “I’m worried about him, and I don’t want to leave him behind.”