by Karen White
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KAREN WHITE
“A book you could get lost in.”
—Delta Magazine
“Gothic gold.”
—The Atlantan
“White’s dizzying carousel of a plot keeps those pages turning, so much so that the book can—and should—be finished in one afternoon, interrupted only by a glass of sweet iced tea.”
—Oprah.com
“Readers will find White’s prose an uplifting experience, as she is a truly gifted storyteller.”
—Las Vegas Review-Journal
“This is storytelling of the highest order: the kind of book that leaves you both deeply satisfied and aching for more.”
—Beatriz Williams, New York Times bestselling author of Tiny Little Thing
“An intriguing and romantic family drama.”
—Booklist
“A story as intricate and sturdy as a sweetgrass basket, with the fresh, magnetic voices of its headstrong characters.”
—ArtsATL
“White entwines historical fact and research seamlessly through the lives of these strong and intriguing women.”
—Library Journal
“White’s ability to showcase her characters’ flaws and strengths is one of the best in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A perfect read for the summer.”
—The Florida Times-Union
“Brilliant and engrossing . . . a rare gem . . . exquisitely told.”
—The Book Connection
New American Library Titles by Karen White
THE COLOR OF LIGHT
LEARNING TO BREATHE
PIECES OF THE HEART
THE MEMORY OF WATER
THE LOST HOURS
ON FOLLY BEACH
FALLING HOME
THE BEACH TREES
SEA CHANGE
AFTER THE RAIN
THE TIME BETWEEN
A LONG TIME GONE
THE SOUND OF GLASS
THE FORGOTTEN ROOM
(cowritten with Beatriz Williams and Lauen Willig)
FLIGHT PATTERNS
The Tradd Street Series
THE HOUSE ON TRADD STREET
THE GIRL ON LEGARE STREET
THE STRANGERS ON MONTAGU STREET
RETURN TO TRADD STREET
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
In the Shadow of the Moon copyright © 2000 by Karen White, 2016 by Harley House Books, LLC
Whispers of Goodbye copyright © 2001 by Karen White, 2016 by Harley House Books, LLC
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: White, Karen (Karen S.), author. | White, Karen (Karen S.) In the
shadow of the moon. | White, Karen (Karen S.) Whispers of goodbye.
Title: Spinning the moon / Karen White.
Other titles: In the shadow of the moon. | Whispers of goodbye.
Description: New York: Berkley Books, [2016] | “Includes two classic romance
novels . . . completely revised and together in one volume for the first time.”
Identifiers: LCCN 2016012402 (print) | LCCN 2016019591 (ebook) | ISBN
9781101989517 (softcover) | ISBN 9781101989494 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Gothic. | FICTION / Romance /
Historical. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Love stories. | Gothic
fiction. | Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3623.H5776 A6 2016 (print) | LCC PS3623.H5776 (ebook) |
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016012402
PUBLISHING HISTORY
In the Shadow of the Moon: Love Spell mass-market edition / August 2000
Whispers of Goodbye: Love Spell mass-market edition / October 2001
Cover art: Photo of Southern manor home at night © Jeremy Woodhouse/Spaces Images/ Corbis
Images; photo of moon © johnnorth/ Thinkstock
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To all of my lovely readers whose requests
to read my first two long-out-of-print books
made this publication possible
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editor, Cindy Hwang, who read the first incarnation of In the Shadow of the Moon before it was initially published and saw promise in me as a writer; to my publisher, Penguin Random House, and the most amazing and supportive sales, marketing, publicity, and editorial team an author could ever want.
Last, but not least, to Anthony Ramondo and the magicians in the art department for finally giving these books the cover they deserve.
CONTENTS
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KAREN WHITE
TITLES BY KAREN WHITE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
IN THE SHADOW OF THE MOON EPIGRAPH
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
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
EPILOGUE
WHISPERS OF GOODBYE 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
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
During the summer of the Atlanta Olympics (1996), I was the mother of two small children and suffering from a severe bout of book hangover. I had just finished reading Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander and was finding it impossible to pick up another book to read because I was still living in eighteenth-century Scotland with the incredible characters and setting the author had created.
Deciding to finally listen to all the teachers I’d had since I was in elementary school who told me I should write, I pulled a chair up to my desk and started to type. If I couldn’t pick up another book to read, maybe I could write a book instead. So I did. I set no goals at first, just wanting to see whether I could write the kind of book I’d like to read. I wrote when the children napped and when I felt like it (oh, those blissful predeadline days!). I laughed and I cried, and I held my breath during the tense scenes—an experience just like reading a favorite book. I let my neighbor read it as I wrote each chapter and I chose to believe her when she told me it was good.
That gave me the confidence to finish the book and submit it to a writing contest. It won, and the finals judge, a New York City literary agent, offered to represent me, then quickly sold it to a small New York publisher. In the Shadow of the Moon was published in 2000, and my second novel, Whispers of Goodbye, was published in 2001.
Despite horrendous covers and extremely small print runs, I was very proud of these first two books. I loved the stories and the characters I had created, and was overwhelmed by the positive feedback I received from readers. Although the subject matter is vastly different from my more recent books (Shadow is a time-travel romance set in Civil War Georgia and Whispers is a gothic romance—à la Victoria Holt and Daphne du Maurier—set in Reconstruction Louisiana), the themes of family, home, and a woman’s journey from loss to inner strength will be familiar ones to my current readers.
This is the reason why, a decade and a half since their original publications, my current publisher and I have decided to rerelease my first two novels. We believe my readers will enjoy this glimpse into my earliest works and appreciate the stories and familiar themes, and perhaps identify what it is that makes these “Karen White novels.”
If you are among the few who had the chance to read these books in their original editions and enjoyed them, please know that I have taken the opportunity to clean up and edit both books, hopefully upgrading the writing style from that of a novice to that of a seasoned writer. But the stories and characters that you first fell in love with are untouched.
Whether you’re a new reader to these books or they are old favorites, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed creating them—both times.
Happy reading!
Karen
In the Shadow of the Moon
The law of humanity ought to be composed of the past,
the present, and the future, that we bear within us;
whoever possesses but one of these terms, has but a fragment of the law of the moral world.
—EDGAR QUINET
PROLOGUE
The house stood strong and silent, bidding me to come nearer as if it were an old friend needing companionship. The windows stared at me with familiarity, and the feeling of having been there before hit me with a force so strong I had to stop. I grabbed Michael’s hand and pulled him back across the brick sidewalk.
“I want this house.”
My husband turned to me as if to say something. He was very well acquainted with my particular brand of stubbornness.
Weeds as high as my pregnant swell grew behind the dilapidated picket fence, and the roof over the porch sagged desperately. Shattered panes looked out of the two dormer windows, and the entire place needed painting. A large fan window crowned the massive front door, while white rocking chairs perched invitingly on the porch. It was a remarkable house, but there was something else about it that caused me to pause before it. Some sort of unexplainable connection. Four stately columns stood sentry at the front, and I could picture in my mind’s eye beautiful belles and gallant gentlemen from a time gone by sweeping down the still-graceful steps.
“I hate to disappoint you, Laura, but I don’t think it’s for sale. I don’t see a Realtor’s sign.”
I was already pushing open the front gate, its rusty hinges squeaking in protest.
“We’ll never know unless we ask.” I waddled up the front steps to the porch, grasping tightly to the chipped and peeling wood banister.
Due to the imminent expansion of our family, our Atlanta apartment was no longer large enough. We needed a house. Not just brick, mortar, and roof shingles, but a home to love and call our own and raise our family in. An older house with creaky wood floors and impossible-to-heat rooms with high ceilings. This was my house. I was so convinced of this that I didn’t pause to think how a different approach might be more civilized. But there was something about this house that told me I shouldn’t wait.
In the absence of a doorbell, I grabbed the dull brass knocker and banged a little too loudly. Michael had his back to the door and was surveying the wreckage of the front yard and porch. I didn’t need to see his face to know what expression he was wearing.
I stood, waiting, ignoring the urge to tap my foot. I was about to knock again when the sound of a latch being drawn from inside rattled the heavy wood door.
The woman who opened the door was tall like me, but her shoulders were slightly stooped. The intensity of her blue eyes seemed to add height and strength to her willowy figure. A halo of white hair framed an oval-shaped face with smooth, supple skin. She could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty years old. I made a mental note to ask her what she used for skin care.
Her smile revealed a row of white, evenly spaced teeth. “Oh, my! You’re finally here.”
I looked at her in confusion. “Have we met?”
She opened the door wider, and I caught a whiff of mothballs and furniture polish. I inadvertently wrinkled my nose and stifled a cough. My sense of smell had become acutely sensitive since I became pregnant, and even the slightest odor could overwhelm me. I must have staggered a bit, because the old lady grabbed my forearm in a surprisingly firm grasp and brought me inside through the receiving hall to a sofa in the front parlor, Michael following closely behind us.
“My dear, you must be careful of this heat in your condition.” She motioned Michael to take a seat opposite me in a fiddleback chair. Her voice was rich with the warm accent reminiscent of the Deep South.
I should have been embarrassed by the situation. Michael obviously was, as he kept trying to stand and offer apologies to our impromptu hostess, but, strangely, I felt very much at ease in this lady’s presence and in her house.
The old woman disregarded Michael’s sputtering and excused herself to get us all some iced tea and refreshments. Michael was raised up north in Connecticut, where I figured people didn’t just drop in on strangers to have tea with them. I’d never done it before, either, but for some reason, it didn’t seem as if the owner thought we were imposing on her. There was something in the way she looked at me, as if she knew me.
Situated against one wall was an upright piano, its polished surface markedly different from the dusty, worn pieces of furniture in the room. The ivory veneer was missing on the G key above middle C, as if something heavy had dropped on it and chipped it off.
“Laura, what are we doing here?” Michael busily eyed the cracked wall plaster and water stain on the ceiling. “You can’t possibly be thinking of buying this house
.”
I walked to stand behind him and put my arms around his waist. Standing on tiptoes to kiss him on his cheek, I followed his gaze toward a mess of wires hanging from the ceiling. “Michael, you’ve got to look beneath the surface to see the real beauty here. Look at those dentil moldings on the ceiling, and the wood floors. I bet these walls are a foot thick.” I moved over to one and tapped it lightly to make my point. I didn’t really care. The emotions I was feeling had nothing to do with plumbing and insulation. The sense of home surrounded me, emanating from the walls. The roof could have been falling in and I still would have wanted to buy the house.
I sat down just as our hostess came back bearing a large silver tray and tall iced-tea glasses. A china plate in the center was laden with an assortment of cookies and small cakes.
She smiled as she handed me a plate and a frosted glass. “I hope you don’t mind me serving you leftovers from yesterday’s ladies’ bridge meeting. They are just so delicious and my housekeeper and I could never eat them all before they spoiled.”
I realized I was starving, but my manners finally interceded. I struggled to sit up. “We really hate to intrude. We’re Laura and Michael Truitt, and we were merely inquiring about the—”
“House,” she said, completing my sentence. “I knew you were coming. Someone told me to expect you. I just didn’t know when. I’ve been wanting to sell this house for years now, but knew I needed to wait for you.” She smiled serenely and settled back against a once-elegant but now-faded sofa. “When you’ve got your strength back, I’ll be happy to give you the grand tour.”
I glanced over at Michael, who had edged himself to the front of his seat, as if preparing to make his escape. I, too, was feeling a bit strange, but not in the least bit wary.
“I don’t understand.” I shifted in my seat and knocked a cookie off my lap and onto the threadbare needlepoint carpet.
As sprightly as a teenager, the white-haired lady leapt up and retrieved the cookie.
“I bet that sounded odd, didn’t it?” she asked. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Margaret-Ann Cudahy.” She paused to let it sink in or to wait for a reaction from us. Neither was forthcoming, as the name meant absolutely nothing to me or, I was sure, to Michael.
