“You do, Brody. You do.” Jack shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the view of the rolling uplands and Quabbin in the distance. “If you ask her and she says yes, her mother and I would be proud to welcome you to our family.”
“Thank you.”
They resumed walking along the quiet road. Jack grunted. “I’m glad you came back here as a DSS agent instead of an ex-con. What about your job? London’s next, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, yes. I have several weeks of meetings and training in Washington first.”
“Heather can go with you to London?”
Brody didn’t hesitate. “If she wants to, yes.”
“She wants to. She’s already checking into interior design programs. Samantha knows London. She has family there. My wife’s always wanted to see England. Adam keeps talking about seeing the old stonework there. My mother is fascinated by the Tower of London. I’m trying not to take that personally.” Jack grinned suddenly and clapped Brody on one shoulder. “We’ll all come visit, Agent Hancock. You’ll like that.”
* * *
When Brody returned to Echo Lake, a large Dumpster had been delivered, and a crew was gathering to clean out Vic’s attic. They’d finished cleaning out the cellar and the rest of the house as work on the renovations got underway. Heather’s uncle, Pete, pointed vaguely to the lake. “Heather’s taking a break while we get organized.” He winked. “Good luck.”
Either he had that look, Brody thought, or Heather’s father had already been in touch with his brother. Maybe both.
He found Heather sitting on a log at the remains of Greg’s campfire. She wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and her vest and sweatshirt were both unzipped, as if it were a balmy spring afternoon instead of mid-February.
“The days are getting longer,” she said. “Have you noticed the sun’s higher in the sky? Spring’s on the way.”
Brody’s throat tightened. Yet he was sure of himself. As sure as he’d ever been.
“Brody...” She stood, tilting her head back, her blue eyes narrowed. “Is everything all right?”
“I love you, Heather. I want to be with you forever. I want to grow old with you out here on Echo Lake.” He stepped back, taking her hands into his. He’d been envisioning this moment for weeks, and now it was here. He smiled. “Heather Sloan, will you marry me?”
“Marry...” She laughed and leaped into his arms, throwing hers over his shoulders. “Yes, yes, yes. I love you. You know I do. Brody...” Tears formed in her eyes, even as she laughed. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He kissed her, lifting her off her feet.
“I would marry you today,” she said. “Right now. We could elope.”
“The only Sloan daughter and only Sloan sister?” Brody grinned. “I’d be hunted down by your posse of brothers.”
“Probably. We are a can-do family.”
“An understatement.”
She slid out of his arms and stood in the spot Greg had cleared, muddy now with the warmish morning. “I’ve never been happier, Brody.” Her eyes shone as she smiled. “We’re good together. We’ll stay good together.”
They heard someone yelling up toward the main house. “Sounds like Rohan trouble,” Brody said. He nodded to Heather. “Shall we see what he’s up to this time?”
Before they reached the house, the golden retriever galloped down the walkway, but he didn’t jump on them. He was learning, Brody thought. He and Heather returned the puppy to his bed—and, now, crate—in the mudroom. Vic was there and explained that Rohan had stolen one of the crew’s doughnuts and made off with it down to the lake. But no harm done. Knights Bridge was a town that loved its dogs.
Brody noticed Vic’s color and mood were better since he’d torn up his house. “What have you two been up to,” he asked, returning to the kitchen, “or don’t I want to know?”
Heather beamed a smile at him. “Brody asked me to marry him, and I said yes.”
“Well, congratulations to you both,” Vic said, looking genuinely pleased. “As you might expect, this won’t come as a surprise to anyone in Knights Bridge. I was at Smith’s for breakfast this morning after you left, Heather, and they have a pool going on when Brody would pop the question.”
Adrienne burst in from the dining room. “I win the pool! I knew it. You two—you probably started falling in love back in high school and didn’t know it until now.” She clapped her hands together, laughing as Rohan sat on Vic’s feet. “Maybe Rohan can be your ring bearer.”
Vic kissed Heather on the cheek. “You couldn’t have fallen for a better man.”
She glanced at Brody. “I agree.”
“And, Brody...” Vic shook Brody’s hand. “Knights Bridge’s own Heather Sloan.”
“Thanks for inviting me back here, Vic,” Brody said. “I’d have let more time slip by if you hadn’t.”
“Turns out I was turning those molehills into mountains for a good reason, after all.” Vic waved a hand. “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”
Adrienne walked over to the counter and a line of wine bottles. She no longer looked embarrassed or uncomfortable. “I’m organizing a wine-tasting party tonight to celebrate the arrival of men with crowbars.” She smiled. “Now we can celebrate your engagement, too. I’ve got a couple of bottles of a Kendrick sparkling wine chilling in the fridge. Heather...you won’t be carting the fridge out of here yet, will you?”
“Not for a few days,” she said.
Adrienne looked relieved, and pleased. “Excellent. Your entire crew is invited, and all your brothers and their girlfriends, and your nephews. Pass the word. There will be plenty.” She glanced at Vic then turned back to Heather and Brody. “I’ve already invited Elly O’Dunn.”
“She’s bringing goat’s milk?” Vic asked.
“Goat’s milk cheese.”
“I hear Noah and Phoebe are back in town,” Heather said, studying her friend, who looked ready to burst. “Adrienne? Come on. Tell us your good news.”
“I’m definitely going to be working for Kendrick Winery.”
“That’s great,” Heather said. “Congratulations.”
Adrienne gave Vic a tentative look, but he winked at her. “Bring on the bubbles.”
“More to celebrate,” Brody said.
He heard more vehicles arrive out on the driveway. Heather peeked out the window. “They’re all here,” she said.
“Who?” Vic asked.
“My brothers.”
Brody put his arm around her. “Word’s out. Let’s go make it official.”
“Not afraid?” she asked, mischief in her Sloan blue eyes.
He grinned. “Not even a little.”
Twenty-Six
Heather couldn’t take her eyes off Brody that evening at Adrienne’s wine tasting. She didn’t care who saw her staring at him. Vic was in his element, making small talk, explaining details about his 1912 lake house and his plans for his new life. “Still in the works,” he said, “but that’s life, isn’t it?”
Brody and Justin started a campfire, and next thing there was hot chocolate.
A couple of snowballs were lobbed from dark hemlocks. Heather suspected the work of Maggie and Phoebe, the two eldest O’Dunn sisters. She could tell Noah did, too. It surprised her how fast he moved, but then she remembered he was a master fencer as well as a high-tech genius.
Adrienne looked delighted as her classy wine tasting turned into an epic snowball fight on the shore of Echo Lake.
Heather made about a dozen snowballs and stacked them next to her on her log. “My self-defense arsenal,” she said as Brody sat next to her. “Christopher is the worst. You watch him. His aim is never off, and he almost never gets hit.” But Brody, she saw, was watching her. “You’re not paying attention to our sno
wball fight, are you?”
“I am. I see your nephews plotting against us. Mostly, though, I see us a few years from now, having hot chocolate under the stars with our kids and their five uncles, who would do anything for them.” He slipped his arm around her. “As they would for their one and only sister and the woman I love.”
“Brody...” She smiled at him. “I can also see us making love in the moonlight on a hot summer night.”
“That, too.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aidan and Tyler make their move, sneaking up behind her and Brody. She knew Brody saw them, too, but he pretended not to. They pelted him with snowballs, squealing in delight when he sprang on them, scooped them up and dumped them into a pile of snow.
“Aunt Heather, Aunt Heather, help us!”
She let them at her arsenal, and they got Brody again with her snowballs. Then they saw their father, a more tempting target. Heather gave them the rest of her snowballs, and they took off, giggling.
Brody sat next to her. “I should dump you in the snow.”
She laughed, then laid her head against his shoulder. “This is a perfect spot, isn’t it?”
“Heather...” He put his arm around her, and she felt him kiss the top of her head. “If you get homesick in London, just click your heels together three times. I’ll get you back to Knights Bridge.”
“I won’t need ruby slippers or a magic wand?”
“No.” He leaned in close to her. “But the Glinda dress might help.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from CIDER BROOK by Carla Neggers.
Author Note
Now that you’ve read Echo Lake, it probably doesn’t come as a surprise that I have a big family. Three sisters and three brothers. I’m the third eldest and second sister. Seven of us in nine years. We grew up on the western edge of the Quabbin Reservoir and its protected watershed...but that’s more or less where my similarity to the Sloans ends! Although I do know the difference between pliers and a wrench.
If you’re new to my Swift River Valley novels, Echo Lake is the fourth in the series. You’ll find Olivia and Dylan’s story in Secrets of the Lost Summer (1), Phoebe and Noah’s story—and Brandon and Maggie’s recommitment to each other—in That Night on Thistle Lane (2), and Justin and Samantha’s story in Cider Brook (3). There’s also Christmas at Carriage Hill, my first-ever Christmas e-novella, with Olivia and Dylan’s Christmas Eve wedding as the backdrop.
I love writing these books. My mother grew up in the Florida Panhandle (Calhoun County) and my father was Dutch, but right before I was born, they packed up the car with my older brother and sister and all their belongings and moved to western Massachusetts. My mother still lives on our family homestead.
As I type this note to you, I’m working on my next Swift River Valley novel. For all the details, please pop over to my website and sign up for my e-newsletter. You can also write to me. I love hearing from readers!
Thank you, and happy reading,
Carla
CarlaNeggers.com
“[A] beautifully described tale that rewards readers with an intriguing mystery as well as a deliciously satisfying romance.”
—Library Journal on Secrets of the Lost Summer
If you loved Echo Lake, by New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers, be sure to also catch her other titles in the irresistible Swift River Valley series:
Secrets of the Lost Summer
That Night on Thistle Lane
Cider Brook
Available now in ebook!
Be sure to also catch these great titles in Carla Neggers’s gripping Sharpe & Donovan series:
Declan’s Cross
Rock Point (novella)
Heron’s Cove
Saint’s Gate
Harbor Island
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One
Samantha Bennett slipped her grandfather’s antique silver flask into an outer pocket of her khaki safari jacket. He’d claimed the flask was from an old pirate chest, but she’d discovered in the three years since his death at ninety-six that not everything he’d told her had been factual. Harry Bennett had been a grand spinner of the strategic tall tale. He’d probably been drinking rum from the flask when he’d spun the pirate-chest story.
No rum for me, Samantha thought, glancing around her grandfather’s cluttered office on the second floor of the Bennett house in Boston’s Back Bay. She’d filled the flask with the smoky Scotch he had left in one of his crystal decanters. If she was going to hunt pirate’s treasure, she figured she ought to have whiskey with her.
Although what could go wrong in little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts?
Her grandfather smiled at her from a framed black-and-white photograph hanging on the wood-paneled wall behind his massive oak desk. At the time of the photo he’d been forty-seven, roguishly handsome, wearing a jacket much like hers. He’d just arrived back in Boston after the Antarctic trip that had sealed his reputation as a world-class explorer and adventurer. It had almost killed him, too. Her couple of nights’ camping in an out-of-the-way New England town hardly compared to an expedition to Antarctica.
She buttoned the flap of her jacket pocket. There were endless pockets inside and out. She was already forgetting where she’d put things—her phone, compass, matches, map, the earth-tone lipstick she’d grabbed at the last second, in case she went out to dinner one night during her stay in Knights Bridge.
Out to dinner? Where, with whom—and why?
If nothing else, a few days away from her grandfather’s clutter would do her good. He had been born on a struggling New England farm and had died a wealthy man, if also a hopeless pack rat. Samantha hadn’t realized just how much he’d collected in his long, active life until she’d been hired by his estate—meaning her father and her uncle—to go through his house and his London apartment. She swore she’d found gum wrappers from 1952. The man had saved everything.
The morning sun streamed through translucent panels that hung over bowfront windows framed by heavy charcoal velvet drapes. Her grandmother, who had died twenty-five years ago, when Samantha was four, had decorated the entire house herself, decreeing that gray and white were the perfect colors for this room, for when her husband was there, being contemplative and studious—which wasn’t often, even in his later years. He’d spent little time in his office, mostly just long enough to stack up his latest finds.
Samantha appreciated the effect of the filtered sunlight on the original oil painting that she’d unearthed from the office closet a few weeks ago. The painting was unsigned and clearly an amateur work, but it had captivated her from the moment she’d taken it out into the light. It depicted an idyllic red-painted New England cider mill, with apples in wooden crates, barrels of cider and a water wheel capturing the runoff from a small stone-and-earth dam on a woodland stream. She’d assumed it was untitled but two days ago had discovered neat, faded handwriting on the lower edge of the simple wood frame.
The Mill at Cider Brook.
Her surprise had been so complete that she’d dipped into the Scotch decanter.
She didn’t know if the mill depicted in the painting was real, but there was a Cider Brook in Knights Bridge, barely two hours west of Boston.
Of all places.
A quick internet search had produced a year-old notice that the town of Knights Bridge was selling an old cider mill in its possession. Had someone bought it? Was it sti
ll for sale?
Samantha had checked the closet for anything else her grandfather might have stuffed in there related to Cider Brook. Instead, she discovered a legal-size envelope containing about fifty yellowed, handwritten pages—the rough draft of a story called The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth.
She suspected but had no way to prove that the story was by the same hand as the painting, but it didn’t matter. It had sealed the deal, and now she had Harry Bennett’s antique silver flask tucked in her jacket and her plans made for her return to Knights Bridge—a town she had expected, and hoped, she would never have to visit again.
Plans more or less made, anyway. Samantha had no illusions about herself and knew she wasn’t much on detailed planning.
Her first visit to the little town had been two and a half years ago, on a snowy March day a few months after her grandfather’s death. She had expected to slip in and out of town without anyone’s knowledge, but it hadn’t worked out that way.
“A carpenter told me he saw a woman out here. You, Samantha?”
Yes. Her.
The carpenter had been her undoing. She didn’t know who he was, but it didn’t matter. She would be more careful on this trip, even if careful wasn’t a Bennett trait.
This was her chance to put things right.
* * *
Samantha returned the painting to the closet, pulled the drapes, locked the doors and met her uncle and cousin out front. They had collected her grandfather’s forty-year-old Mercedes from its parking space behind the house. It was a staid gray and had Massachusetts plates, but it was destined to stand out in Knights Bridge. In some ways, Harry Bennett’s frugal upbringing had never left him. While he’d bought an expensive car, he’d decided to keep it until he ran it into the ground. It would have helped if he’d driven it once in a while, but he’d never liked to drive.
His younger son, however, loved to drive. Caleb Bennett was a rakishly handsome maritime historian in his early fifties. He and his wife, a rare-books specialist, lived in London and were the parents of four, the eldest of whom, Isaac, a high-school senior, was strapped into the seat behind Samantha. Isaac and his father were heading to Amherst, the first stop on a tour of New England colleges. Samantha, who didn’t own a car, was hitching a ride with them.
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