by Sophie Gunn
“Stu? He’s been asking me to marry him for years.”
“Right. And you think that you’re doing good by marrying him. But maybe the right woman is out there, right under his nose, and now he’ll never get the chance to meet her.”
Georgia and her father talked for three hours, catching up on everything. She invited him to come back for Christmas, but he was on his way to Europe to see his son, who was serving overseas.
When he was gone, Georgia walked slowly through the town, thinking about her father, Stu, Jane Eyre, and Sophia.
When she got back to her house, Stu was practicing Silent Night on his viola.
She paused in the doorway to the living room where he had set up his music stand.
He stopped when he noticed her.
“You sound amazing,” she said.
“Thanks. How was the Enemy Club?”
“Stu, I don’t think we should get married.”
He put down his bow and viola. “Okay.”
“Okay?” she asked. She sank onto her couch, exhausted. She closed her eyes. “You’re supposed to beg me to reconsider. To say you can’t live without me.”
“But I can,” Stu said. “We both know that.”
“But you don’t want to,” she said. “Right?”
“Well, of course right.”
“Why are we doing this, Stu? Is it because we’re cowards?”
“No. We’re just rational.”
“I don’t want to be rational, Stuey,” she said.
“You can’t help what you are,” Stu said.
Georgia took a deep breath. “I think I can. I think I can change. I think that—” She closed her eyes. “I think that we both deserve better. We both deserve wild, crazy, out-of-control true love. There’s someone out there for you, Stu. Somewhere.” Georgia opened her eyes. “Oh my God. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”
“What?” Stu asked.
Georgia felt her spirits rise. It was as if a huge wind shook the whole house. In fact, one must have, because a moment later, her alarms started blaring. “Quick! Come with me. Before the police show up!”
“Georgia! What’s come over you?” Stu asked.
“Christmas spirit!” Georgia cried. “Now hurry. I hear the sirens.”
“Georgia—?”
“No questions. I have an early Christmas present for you. But we’re running out of time. Pace, Stu. We have to keep the pace.” She was tossing him his coat and pulling him out the door.
“Pace?”
“It’s a story thing. Don’t worry. You don’t have to understand.”
Chapter Nine
Christmas Eve Day, the pageant went off without a hitch. Nina’s costumes and sets were spectacular. The music was impassioned, every note perfect, the playing spot on. Mary and Joseph had made up. In fact, Pastor Rich told Georgia that he even thought they had a little crush on each other.
In the audience, front row and center, sat Sophia. She was glowing. Clearly, of all the joyful people in the church, she was the one with the most joy of all.
After the show was over, they celebrated in the basement rec room with juice and the sugar cookies Georgia and Jill had decorated.
Georgia searched Sophia out.
“So, did you get into the club?” she asked, trying not to stare at the woman’s sweater, which had candy canes, an elf, and reindeer with beaded noses.
“Oh, Georgia,” Sophia whispered. “You’re now looking at the new secretary of the club. But here’s the crazy thing: I don’t even care. I mean, I care. Of course I care. But it’s not on the top of my list anymore, you know?”
Stu came up behind Sophia and put his arms around her. “Hi sweetie.” They were wearing matching sweaters. In just two days, they’d recognized each other as soul mates, exactly as Georgia knew they would.
Georgia beamed at them. “I better be your maid of honor.”
“You’re sure you’re not sore?” Sophia whispered after Stu had left to refill her punch.
“Not a bit. In fact, I couldn’t be happier. I should have known that this was your happy ending all along.”
Later, when the crowd was all stuffed into a booth at the Last Chance diner, Georgia digging into her excellent eggs and home fries with extra onions, Stu asked Georgia, “How did you know Sophia and I were going to be perfect for each other?”
“It’s hard to say,” Georgia said. “Maybe it was the sweaters. Or the way you both picked up popcorn pieces off my floor. Or your turkey clubs.” She nodded at their identical meals. “Mostly, though, I think it was that I realized that my mediocre ending was going to screw up two people’s truly happy ending.”
“I’m so happy, Georgia. I hope you find this kind of happiness soon,” Stu said.
“You know what? I think I will,” Georgia said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just believe that someone, somewhere is looking out for me.”
Sophia smiled. “They are.”
In a drawing room across the ocean, two women sat by the fire. One was reading. One was embroidering. They both were smiling.
“Well, she did it,” Jane said.
“She threw everything at it,” Charlotte said. “A hunky hero,”
“Who failed,” Jane pointed out.
“A touch of magic.”
“Which almost worked, but not quite,” Jane said.
“Even a weepy backstory.”
Jane sighed. “Yes. But none of that was what did it. Only true love between two people could really solve anything in the end,” Jane pointed out. “Even Georgia knew that.”
“The end,” Charlotte said.
“No, not the end. The beginning!” Jane said. “That’s what every great romance story is. A beginning.”
“Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said.
“Merry Christmas,” Jane said. And she opened her book back up and started to read.
Excerpt from SWEET KISS OF SUMMER
(the second book in the Enemy Club series, available now)
Prologue
Dearest Nina,
You don’t recognize this handwriting because a beautiful Army nurse named Sally is writing this letter for me. I don’t think I’m going to make it, little sis. That’s okay. Hell, if I don’t pull through, I died fighting the good fight and I’m damned proud. So no moping around and getting sad. I could have died a million stupid ways when I was a kid. At least I got to go out doing something that matters.
But Nins, you know I’m going to milk this dying young crap.
There’s two things you’ve gotta do for me.
First, you gotta move on. Find a good guy. Start a family. And name your first son after me. Promise me that. Little Walt, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU HATE THE NAME. (Ha! See, I still get to be the boss even after I’m gone.) I want a little Walter growing up in Galton, giving the teachers hell, just like I used to. Remember, it was our promise to each other after Mom and Dad passed that we’d move on and not let anything stop us. Don’t stop now, little sis.
Second, I want to do something for a buddy. His name is Mick Rivers. Listen, I want him to have my house in Galton when he gets out of here. I know he’ll say I should go *#$% myself, but Nins, can you make it happen?
Thanks, sis. I’ll see you on the other side. I miss you already.
Private First Class, Walter Stokes, US Army.
Chapter One
(Two years later.)
Nina Stokes was in her garden searching her tomato cages for the perfect beefsteak when a sporty red car roared halfway up her driveway and stopped. She spared it half a glance, then went back to her vegetables. It was reunion weekend at Galton University, the elite college that dominated the tiny town of Galton, New York. This was the third car she’d spotted this morning using her driveway as a turnaround. It could be annoying having the first driveway on the first road that was clearly marked as leading out of town.
&
nbsp; Nina went back to her tomatoes, ripping out the hairy galinsoga that had crept into the cages. She felt bad that she hadn’t been taking as good care of her garden as she usually would have, but she was deep into the process of illustrating a cookbook, The Vegetable Virgin. It was demanding all of her attention. If she nailed it, hopefully she’d get the job for The Meat Menage. Then, if she was lucky, The Soup Slut. So finding the perfect plump tomato to nestle next to the green beans for the Italian Veggie Casserole illustration was essential. She moved down the row, carefully peering under leaves.
When she spared a second glance, the car was still there, idling in the middle of the long drive that wound up her hill. She ducked a little lower. She hated giving directions, as she never remembered the names of roads. She might say, Go right at Mrs. Gradon’s amazing corn-flower-blue hyacinth, surely drawing a blank stare from a person in a car that flashy.
She was inspecting the last tomato plant when the driver floored the gas. The car jumped forward, then braked hard, fishtailing up a cloud of dust mere feet from her tulip border.
The crazy-loud engine revved a few times, then cut.
She had ducked back into the garden in alarm, but now she dared a peeked over the vegetation.
The front door of the car opened.
A man unfolded from the front seat, a flash from his aviator sunglasses momentarily blinding her. Her vision cleared in time to reveal him stretching his arms above his head, as if he’d just woken up from a truly excellent dream.
Nina put a hand on the nearest tomato cage to steady herself. Good thing she’d staked and caged the bushes for extra support. Talk about the perfect beefsteak.
The man pulled his T-shirt over his head in a swift, one-armed movement. She ducked low, tried to swallow, pulled the brim of her sunhat low to cover her blush and her ridiculous smile.
The most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on is stripping in my driveway. God, I love this town.
She took a deep breath, the whiff of compost grounding her. I am a serious artist, a respected yoga teacher, and a sporadic, inattentive but sincere gardener. I am an orphan, an optimist, a lover of quiet and peace. But I am in no position to be a woman who swoons over a good-looking man, even if one appeasr like a god in my driveway who seems determined to disrobe.
Still, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his tanned, trim physique. She couldn’t quite get the beginning of a wicked smile off her lips. Be careful of things that look too good to be true.
The man turned to lean through the driver’s window of his car and she tried again shake off her response. Obviously, her bone-headed reaction was due to too little sleep and too much work.
And then everything changed.
She saw it.
His tattoo.
Everything disappeared in a rush of tunnel vision. Gone were the tomatoes, the vague aroma of car exhaust, the fat robin keeping an eye trained on her from the maple tree. Only the tattoo on his shoulder was clear in the shining whiteness of her sudden dizziness: the downward pointing bowie knife with a flowing white ribbon wrapped around it. She couldn’t read the words on the ribbon from this distance, but she knew them by heart. After all, they had been inked into her brother’s arm, too.
Duty. Honor. Country.
Nina’s body went cold with dread.
#
He could be anyone from the unit.
He might not be Mick Rivers. Sure, she’d stared at the guy’s picture for two long years, wondering about him and his relationship to Walt. But military men all looked alike from a distance. The close-cropped haircuts, the square jaws, the wide chests that tapered to narrow waists. This guy could be any G.I. Joe Shmoe who had just happened to be passing through when he remembered this was Walt’s hometown. It had happened just five months before. A soldier named Bill had looked her up to drop off a few mementos of Walt he had saved all these years.
Anyway, if this man was Mick Rivers, she had to keep a cool head and hold her ground. She had given him an entire year after Walt’s letter arrived to respond to her endless correspondence. She had promised herself that after the year had passed, the house was hers. Now that she was alone in the world, she wouldn’t put herself at the whims of others. Her first duty was to herself, and she was going to stand by it.
If Mick Rivers was here for his house, he was two years too late.
While she panicked in the garden, trying to hold firm to her resolve, the man had calmly walked around to his trunk, dug around a bit, then came up with another T-shirt.
He looked around the place, and she ducked lower. His eyes, thankfully, glazed right over the garden.
She sat down, butt in the dirt.
She loved and respected her brother’s wishes, but she had to get this guy to leave. She’d just tell him that he was too late.
The house was all she had left.
To order a Kindle copy of SWEET KISS OF SUMMER now, visit:
http://sophiegunn.com
COMING SOON:
GEORGIA’S STORY
(The third book in the Enemy Club series. Coming Soon.)
Sneak Peek
Prologue
Ramon Martinez was dead.
The star striker of the Galton University soccer team collapsed during a pick-up basketball game two weeks before the start of August pre-season soccer camp, six weeks before the start of his senior year.
Cardiomyopathy, they said. Rare. Difficult to predict. Tragic.
Everyone loved Ramon. He was fast and dangerous, larger than life, a ferociously fine striker. But more than his dazzling speed or his uncanny ability to put the ball in the back of the net, his intense personality was what made Ramon a superstar. Around Ramon, you felt it. It was impossible to define. But if you were an athlete, or had ever been one, you knew when someone had it. Ramon brought the magic, the heat—and the wins. Without Ramon, the Galton Grizzlies men’s varsity soccer squad was just another team.
They didn’t know it yet, but they couldn’t afford to be just another team.
Not this year.
Chapter One
Georgia Phillips didn’t go to campus often, and when she did, she certainly didn’t go near the athletic center, a mammoth glass-and-metal temple celebrating three things she avoided at all cost: sweat, skin, and spandex.
But this was a favor for Artie Wilson, Dean of the Arts and Science College. Anything for Artie, she reminded herself as she crossed the West Quad not looking to either side, her low heels clicking on the rough concrete paths. Even this.
A pair of girls in short shorts jogged past her, their blonde ponytails swinging rythmically behind them. Georgia caught her heel in a crack. She caught herself before she plunged to the ground, but only barely.
“You okay, Ma’am?” a strapping youth asked.
“Me? Yes. Fine.”
He trotted off, casual, at ease, perfect.
The outside never tells the whole story, she reminded herself. As the town’s only psychiatrist, she ought to know. She knew more about the interior lives of more Galton residents than anyone in town. She’d treated Artie’s youngest daughter, Shelly, for twenty-six months. Classic adolescent depression. The girl had responded well to therapy, pulling herself out of a high school slump in enough time to get herself off to Yale.
“Thank the Lord!” Dean Wilson had said, pumping her hand in his clammy grip. “And thank you, too!”
“Thank Dr. Freud,” Georgia corrected, pleased nonetheless.
The Dean had shown his gratitude every since by referring her a steady stream of patients. He’d sent twelve in the last year alone. It was more work than she could handle, allowing her to pick and choose the most interesting cases, definitely not the situation before Artie, when complaining about mummy and daddy taking away the Mercedes was about as deep as most of her patients dared to tread.
Georgia pushed through the huge glass doors of the athletic center, half expecting alarms to be triggered by her just-shy-of-worrying body-fat ratio.
Forget the Grizzlies. She was the one in need of a pep talk. Taking on this soccer coach and his team was the least she could do in repayment to the dean. But still, she had a bad feeling about it. She had called and texted and even sent two printed letters to Coach Bo Smith.
The man had been ignoring her for a month.
This did not bode well for her assignment. How could she assure the Dean that Coach Smith’s soccer team was dealing with its grief over the loss of Ramon Martinez if the man wouldn’t even return her texts?
She worked her way down the cinderblock hallways, following the red arrows to the soccer offices. If testosterone had a smell, this was it. Sweat and chlorine mixed with laundry soap and overwrought body spray. Boys in football pads and mesh practice jerseys hustled past her, covered in mud. Nothing like a rumbling herd of nubile young athletes to make her feel thick, short, and old.
She shook off her thoughts and concentrated on not getting lost in the maze under the gyms. The thump-thump-thump of pounding feet above her added to her sense that with every stop she took, she was leaving civilization as she knew it behind and was approaching a more primal society, one that moved to a rhythm that set her on edge. Finally, she found the plaque on the door that read, Bo Smith, Head Coach, Varsity Soccer. The door was open wide.
“Hello?”
No one was there.
She stepped inside.
The place was a mess. Papers and files were stacked in precarious towers. Trophies covered every flat surface like commuters on a subway platform, jostling for position. More of them crowded into corners on the floor as if they were being punished.
Over the desk in the place of honor hung a plaque that said, Show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser.
Georgia set her jaw.
Then set it harder, her teeth grinding.
