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By The Sea, Book Three: Laura

Page 17

by Stockenberg, Antoinette


  THE HEIRS is the dramatic conclusion to the four-book series BY THE SEA. Economic hard times are a distant memory in high-flying, recent-day Newport, home of the oldest and most prestigious trophy in the world, the Holy Grail of sport—the America's Cup. Here, the descendants of Tess, Amanda and Laura play out their destinies, their paths crossing in unforeseen ways: Mavis Moran, Neil Powers, his daughter Quinta, and America's Cup skipper Alan Seton all find themselves caught in a web of mystery, sabotage, and conflicting desires.

  Select here to read an excerpt from BY THE SEA, Book Four: THE HEIRS.

  A Charmed Place

  "Buy this book! A truly fantastic read!"

  —Suzanne Barr, Gulf Coast Woman

  USA TODAY bestselling author Antoinette Stockenberg delivers an original and wonderfully romantic story of two people -- college lovers separated for twenty years -- who have the chance to be happy together at last. But family, friends, an ex-husband, a teenaged daughter and an unsolved murder seem destined to keep the lovers star-crossed, until Dan takes up residence in the Cape Cod lighthouse, with Maddie's rose-covered cottage just a short walk away ...

  Select here to read an excerpt from A CHARMED PLACE.

  Tidewater

  "A spellbinding thriller that is both intense and riveting."

  —Romantic Times

  Newly married to a man of wealth and reputation who's very willing to be stepfather to her child, Sara Bonniface would seem to have all she's ever wanted. But her young daughter has other ideas, embarking on a crusade to learn more about her birth father. And that's where Sara's life begins to spin slowly out of control ....

  Keepsake

  "Deeply emotional … unforgettable"

  —amazon.com review

  KEEPSAKE ... a postcard-perfect town in Connecticut. When stonemason Quinn Leary returns after seventeen years, he has one desire: to prove his father's innocence of a terrible crime committed when Quinn and Olivia Bennett, town princess, were high-school rivals. Class doesn't matter now but family loyalties do, and they're fierce enough to threaten the newfound passion between two equals.

  A Month at the Shore

  "An addictive, captivating story of love, family and trust."

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Laura Shore has fled her humble past on Cape Cod and made a name for herself on the opposite coast. But when she returns and joins forces with her two siblings to try to save Shore Gardens, the failing family nursery, she finds that she hasn't left the past behind at all. Kendall Barclay, the town's rich son and her childhood knight in shining armor, lives there still, and his hold over Laura is as strong as ever. Like a true knight, he's attentive, courteous, and ready to help -- until a discovery is made that threatens the family, the nursery, and Laura's deepening relationship with him.

  BY THE SEA, Book One: TESS

  "A riveting saga/mystery."

  --Rave Reviews

  From the wild decadence of late nineteenth-century Newport comes the tale of Tess Moran, a beautiful Irish housemaid in one of the grand summer "cottages," who makes a dark bargain with a man of commanding wealth — and falls in love in the bargain.

  BY THE SEA, Book Two: AMANDA

  "A quality novel [that] contains many of those little epiphanies, those moments of recognition."

  —Providence Journal

  Marrying American money to an English title is a tradition of its own; but Amanda Fain, a brash heiress with money to burn, has a fondness for Bolsheviks and bootleg liquor that makes her an unlikely match for the reluctant, ironic, and impoverished English aristocrat Geoffrey Seton, who has been ordered to America to find someone who can pay the bills for the family estate back home.

  Embers

  "A deft blend of mystery and romance … sure to win more kudos"

  —Publishers Weekly

  To Meg Hazard, it seemed like a good idea at the time: squeezing her extended family into the back rooms of their rambling Victorian home and converting the rest of the house into a Bed and Breakfast in the coastal town of Bar Harbor, Maine. Paying guests are most welcome, but the arrival of a Chicago cop on medical leave turns out to be both good news and bad news for Meg and the Inn Between.

  Dream a Little Dream

  "A truly wonderful modern fairy tale "

  — Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author

  Three Generations Under One Turret: from bestselling author Antoinette Stockenberg comes a witty, modern fairy tale of romance and family and ghostly star-crossed lovers.

  Beyond Midnight

  "Full of charm and wit, Stockenberg's latest is truly enthralling."

  —Publishers Weekly

  In 1692, Salem, Massachusetts was the setting for the infamous persecution of innocents accused of witchcraft. Three centuries later, little has changed. Helen Evett, widowed mother of two and owner of a prestigious preschool in town, finds her family, her fortunes, and her life's work threatened —all because she feels driven to protect the sweet three-year-old daughter of a man who knows everything about finance but not so much about fathering.

  Sand Castles

  "A riveting story of selfishness, betrayal, and love that readers will find hard to put down."

  —Library Journal

  Wendy Hodene thinks she has it all: a charming husband, a great kid, a house that she loves (even if it doesn't have enough closet space), and family nearby. And then her husband manages to win a multi-million-dollar lottery, kicking off a tidal wave that sweeps all of her assumptions into the sea like castles in the sand. The man she thinks she knows becomes a virtual stranger, and the stranger she hardly knows at all is the reason why.

  Beloved

  "Richly rewarding … a novel to be savored."

  —Romantic Times Magazine

  A Nantucket cottage by the sea: the inheritance is a dream come true for Jane Drew. Too bad it comes with a ghost —and a soulfully seductive neighbor who'd just as soon boot Jane off the island.

  Safe Harbor

  "Complex … fast-moving …humorous … tender"

  —Publishers Weekly

  SAFE HARBOR. That's what Martha's Vineyard has always been for Holly Anderson, folk artist, dreamer and eternal optimist. If she could just afford to buy the house and barn she's renting, fall in love, marry the guy and then have children as sweet as her nieces, life would be pretty much perfect.

  Poor Holly. She has so much to learn.

  Emily's Ghost

  RITA Award Winner

  "Booksellers' recommended read."

  —Publishers Weekly

  A showdown between a U.S. Senator (with a house on Martha's Vineyard) who believes in ghosts and a reporter who doesn't. What could possibly go wrong?

  Time After Time

  "As hilarious as it is heart-tugging ... a rollicking great read."

  —I'll Take Romance

  In Gilded-Age Newport, an upstairs-downstairs romance between a well-born son and a humble maid is cut short of marriage. A hundred years later, the descendants of that ill-fated union seem destined to repeat history. Or not.

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling novelist Antoinette Stockenberg grew up wanting be a cowgirl and have her own horse (her great-grandfather bred horses for the carriage trade back in the old country), but the geography just didn't work out: there weren't many ranches in Chicago. Her other, more doable dream was to write books, and after stints as secretary, programmer, teacher, grad student, boatyard hand, office manager and magazine writer (in that order), she achieved that goal, writing over a dozen novels, several of them with paranormal elements. One of them is the RITA award-winning EMILY'S GHOST.

  Stockenberg's books have been published in a dozen languages and are often set in quaint New England harbor towns, always with a dose of humor. She writes about complex family relationships and the fallout that old, unearthed secrets can have on them. Sometimes there's an old murder. Sometimes there's an old ghost. Sometimes once-lovers find one anothe
r after half a lifetime apart.

  Her work has been compared to writers as diverse as Barbara Freethy, Nora Roberts, LaVyrle Spencer and Mary Stewart by critics and authors alike, and her novels have appeared on bestseller lists in USA Today as well as the national bookstore chains. Her website features sample chapters, numerous reviews, many photos, and an enchanting Christmas section.

  Visit her website at antoinettestockenberg.com to read sample chapters of all of her books.

  An Excerpt from BY THE SEA, Book Four: THE HEIRS

  THE HEIRS is the dramatic conclusion to the four-book series BY THE SEA. Economic hard times are a distant memory in high-flying, recent-day Newport, home of the oldest and most prestigious trophy in the world, the Holy Grail of sport—the America's Cup. Here, the descendants of Tess, Amanda and Laura play out their destinies, their paths crossing in unforeseen ways: Mavis Moran, Neil Powers, his daughter Quinta, and America's Cup skipper Alan Seton all find themselves caught in a web of mystery, sabotage, and conflicting desires.

  Summer 1986

  Men have no idea about ball gowns. They think of them as dressy dresses, when every woman knows that a proper ball gown is not clothing at all, but an extension of her soul. Why else does a wealthy woman have her own couturier? The designer is a high priest at her altar, striving to interpret the ineffable. If her soul is blond, he will wrap her in blue. If her soul is old-money, he will set off her pearls with simple satin. One way or another, the couturier will make a wealthy woman's special beauty shine forth.

  Of course, other souls have to be happy with ready-to-wear, and Neil Powers' daughter Quinta was one of them. For one thing, there was not enough time to have a gown designed and made for the Pegasus ball, even if her father did take out a second mortgage. For another, she did not wish to rely on someone to tell her what her best feature was, or what color suited her, or which fabric was in vogue. So she set out, innocently enough, with a hundred dollars in cash and at least one caveat in mind: the gown must be long, even if it were made of bed-sheeting.

  Which, for one hundred dollars, she soon found, was about all she could hope for. Anything she saw under that price looked frilly and silly—a prom gown, not a ball gown. She had a vague idea that a ball gown was different, that a ball gown was grown-up. After hovering timidly in front of a Bellevue Avenue shop window filled with dazzling, jeweled ensembles, Quinta found the courage to step inside.

  "Yes, ma'am. May I help you?"

  "Ah, no. I'm just browsing," replied Quinta. How dumb. You browsed at Sears and J. C. Penny, when there was nothing to watch on TV. Here you tried on, and then you bought.

  Still, Quinta went gamely through the motions, sliding each beaded and bejeweled dress carefully along the recessed rack, afraid almost to touch them, let alone ask to try them on. Her worst fears were realized when a bright-blue sequin came off one dress and stuck to the palm of her hand. Horrified and feeling like a shoplifter, she dropped it inside the neckline and kept looking. She thought it might be boorish to check a price tag, but she did it anyway, unable to bear not knowing. Her eyes widened. Eight hundred dollars. Well, she could see it. It was a stunning dress, silver and black, wildly dramatic. When you thought about the labor involved ... each little bead … even in India, that had to add up.

  A dizzying thought occurred to her. If she tried it on? If she liked it? If she charged it? She lifted the hanger carefully off the rack. It took three seconds, the exact same length of time it took for her brain to begin functioning normally again. Not for you, Cinderella. Put it back.

  She did, with a sigh, and was about to leave when the salesgirl—so slim, so chic, so pitying—said, "There are a few things on sale in that armoire, if you'd like to look at them."

  More to oblige the salesgirl than any uncontrollable urge of her own, Quinta went through the rack of ensembles, almost not looking at the items, just checking shamelessly through the price tags: $400, $360, $500, $400, $200—wait, two hundred! Was it possible? Sure it was: the bottom half of the ensemble was missing. The part that remained was a lovely white top with a neckline of bugle beads fanning into a flower-motif over the bodice. Not very many beads, but some. Enough to gain entry to an upper-crust ball. As for the fact that she would be naked from the waist down—well, she could sew a silky polyester floor-length skirt in a couple of hours.

  She tried on the top, liked it, put it on her Visa card and flew out of the shop: she had material to buy, and a pattern.

  ****

  Quinta sat nervously inside the Cozy Cab as it approached Ocean Court. Would she have to get the door herself? No. That was what valets were for. Did she have her invitation with her? Yes. In her purse. Was her lipstick on straight? She thought so, but there was no time to look. So far so good, but ahead of her, lined up like indoor palms on the yellow Siena marble floor of the entrance hall, stood the receiving line: half a dozen people, only two of whom she recognized.

  She took her place in the slow-moving queue of guests and introduced herself to each member of the receiving line: a short fat man from Dexter Paint Company, and a tall thin one from North Sea Weathergear. A friendly young woman from the something-Industrial Corporation, and a grouchy old man from the Sleptell Hotel Chain. It was a Dow-Jones receiving line of America's Cup Race sponsors, no doubt about it.

  Except for the handsome couple at the end.

  "Hello... Alan," Quinta said, shaking his hand.

  "You were able to come."

  "Yes."

  Alan Seton turned to the incredibly beautiful redhead, nearly as tall as he was, who stood next to him. "Mavis Moran, this is Quinta Powers, a writer for Cup Quotes."

  Mavis smiled. "Quinta Powers? Aren't you the one who wrote that pretty little tribute to Alan?" She shook Quinta's hand lightly.

  "I think I might have," replied Quinta, as if she really couldn't keep track of the thousands of pretty little tributes she'd written that summer.

  Mavis smiled a second time, a knowing, perfect, green-eyed smile. "It was so sweet."

  With that, Quinta was bumped by the next arriving guest into a French-style ballroom floored in parquet and paneled in a subdued gray that was edged in gilt and silver. Unlike the great Gilded Age monsters that were built after it, Ocean Court was not quite palatial, but by the electrified light of the gilded bronze sconces, it all looked pretty spectacular.

  Especially to Quinta Powers. She was aware that she was a fraud, a neighborhood urchin who'd scrambled over a high brick wall to see how the other half partied, but that didn't diminish the pleasure she got from watching all the glitter, all the gold. In a way she was grateful to them for putting on such a show. To her the guests were actors and actresses hired by some mysterious Newport public relations manager to keep up Newport's image. If she squinted, which she did, she could see a hundred years in the past.

  She meandered through a quick tour of the disco tent on the grounds, as well as the few rooms in Ocean Court that were actually open to guests: the somber wainscoted library, the exquisite music room, the east-facing breakfast room, the his-and-hers reception rooms. All in all, she preferred the simplicity and logic of twentieth-century living, not to mention her Mac computer. It was fun to imagine a life of extravagance, but living it seemed like an awful lot of work. Besides, look at what a fascination with the good life had done for her poor father. No: it was better not to pine.

  Nonetheless, steeped in extravagance and Strauss waltzes as she was tonight, Quinta discovered that she was pining like crazy. When Alan Seton took Mavis Moran in his arms and whirled her around the dance floor, Quinta felt decidedly crummy. When someone cut in for Mavis and Alan retired to the sidelines, Quinta still felt bad: Alan was staring at the auburn-haired woman far too intently. Then he and Mavis danced together again, and Quinta felt her spirits sink still more.

  After that, a young man who wrote for Yachting Magazine recognized fellow-journalist Quinta and asked her to dance. That made her feel even worse, because she didn't know how to dance ver
y well. It never occurred to her, as she disentangled her feet from her partner's, that maybe it was the young man who was making a botch of it.

  After the waltz was over, Quinta excused herself to go to the powder room. She took up her place in a line of gowned and jeweled beauties and thought, At last, the great equalizer—the line to the john. It made her feel better. Looking back over the evening so far, Quinta decided that her discomfort had begun when she stopped being a nicely dressed member of the audience and tried to join the troupe on stage. She never should've stepped out on that parquet floor. This was not the Regency period, and she was not a character in Jane Austen. Absolutely, positively, she had danced her last dance. There was only one thing to do: find the host, thank him for having invited her, and get the heck out. Enough was enough.

  After Quinta emerged from the powder room, she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and steamed full speed ahead for Alan Seton, who was standing off to one side of the dance floor, talking with someone commodore-ish. He saw her coming.

  "I was looking for you," Alan said with a smile she hadn't seen for three years. "Are you free for the next dance?"

  Free? To make a fool of herself? To set her heart on its ear for nothing? To tear out another strap of a brand-new pair of shoes?

  "Free as a butterfly," she answered instantly.

  As it happened, the gods conspired to prevent Quinta from having anything so rational as a second thought. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and she found herself being led gently but very firmly toward her personal Armageddon. She knew without looking that every eye was naturally focused on the star of the show, Alan Seton. And tomorrow over brunch they'd all rehash the ball and speculate about the bimbo in the polyester skirt.

  But that was tomorrow. Right now she was dancing! Dancing well! Never mind Alan's knock-down nearness; never mind the society photographer who stuck a large camera in their faces and flashed. Suddenly she was dancing, getting neither underfoot nor overfoot, gliding in three-quarter time to heavenly strains with the handsomest man in the ballroom. Suddenly it was all coming together for her: the rainbow swirls of long gowns, the flowers, the music, the lighting, the laughter. Suddenly she understood; and—polyester or no polyester—she belonged.

 

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