by Susan Wiggs
Praise for the novels of
SUSAN WIGGS
“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”
—Jodi Picoult
“Bestselling author Wiggs’s talent is reflected in her thoroughly believable characters as well as the way she recognizes the importance of family by blood or other ties.”
—Library Journal
“Wiggs is one of our best observers of stories of the heart…. She knows how to capture emotion on virtually every page of every book.”
—Salem Statesman-Journal
“Wiggs takes serious situations and weaves them into an emotionally wrought story that will have readers reaching for the Kleenex one moment and snickering out loud the next.”
—Publishers Weekly on Just Breathe
“Wiggs’s strongest and most vivid writing, a novel that bites into such loaded issues as adoption, estranged sisters, difficult teens…family secrets.”
—Seattle Times on Home Before Dark
“With the ease of a master, Wiggs introduces complicated, flesh-and-blood characters… [and] sets in motion a refreshingly honest romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Winter Lodge, starred review, a Best Book of 2007
“Wiggs explores many aspects of grief…presenting realistic and sympathetic characters. Another excellent title to her already-outstanding body of work.”
—Booklist on Table for Five, starred review
“Susan Wiggs writes with bright assurance, humor and compassion.”
—Luanne Rice
“[Wiggs] draws you into the tale with each passing page, allowing her characters’ emotions and motivations to flow out of the book and into your heart.”
—RT Book Reviews on Home Before Dark
“A classic beauty-and-the-beast love story that will stay in your heart long after you’ve turned the last page. A poignant, beautiful romance.”
—Kristin Hannah on The Lightkeeper
“A wonderfully written, beautiful love story with a few sharp edges and a bunch of marvelously imperfect characters, this is one of Wiggs’s finest efforts to date. It’s sure to leave an indelible impression on even the most jaded reader.”
—RT Book Reviews on Dockside
“An irresistible blend of The Ugly Duckling and My Fair Lady. Jump right in and enjoy yourself—I did.”
—Catherine Coulter on The Charm School
“Empathetic protagonists, interesting secondary characters, well-written flashbacks, and delicious recipes add depth to this touching, complex romance.”
—Library Journal on The Winter Lodge
“Wiggs has done an excellent job of depicting what lies beneath the surfaces of relationships—assumptions, misunderstandings, and expectations. She’s created a family in emotional transition and has explored their feelings so well that we feel as if we know her characters. Readers of LaVyrle Spencer…will also enjoy this emotion-filled novel of military life.”
—Booklist on The Ocean Between Us
“The Goodbye Quilt will resonate with any mother…. Susan Wiggs has told this intimate and yet universal story with elegance, wit and warmth. There’s real wisdom here, and an honesty that makes it memorable.”
—Debbie Macomber
Also by SUSAN WIGGS
Contemporary
HOME BEFORE DARK
THE OCEAN BETWEEN US
SUMMER BY THE SEA
TABLE FOR FIVE
LAKESIDE COTTAGE
JUST BREATHE
THE GOODBYE QUILT
The Lakeshore Chronicles
SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE
THE WINTER LODGE
DOCKSIDE
SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE
FIRESIDE
LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMER HIDEAWAY
MARRYING DAISY BELLAMY
Historical
THE LIGHTKEEPER
THE DRIFTER
The Tudor Rose Trilogy
AT THE KING’S COMMAND
THE MAIDEN’S HAND
AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS
Chicago Fire Trilogy
THE HOSTAGE
THE MISTRESS
THE FIREBRAND
Calhoun Chronicles
THE CHARM SCHOOL
THE HORSEMASTER’S DAUGHTER
HALFWAY TO HEAVEN
ENCHANTED AFTERNOON
A SUMMER AFFAIR
SUSAN WIGGS
LAKESIDE COTTAGE
To Martha Keenan, editor and dear friend, who shepherded twelve of my books to publication. Thanks for everything.
Contents
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PART FOUR
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
PART FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
RECIPES FOR SUMMER LIVING
ROCKIN’ CRAB DIP
PORCH SWING FRENCH TOAST
CAMPFIRE TROUT
CROWN OF ARTICHOKE HEART SALAD WITH GOAT CHEESE
ALL-SHOOK-UP ICE CREAM
S’MORES FOR DUMMIES
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
“…as you all are aware, the President looks forward to visiting some of our brave troops at Walter Reed on Christmas Eve. It’s an opportunity for the President to thank those in our military who have served and sacrificed to make the world a safer place, and make America more secure. He will also give remarks to the medical personnel at Walter Reed and thank them for the outstanding job they do. However, because of the space limitations, it will be an expanded pool. So it will probably just be one camera, and then the correspondents will be able to attend it….”
—The White House, Office of the Press Secretary
“Everybody loves a hero. People line up for them, cheer them, scream their names. And years later tell how they stood for hours in the cold rain just to catch a glimpse of the one who taught them to hold on a second longer. I believe there’s a hero in all of us who keeps us honest, gives us strength, makes us noble, and finally allows us to die with pride, even though sometimes we have to be steady, and give up the thing we want the most. Even our dreams.”
—Spider-Man 2
One
Washington, D.C.
Christmas Eve
The ambulance backing into the bay of Building One looked like any other rig. It appeared to be returning from a routine transport run, perhaps moving a patient to the stepdown unit, or a stabilized trauma victim to Lowery Wing for surgery. The rig had its customary clearance tags for getting through security with a minimum of hassle,
and the crew wore the usual crisply creased navy trousers and regulation parkas, ID tags dangling from their pockets. Even the patient looked ordinary in every respect, in standard-issue hospital draping, thermal blankets and an O2 mask.
Special Forces Medical Sergeant Jordan Donovan Harris wouldn’t have given the crew a second glance, except that he was bored and had wandered over to Shaw Wing, to the glassed-in observation deck on the mezzanine level. From there, he could view the ambulance bays and beyond that, Rock Creek Park and Georgia Avenue. The trees were bare and stark black against a blanket of snow, ink drawings on white paper. Traffic trundled along streets that led to the gleaming domes and spires of the nation’s capital. A fresh dusting of powder over the 147-acre compound gave the Georgian brick buildings of the Walter Reed Army Medical Center a timeless, frozen, Christmas-card look. Only the activity at the intake bays hinted that the campus housed the military’s highest level of patient care.
Although there was no one around, Harris knew he was being watched. There were more security cameras here than in a Las Vegas casino. It didn’t matter to him, though. He had nothing to hide.
Boredom was desirable in the life of a paramedic. The fact that he was idle meant nothing had gone wrong, no one’s world had been shattered by a motor-vehicle accident, an unfortunate fall, a spiking fever, an enraged lover with a gun. For the time being, no one needed saving. Yet for a medic, whose job was to save people, that meant there was nothing to do.
He shifted his stance, grimacing a little. His dress shoes pinched. All personnel present wore dress uniform today because the President was on the premises to visit ailing soldiers and spread holiday cheer. Of course, only a lucky few actually saw the Commander-in-Chief when he visited. His rounds were carefully orchestrated by the powers that be, and his entourage of Secret Service agents and the official press corps kept him walled off from ordinary people.
So Harris was a bit startled when he saw a large cluster of black suits and military brass exiting the main elevator below the mezzanine. Odd. The usual route for official visits encompassed Ward 57, where so many wounded veterans lay. Today it seemed the tour would include the in-processing unit, which had recently undergone renovations courtesy of a generous party donor.
The visitors flowed along a spotless corridor. Instinctively, Harris stiffened his spine and prepared to snap to, not that anyone would notice whether or not he did. Old habits died hard.
He let himself relax a little. From his glassed-in vantage point, he craned his neck for a glimpse of the world leader but saw only the press and bustle of the entourage, led by the sergeant major of the army. A moment later, a civilian administrator greeted everyone with a wide smile. She looked as gracious and welcoming as a Georgetown hostess. Apparently, her domain was on the itinerary and she appeared eager to point out its excellence.
Harris knew that her name was Darnelle Jefferson and that she had worked here for a quarter of a century. She was fond of telling that to anyone who would listen. Looking at her, you’d never guess what the regulars here knew—that like many civilian administrators, she tended to spend her entire day being a pain in the ass to all personnel and creating a mountain of paperwork to justify her own existence. Still, she looked cheerful and efficient in a Christmas-red dress with the requisite yellow ribbon pinned to her bosom, and the wattage of her smile increased as the impossible occurred. The President separated from the pack and stepped forward for a photo op.
Then, even more surprisingly, Mrs. Jefferson took charge of the tour, leading the group along the wide, gleaming corridor. Two cameramen trolled along beside them, the big lenses of their cameras capturing every movement and nuance for the nightly news. The party stopped off at the first intake room, where a wounded soldier had arrived from another facility. Harris knew that the official photos and film would portray the President with the soldier and his family in an intimate circle around the hospital bed. The pictures wouldn’t show the vigilant Secret Service, or the booms and mikes hovering just out of sight.
That’s showbiz, thought Harris. He didn’t understand how anyone could put up with public life. To have everyone’s scrutiny on you was a peculiar sort of torture, as far as he was concerned.
The entourage was on the move again, down the scrubbed hallway toward the Talbot Lounge, one of the newly renovated waiting areas, where a twelve-foot noble fir stood, decked in splendor by one of D.C.’s finest florists. They stopped for more photos. Harris could see flashes going off, but he’d lost sight of the President.
Elsewhere in the same wing, the recently delivered patient lay in an intake room flanked on two sides by wire-embedded glass walls. The transport crew had gone to the main desk to fill out their report, and no hospital personnel had arrived yet to in-process the newcomer. The staff members on duty were probably just like Harris, slacking off as they tried to get a look at the President. The patient lay alone, no family member or friend standing by to comfort him in this strange new world. Some people just didn’t have anybody. Harris himself might be a prime example of that, if not for Schroeder. He and Sam Schroeder had been best friends for years, since meeting in a battle zone in Konar Province, Afghanistan. Sam and his family made up all that was important to Harris, and he told himself it was enough.
He took the stairs down to the main level, hoping to get a look at the President’s face. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the fact that he’d spent a decade serving this country and another four years at the hospital, keeping people from dying. He sure as hell ought to be able to catch a glimpse of the President up close. A memo had advised that there would be a reception later at the hospital rec center—with the Gatlin Brothers performing—but that was sure to be a mob scene.
A pair of marines in dress blues stood sentinel at the double doors to the unit. Harris gestured with his clipboard and flashed his ID, projecting an air of brisk efficiency. Once inside the unit, he had to act busy or they’d know he was loitering in order to see the President, a practice that was frowned upon.
Harris stopped outside the admittance room where the new arrival lay. He took a chart from the U-shaped holder on the door, flipped up the metal cover and pretended to be studying it.
The sound of footsteps and voices grew louder as the presidential party approached.
“…new Cardiothoracic Stepdown Unit is equipped with state-of-the-art monitoring equipment,” Mrs. Jefferson explained in broad, grave tones. “It’s now our country’s leading center of clinical care, research and evaluation…” She droned on as though reading from a prepared script, and Harris tuned her out.
The party drew closer. Finally Harris caught a glimpse of the Commander-in-Chief. His expression was set in his trademark look of compassion. The President and the hospital administrator separated from the group. Darnelle Jefferson led the way toward the in-processing unit where the new arrival lay.
Damn, thought Harris, time to disappear. Quickly—but not too quickly—he slipped into an admit room, connected to the unit by a set of green swinging doors. By looking through the round portals, he could see straight through to the next two rooms. He focused on the new patient through the glass, expecting him to be lying there quiet and alone, probably scared shitless, unaware that the President of the United States was just a few steps away.
Except that the guy wasn’t quiet. For a cardiac patient, he seemed awfully busy, sitting up on the gurney, tearing away his mask.
Harris studied the chart he’d grabbed from the rack outside the door. Terence Lee Muldoon. He was a combat vet, a transferee from a U.S. military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. The chart listed him as twenty-five years old—damn young for heart trouble.
In his time, Harris had seen thousands of cardiac patients. The condition was always characterized by a grayish pallor and palpable look of fatigue.
Not this character. Even from a distance and through two sets of doors, Harris could see that his face was a healthy pink, his movements economical and assured.
&nbs
p; At that moment, the entourage stopped in the corridor and the President and Mrs. Jefferson entered Muldoon’s room. The glassed-in cubicle was too small to accommodate more visitors, and the bodyguards hovered outside, craning their necks, their gazes constantly on the move, their lips murmuring into their hidden radios. A pair of photographers pressed their camera lenses against the glass. The President greeted Muldoon with a handshake, then moved behind the gurney for the requisite photo op.
There was never a specific moment when Harris decided something was wrong. He never saw a maniacal gleam in the impostor’s eyes or heard some sort of evil cackle like in the movies. Real evil didn’t work that way. It was all quite…ordinary.
Sweet baby Moses, thought Harris.
There was also never a particular moment when Harris decided to take action. Making a decision implied a thought process that simply didn’t happen. Harris—and the unsuspecting President—had no time for that. Flipping the silent alert signal on his shoulder-mounted radio, he slipped through the double doors into the next in-processing room, adjacent to where the President was. He knew the security cameras were recording his movements, but the stranger next door didn’t appear to have noticed him.
Harris refrained from shouting or making any sudden movements. The patient was not yet aware of him, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He had to move fast, though, because his movements were going to look highly suspicious to the security cameras. Those watching him were going to think he was a nutcase or worse—a bad guy.
