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 another 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.
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A Month at the Shore Sample Prologue and Chapter 1
Antoinette Stockenberg
" 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.
Prologue
The day after eighth-grade graduation was the best and worst of Kendall's life.
He was minding his own business, which happened to be tracking down a snowy owl that had been sighted in a woods just outside of town, when he heard boys' voices farther up the trail.
He was sorry to hear them. He didn't want to be caught with a pair of expensive binoculars around his neck and looking for birds, so he got back on his bike with every intention of leaving the way he had come: quietly. As he pedaled off, the voices got more shrill—whoops and yelps, the sounds of small-town kids on the warpath. He would be fair game for them, he knew from experience, so he picked up his pace.
And then he heard the scream. It was a girl's cry, frightened and angry at the same time, and it sent chills up his back and arms. He slammed on the brakes so violently that his bike skidded on the soft path and went out from under him, falling on top of him and scraping across his pale, thin legs.
He righted the bike, but his hands and legs were shaking as he mounted it again and set off in the direction of the scream. Part of him was hoping and praying that it was all just fooling around; but part of him knew better.
He found them in a clearing next to the trail where he knew kids liked to hang out drinking and smoking—and, he had always assumed, having sex. Four boys had a girl cornered.
She was standing in front of the campfire rocks. Ken couldn't see her very well because she was shielded by the four boys. They were practically shoulder to shoulder, but one pair of shoulders stood higher and broader than the rest: they belonged to Will Burton, the doctor's son, a bully who had squeezed more than one allowance out of Ken on a Friday afternoon. Will's younger, red-haired brother Dagger was there, too, and two other kids that Ken didn't recognize.
"Hey!" he yelled at their backs, almost before he could think about it.
They all turned around at the same time, surprised and therefore pissed. But Ken wasn't looking at them, he was looking at her. He was stunned to realize that she had breasts; how had he never noticed that? She was clutching her torn shirt to herself, but he could see her dark pink nipple. Instantly he looked away. When he looked back again immediately, he saw that her face was all flushed and her cheeks were wet, and he felt desperately ashamed.
"Leave her alone," he said in a voice filled with fury.
Will Burton just laughed. "Ooh, I'm scared. What're you gonna do? Run and tell your daddy?"
The other boys snickered and approached him as he stood astride his bike.
He could have taken off. He didn't, because he wanted her to make a break for it. But she stayed right where she was! He couldn't believe it. She wasn't moving. It was like she was hypnotized or paralyzed or something. She was looking straight at him and nobody else. He was ashamed in advance for what he knew was going to happen to him.
He became aware of the crack of branches underfoot as one of the boys he didn't know took up a position behind him. Instinctively he glanced over his shoulder at him. At the same instant, Dagger Burton grabbed his binoculars out of his bike basket.
Dagger turned away and aimed the binoculars straight at her breasts while Ken and the others remained in their standoff. Everything seemed to go on hold while Dagger did his thing.
"Shit, I can't see anything," Dagger said after fiddling with the adjustments. "Everything's blurry. I must be too close."
Stupidly, Dagger began backing away from her in an attempt to get in better focus.
So that left three.
"Leave her alone," Ken said, controlling the quaver that hovered at the back of his voice. "Get out now, and I won't tell anyone."
Will Burton was only a year older than Ken but just then seemed twice his size, minimum. He snorted and said, "Who's gonna make me? You—Skinnykenny? What a dork."
Ken tried to make his voice sound strong. "Leave her alone." But his voice broke and the last word came out like a hiccup, and everyone laughed, except her, of course.
He didn't dare look at her; he was so totally mortified. For her, for him, for both of them. He was rich and she was poor, but at that moment both of them were equals.
Hulking Will Burton waited until the snickers died down, and then in a voice that was way calmer and deeper than Ken's, he said: "Dork."
It was true. Ken was a dork; he knew he was a dork. But there was something about being called one in front of her that made something inside of him snap. He threw down his bike and went wading into Will Burton: head down, arms flailing, landing punches half in the air. But he made contact, too—for the stolen allowances, for the snickers, and mostly for that exposed nipple, which he knew was now burned into his memory for life. He hated them all, hated them for their contempt for anyone who wasn't as cool as they were.
They punched him and kicked him and he tasted his own blood, but still he kept flailing. His eyes were shut, so he couldn't tell if she was taking off or not. Before he could get the chance to look, he felt a hard whack on the back of his head—he was pretty sure, from his brand-new binoculars.
Chapter 1
"Here he comes at last."
Against a blood-red sun sliding into a dark blue sea, a beat-up Subaru without a muffler wheezed its way toward the two sisters standing on the knoll.
Laura Shore was dismayed by the bedraggled sight: it was so typically Shore.
"Well, he missed Dad's funeral," she said, sighing. "Why should I be surprised that he's missed the memorial?"
"You're not being fair," her sister protested in their brother's defense. "Six months ago, Snack was in jail for stealing a car."
"Yeah. Obviously not the one he's driving," Laura said dryly. "Will you look at that wreck? I'll bet he went out of his way to drive right down Main in it, tooting to
everyone in sight."
Corinne grinned and said, "That's our Snack."
It had always amazed Laura that her sister was so willing to accept their brother's outlandish, provocative behavior. But then, Corinne had managed to live at home with their father until the day that he died. She'd been tempered in a very hot fire.
"What do you want to bet he stopped at Foxwoods?" Laura said.
"Today? Snack wouldn't do that."
"Wouldn't hit the slots? Since when?"
"Not today," Corinne insisted.
It might have been the ocean damp, it might have been their father's grave: suddenly Corinne shivered in her thin cotton sweater and had to hug herself. "I'll bet he had car trouble. It's a miracle that he made it all the way here from Tijuana in that thing."
"Tijuana. God." Laura turned her back on the noisy, smoking car in time to see the last sliver of orange dip below the horizon, leaving behind a rich tapestry of gold, blue, and lavender sky. It was a spectacular Cape Cod sunset, and despite her resentment at being summoned back home by her younger sister, Laura felt the pull of the moment.
"Why," she asked with grudging wonder, "would Snack move to Tijuana when he could have stayed here?"
Corinne shrugged. "Why did you go off to live in Oregon? To make a mark, I suppose."
"I could just as well have made my mark in Chepaquit," Laura said quickly, rounding on her younger sister. "That is not why I left. I left to get as far away from Dad as I could."
"And from everyone else around here, Laura. Admit it."
"If you mean, from some of the people in this stifling, small-minded town—then, yes, I suppose so."
"Mm-hmm. You and Snack. You're more alike than you know."
It was a startling comparison, and Laura didn't like it at all. Corinne was a shy, sweet, totally naive homebody who'd virtually never ventured off the Cape. How could she possibly have any insight into people?
Laura had to ask. "Corinne—just what, exactly, did you mean by that?"
Corinne shrugged. "You know. Big chip on the shoulder? You and Snack just deal with it in opposite ways, that's all." Her gaze was locked on the Subaru now, and she was waving her arm in broad arcs.
"I do not have a chip on my—"
Snack beeped loudly half a dozen times in return, making Laura wince. "The man is driving in a graveyard," she snapped, "not in a St. Patrick's Day parade."
"Laura, stop. You haven't seen one another since Mom's funeral. Bend a little, won't you? It's been so long since we've all been together."
"Three years isn't so long. Anyway, Snack could have come to visit me this past Christmas, when you did."
"How? He had to be in court."
Laura smiled grimly. "Case closed. So to speak."
But she was still smarting from her sister's observation. Laura and Snack, two sides of the same warped coin? It wasn't possible. Corinne didn't know what she was talking about. She hadn't taken a psychology course in her life—hadn't had the chance to go to college, period—whereas Laura had worked and scrimped and saved and earned not only a degree in computer science, but a minor in psychology as well.
And never once, during all of the psych courses she'd taken at Oregon State, had it occurred to her that she and Snack shared the same motivation for their respective behavior. The same genes, yes. Apparently. But not the same motivation.
The very thought was laughable.
Snack stopped at the end of the winding lane, got out of the car, and began climbing the rest of the way with long-legged strides. A cigarette dangled from his lips; he pitched it over a headstone and smiled at his sisters sheepishly.
"Brakes went out," he explained when he got near. "Just over the line in Jersey. I had to tip a mechanic thirty extra bucks, all I had, to work late. So I'm starving, incidentally. And I blew it anyway—didn't I, big sister?" he added with an edgy and yet good-natured smile at Laura. "I know, I know: thirty-one, and what a mess. Go on. Say it. I'm waiting."
Same old Snack.
Laura said nothing.
He laughed and took in the sweep of Nantucket Sound that lay before them and, with a wink at Corinne, said, "Great view. Dad picked a good spot. Morning sun, sheltered from the wind—not bad. Not bad at all. Ever notice that about graveyards in these old towns? They're always on primo real estate. Yep. Every single one I've ever—"
Suddenly Corinne threw her arms around Snack and began to cry. Taken aback, Snack murmured comforting words without making whole sentences out of them, patting her back as he spoke. Over her shoulder he cocked his head at his older sister, a half-smile of query on his lips: were they friends, or were they not?
Laura brushed a few grains of sand from the silk skirt of her dark gray ensemble and then let her glance drift from it to her brother's greasy jeans and denim jacket. "I see you dressed for the occasion?"
A corner of Snack's thin, finely drawn lips lifted a little higher, and he shrugged. "Dad wouldn't have recognized me any way else."
Laura made a dismissive sound and said, "The fog will be rolling in soon. We'd better get back to the house. Come on, Rinnie. Snack can follow us in his car."
Corinne withdrew from her brother's embrace and wiped her eyes with outstretched fingers. "No, wait. Snack needs to say ... hello, and I guess goodbye. We'll wait for you by your car," she said to him in gentle command.
She linked her arm through Laura's and led her away, giving their younger brother a quiet moment in which to pay his respects, whatever they happened to be.
Corinne walked down the grassy knoll without looking back, but Laura had no such compunctions. She glanced over her shoulder to see Snack standing at the foot of their father's grave, its new headstone obscured under bunches of flowers from the family nursery. Snack's head was bowed, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.
Despite her desire not to care, Laura found herself wondering what was going through Snack's head. Was he really reflecting, or was he just faking it? Was he feeling what she had felt earlier in that same spot—confusion, and a horrible, wrenching emptiness? Or was he simply wondering what Corinne, a wonderful cook, had whipped up for them for supper?
With Snack, it was always hard to tell.
After a moment, he bobbed his head and then turned and hurried to catch up with his siblings. Even in the fading light, Laura could see that his thin, boyish face was pale. His voice was subdued as he said, "I could damn well use a drink about now."
"What else is new?" Laura murmured from the other side of Corinne.
Her brother snapped, "Not your attitude, that's for sure."
"There's nothing wrong with my—"
"Stop! Both of you—stop. Think where you are."
Embarrassed by the reprimand, Laura said stiffly, "She's right, Snack. Truce." She held out her hand and shook her brother's firmly when he accepted her offer.
Corinne, presiding over the handshake, sounded relieved. "Good. This has to be a team effort if my plan's going to be a success."
"Success? I'm not used to the sound of that word," Snack quipped.
"What're you talking about?" Laura asked. "What plan?"
Corinne pulled out a rubber band from the pocket of her skirt and began binding her long, sun-streaked hair in a ponytail. With a sweet and gentle smile, she said, "I'm going to make you both an offer you can't refuse."
Snack was all ears. "Oh? Whaddya got?"
"Follow me. You'll see."
Corinne climbed into the nursery's pickup truck, a blue Chevy that was older than Snack's Subaru but not quite as rusted, and Laura climbed in beside her.
"What're you up to, Corinne?" she demanded to know. "Whatever it is, it had better be quick. I leave tomorrow."
Corinne merely smiled. "You'll see."
They were about to pull out when they were halted by the sound of Snack yelling after them to hold it.
Laura groaned. "Now what?"
They climbed back out of the truck. Snack was standing beside the Subaru. "It won't s
tart," he announced in that half-smug, half-defiant voice that they knew so well. "If I had to guess, I'd say it's the solenoid, but who knows? I think the old girl took a look around and thought, 'What the hell, this is as good a place as any to die.' "
"Do you want us to tow you?" Corinne asked.
"No," Laura said quickly. "We'll leave it here. A tow truck can come for it in the morning. It's not exactly blocking traffic."
Them towing Snack. It was all Laura needed: a decrepit truck towing a decrepit car through the middle of town on a Saturday night. She could hear the old snickers so clearly. Oh, how she hated being back!
Snack took his duffelbag out of the Subaru's trunk and tossed it in the back of the pickup, and then he squeezed into the front seat next to Laura. It was predictably tight, and Snack was ripe from his long drive.
"Just like old times, huh?" he said, tugging at Laura's blunt-cut hair. "Remember how Dad used to throw us all in the back of the truck for cranberry harvest?"
The word "cranberry" sent Laura hurtling back in time. For a year or two at the end, when money was especially hard to come by, their father had dragged them off to the cranberry bogs like migrant workers, and that's exactly what they had looked like as they rode in the back of the truck in plain view of everyone in Chepaquit. Oliver Shore was the sole surviving heir to a fourth-generation nursery, and yet he ran it so badly that he'd had to farm out his own children.
Driving out to the bogs hadn't been too unbearable, because few people were up and around at that early hour; but coming back, they had felt painfully on display. They were teenagers, after all; the experience was excruciating. Laura used to pull her baseball cap as far down over her eyes as she could, not because she thought she was disguising herself, but because at least then she couldn't see who was laughing at her.
A Charmed Place Page 36
