by Edie Claire
She couldn’t see Thane’s reaction, which was the one and only bad thing about being wrapped in his arms with her cheek nestled close to his heart. But the low rumble of his laughter told her he understood.
Author’s Note
I hope you enjoyed Glacier Blooming! If this is the first book you’ve read in the Pacific Horizons series, please check out Alaskan Dawn to see where it all begins. If you’d like to read the entire series at an affordable price (including a special bonus scene for Alaskan Dawn), please check out Edie Claire Collections on my website. Then get ready for Tofino Storm, in which Jason Buchanan finds an unlikely love amidst the wicked surf of British Columbia! You can find out when this and other new books are released by signing up for my New Book Alert. For audiobook lovers, the Pacific Horizons series is also available from Audible with a host of award-winning narrators.
To sample one of my other works of romantic women’s fiction, skip ahead for an excerpt from Meant to Be, one of my Fated Loves collection and the story of another adult adoptee. Each of the stand-alone novels in this collection tells the story of a woman facing a harrowing life journey that is in turns heart-pounding, heartrending, and heartwarming. In Fated Loves, as in all my books, readers can be assured of a happy ending as well as an occasional touch of humor!
To find out more about my other romantic series, as well as the USA-Today bestselling Leigh Koslow mysteries, please visit www.edieclaire.com. I always enjoy hearing from readers via email, so if you’re so inclined, please drop me a note at [email protected]. Thanks so much for reading!
Books and Plays by Edie Claire
www.edieclaire.com
ROMANTIC FICTION
Fated Loves Collection
Long Time Coming
Meant To Be
Borrowed Time
Pacific Horizons Series
Alaskan Dawn
Leaving Lana'i
Maui Winds
Glacier Blooming
Tofino Storm (2019)
Hawaiian Shadows Series
Wraith
Empath
Lokahi
The Warning
WOMEN’S FICTION
The Mud Sisters
LEIGH KOSLOW MYSTERIES
Never Buried
Never Sorry
Never Preach Past Noon
Never Kissed Goodnight
Never Tease a Siamese
Never Con a Corgi
Never Haunt a Historian
Never Thwart a Thespian
Never Steal a Cockatiel
Never Mess with Mistletoe
Never Murder a Birder
HUMOR
Work, Blondes. Work!
COMEDIC STAGE PLAYS
Scary Drama I
See You in Bells
Excerpt from Meant to Be
Copyright © 2004 by Edie Claire
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
When the call came, I had been thirty years old for all of one day. Yet the lemon cake I had baked was already down to crumbs and a smudge of frosting on the plate. The bottle of champagne that I had fully intended to sip slowly stood empty on my counter, surrounded by the tattered bits of cork I had chipped out of it with a screwdriver. My head ached, and my mind was murky. I was unaccustomed to alcohol in general, cheap champagne in particular. All I knew was that last night, I had felt the need to celebrate.
It had been a long time since I had celebrated much of anything.
The beeping of the phone reverberated painfully through my skull, displacing, albeit temporarily, the relentless ringing of my own words in my ears—resolutions made in the midst of my revelry; resolutions I was, even in the excruciating light of morning, determined to keep.
If it was Todd again, I wasn’t going to talk to him. He could beg and he could plead, but I would not let him get to me. I would simply hang up—and if that was rude, so be it. The man was not a part of my life anymore. Period.
I picked up the phone.
“Hello,” a woman’s voice said politely. She identified herself as an administrator at a hospital I’d never heard of. “Is this Ms. O’Rourke? Meara O’Rourke?”
I confirmed that it was.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she continued, “but we have your mother here as a trauma patient. She was in a car accident several days ago, and has only now been able to give us enough information to contact you.”
I lifted the receiver away from my ear and stared at it with bleary eyes, as if doing so would somehow result in the woman’s words making sense. The effort failed.
“I’m afraid there must be some mistake,” I answered, returning the phone to my head and rubbing the opposite, throbbing temple. “My mother passed away over a month ago.”
My voice was steady as I said the words, and I was proud of that. My mother’s death had not been a surprise; it had come at the end of a protracted illness, as had my father’s, five years before. In both instances I had functioned as the primary caregiver, the emotional rock. But the reality of my mother’s death had hit me far harder than anticipated. I had been an only child; now I was alone. There was no extended family to lean on, no one with whom to share my grief. Only Todd.
What a joke that had turned out to be.
There was a long pause on the line before the woman spoke again. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Ms. O’Rourke. Ms. Sheila Black is a patient here, and she has identified you as her daughter and next of kin. A Mr. Mitchell Black, her husband, was killed in the same accident. We spoke with his family when Ms. Black was admitted, but apparently the couple had only been married a short while. His children were not able to provide any information about her, or we would have contacted you sooner.”
The throbbing ceased—replaced with a gnawing coldness in the pit of my stomach.
Sheila. Could it be?
My mind began to replay the image of an afternoon six years before, an afternoon I had resolved to forget.
I had taken only two steps inside the coffee shop before catching sight of the woman I was there to meet. I had known her at once; even a child could see the resemblance. Though her auburn hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, the wavy tendrils that escaped around her face betrayed the same, unruly tresses I was obliged to battle. Her eyes were just as brown, her cheekbones high, her lips full. Her face was only slightly rounder than my own, her nose a tad more prominent. Physically, she appeared fit and around forty, yet something about her countenance implied a greater age. Or perhaps, experience beyond her years.
When her gaze caught mine, her eyes widened. Her wrist faltered, and a liberal dollop of coffee splashed onto the red and white checked tablecloth below.
So, I had thought with a smile. My clumsiness must be inherited.
Meara? The woman had asked hopefully, attempting to mop up the coffee with a tiny square of napkin.
Yes, that’s me, I had responded, my heart pounding against my breastbone. And you must be Sheila.
The voice on the other end of the phone now grew concerned. “Ms. O’Rourke? Are you all right? I’m sorry about the confusion, but we do need to straighten this out. Do you know this woman? Sheila Black?”
My response caught in my throat. Did I know her? No, I did not. I had met her only once. A cup and a half of coffee for me; three for her, plus the spilled one. Two Danishes, neither finished. We had both been far too nervous to eat.
I’m so very glad you could meet me here, she had said, studying my face as if trying to memorize it. I had found myself doing the same. I’m sure you must have a lot of questions, she had continued, fidgeting with her cutlery.
Questions? Of course I had questions. My parents had been two of the most loving people on earth, but because they had had a tendency to panic whenever the subject of my adoption was raised, I had learned at an early age to consider the topic taboo. Only after I had finished school and was living on my own did I even contemplate searching for the woman who had given birth
to me. Once I made the decision to sign on to a registry, however, I had received a call within days. Yes, the intermediary had explained, my biological mother was also registered. And she wanted to meet me.
I trained my mind back on the present. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. Then I winced. Ceasing to apologize for anything and everything had been Resolution #2—broken already. “What I mean to say,” I corrected, “is that I may know of the woman you’re referring to. Was her maiden name Johnson?”
Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. “The only other name I have is Tressler. Are you saying that you are not this woman’s daughter, then? Perhaps we misunderstood. She is having some difficulty speaking.”
I let out a breath, and my lungs shuddered. “No,” I answered. “You probably heard her right. My birth mother’s name is Sheila, that much I know.” Tears of frustration welled up behind my eyes. I had worked hard to close this particular door, and I didn’t want anyone muscling it open again. Particularly Sheila herself.
“I’m sor—” This time I caught myself. I cleared my throat. “I didn’t make the connection at first because I haven’t seen or heard from her in years. And the truth is, I’m not sure I wish to see or hear from her now.”
Another silence passed, after which the woman said, slowly and pointedly, “Ms. Black is in critical condition, Ms. O’Rourke. The doctors are not at all certain that she will recover from her injuries. Her instructions to the nurses were that she wanted to speak to you. I don’t know what else I can say.”
Guilt swelled within me as the memory of Sheila’s sweet, concerned voice badgered my mind. Is there anything else you want to say? she had offered. We had talked for forty-five minutes. I thought everything had gone splendidly.
May I contact you again? I had asked. Exuberant, optimistic, naive. She had smiled and written her address and phone number on the back of one of the coffee shop’s customer survey cards. I had thrust it in my purse, my heart full of hope for our future relationship. An uncertain one at best, yet for the first time in my life, one not totally out of reach.
I’ll call you sometime, I had said as we parted.
I’ll look forward to it, she had answered.
I had lived in the clouds for weeks afterward… until the day I worked up enough nerve to invite her to a home-cooked dinner. Only then did I discover that the number she had given me was that of a pizza delivery outlet, no employee of which had ever heard of a Sheila Johnson. The street address hadn’t existed at all.
My hand began to shake as I held the phone. I tried to steady it, but the pain of that moment, once remembered, was difficult to dislodge.
How could she? How could she cut me out of her life not once, but twice—deigning to claim me only in her hour of greatest need?
“I’ll leave you to think about it, Ms. O’Rourke,” the administrator concluded. “Let me give you directions to the hospital, just in case.”
My hand reached for a pen, and with unstable fingers I scratched down the information. We hung up, and I stood for a long time, staring idly at the letters and numbers. Sheila was at a community hospital in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Mountains. I was living north of Pittsburgh. It was a two-hour drive, maybe less. Two hours was all that separated us. All that separated me from final closure—or, perhaps, from even greater heartache.
The old Meara would have vacillated—afraid to reopen wounds, afraid to offend. But eventually, she would have decided to go. She would have gone because she felt obligated, because she felt she owed something to the woman who gave her life, no matter what else that woman had—or had not—done for her.
But not the new Meara. The new Meara—as of yesterday—was taking responsibility for her own life and her own happiness.
I would make that same trip to the hospital, yes. But I wouldn’t be doing it for Sheila. I would be doing it for me.
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Edie
