by Susan Wiggs
“I got better and had your little brother, and you fell in love. Seems pretty perfect to me.”
“It feels pretty perfect. I thought I was supposed to be off saving the world.”
“There are lots of ways to do that,” Nina said. “Your children’s program at Camp Kioga is going to change lives, just the way it did last summer.”
“Only not on camera, please,” she said.
“Zach’s got other plans for his camera,” Nina said.
“We’re going to make it work, Mom,” Sonnet vowed.
“There was never any doubt.”
The window had fogged up, so Sonnet used the side of her hand to wipe a spot. “Zach just got here,” she said. “Mom, come look.”
Even now that Sonnet was used to being in love with Zach, she still found the sight of him thrilling, especially today. He was the tallest guy in the wedding party, hurrying toward the door amidst his buddies.
In a tailored tux of black superfine, he moved with lanky grace, his long pale hair flowing out behind him like the cape of a superhero. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
“Why didn’t I see it?” she asked her mother. “When we were growing up and going through school together, why didn’t I realize he was my future?”
“Because we humans are complicated, aren’t we? Sometimes it takes a long time to see what’s been in front of us all along.”
“And then I almost lost him,” Sonnet said, her breath misting against the glass. “I got scared and I almost blew it. Don’t let me do that again, Mom.”
“I’m not worried. The two of you are going to be great together.”
“I just remember standing here before Daisy’s wedding, thinking he had no possible place in my future. I’ve been trying to figure out how he changed from an old high school friend into Prince Charming. Then I realize I’m the one who changed, not him.”
“I feel another embroidered pillow coming on.” Nina laughed at Sonnet’s expression. “Kidding. Maybe.”
Olivia and Daisy helped Sonnet down the stairs to the anteroom located just outside the main hall. One by one, the members of the bridal party stepped through the double doors, made a pivot turn, and headed down the aisle. Sonnet couldn’t see what was happening but she knew the hired videographer, a kid just out of film school who had been handpicked by Zach, would capture every moment.
A few minutes later, Sonnet found herself alone with her mother again. Just beyond the doorway, the ceremony was about to get underway. Murmurs of excitement and a drift of sweet music reminded her—she was about to get married. She would leave this place a different person than the one who had entered.
A flurry of butterflies took flight inside her. “What do you say?” she asked her mother. “Shall I go get married?”
Nina grinned. “There’s no time like the present.”
“Then let’s do this thing.” Sonnet’s voice was on the verge of breaking. She took a deep breath.
Nina’s grin turned to a soft smile, and her dark eyes took on an expression that pulled Sonnet into days gone by, when it had just been the two of them, making their way in the world together. There had been hard times and frustration, but plenty of love and laughter, too. A wave of gratitude swept over Sonnet. “Mom, I’m glad you’re here.”
They both knew what she meant by here.
“So am I,” Nina told her, and tears sparkled in her eyes.
“You’re going all mushy on me, aren’t you?” Sonnet said, fighting the prickle of emotion in her throat.
“Yeah, baby. I am. My fabulous, amazing daughter is a bride. My mind is blown. I hope I can remember what I’m supposed to do and say.”
“You will, Mom,” Sonnet assured her. “You’ll rise to the occasion. You always do.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
The music gently shifted to the song Sonnet had chosen for their processional. Eddie Haven, the lead singer of the band, launched into an acoustic version of a sweet song to accompany Sonnet and Nina down the aisle.
“Wow,” said Sonnet, “it’s really happening, Mom. Finally.”
“Yes,” Nina agreed. “Finally.”
They paused to collect themselves one last time. A small, mullioned window in the anteroom offered a view of Willow Lake. The rain’s silvery mist softened the colors of the trees and gardens outside, and a muted hush made it seem like the world was holding its breath. The sheer beauty of the lake, nestled between the gentle swells of the Catskills, made her heart ache. She was home now. Home.
Nina took her hand and together, they stepped through the door.
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
A very special thank-you from me and PAWS of Bainbridge Island to the ever-generous Judy Hartstone and the adorable Jolie.
Winston Churchill once said, “When you are going through hell, keep going.” Life threw me a lot of curveballs during the writing of this book, and I am deeply grateful for the steady support of my beloved family and friends. You know who you are, so I won’t embarrass you by telling your names to a bunch of strangers.
Writing a book can be a lonely business. Picture yourself shouting down a well, wondering if anyone can hear you. A lot of the time, the process feels something like that. Thank heaven for my first readers, fellow writers Elsa Watson, Sheila Roberts, Lois Faye Dyer, Kate Breslin and Anjali Banerjee. I’m also privileged to work with the best in the business—Lindsey Bonfiglio of Beyond Novel, my editor Margaret O’Neill Marbury and the team at MIRA books, and Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency. For someone who makes a living with words, this is a hard thing to admit—there are no words.
Keep reading for an excerpt of Fireside by Susan Wiggs!
“Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.” —Jodi Picoult
Don’t miss the rest of the Lakeshore Chronicles series by New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs. Available wherever ebooks are sold.
Lakeside Cottage
Summer at Willow Lake
The Winter Lodge
Dockside
Snowfall at Willow Lake
Fireside
Lakeshore Christmas
The Summer Hideaway
Marrying Daisy Bellamy
Return to Willow Lake
Susan’s sweeping historical trilogy, the Chicago Fire, is also in ebook format.
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One
LaGuardia Airport
Concourse C
Gate 21
The dark glasses didn’t hide a thing, not really. When people saw someone in dark glasses on a cloudy day in the middle of winter, they assumed the wearer was hiding the fact that she’d been drinking, crying or fighting.
Or all of the above.
Under any number of circumstances, Kimberly van Dorn enjoyed being the center of attention. Last night, when she’d donned her couture gown with its scandalous slit up the side, turning heads had been the whole idea. She’d had no idea the evening would implode
the way it had. How could she?
Now, at the end of a soul-flattening red-eye flight, she kept her shades on as the plane touched down and taxied to the Jetway. Coach. She never flew coach. Last night, however, first class had been sold out, personal comfort had taken a backseat to expediency, and she’d found herself in seat 29-E in the middle of the middle section of the plane, wedged between strangers. Sometimes the need to get away was more powerful than the need for legroom. Although her stiff legs this morning might argue that point.
Who the hell had designed coach class, anyway? She was convinced she had the imprint of her seatmate’s ear on her shoulder. After his fourth beer, he kept falling asleep, his head lolling onto her. What was worse than a man with a lolling head?
A man with a lolling head and beer breath, she thought grimly, trying to shake off the torturous transcontinental night. But the memories lingered like the ache in her legs—the lolling guy with a snoring problem, and, on her other side, an impossibly chatty older gentleman, who talked for hours about his insomnia. And his bursitis. And his lousy son-in-law, his fondness for fried sweet potatoes and his dislike of the Jude Law movie Kim was pretending to watch in hopes of getting him to shut up.
No wonder she never flew coach. Yet the nightmare flight was not the worst thing that had happened to her lately. Far from it.
She stood in the aisle, waiting for the twenty-eight rows ahead of her to deplane. The process seemed endless as people rummaged in the overhead bins, gathering their things while talking on mobile phones.
She took out her phone, thumb hovering over the power button. She really ought to call her mother, let her know she was coming home. Not now, though, she thought, putting the phone away. She was too exhausted to make any sense. Besides, for all she knew, the thing had one of those tracking features, and she didn’t feel like being tracked.
Now that she’d arrived, she wasn’t in such a big hurry. In fact, she was utterly unprepared to face a dreary midwinter morning in New York. Ignoring the stares of other passengers, she tried to act as though traveling in an evening gown was a routine occurrence for her, and hoped people would just assume she was a victim of lost luggage.
If only it could be that simple.
Shuffling along the narrow aisle of the coach section, she definitely felt like a victim. In more ways than one.
She left behind a scattering of sequins in the aisle. There was a reason clothes like this were designated as “evening wear.” The silk charmeuse dress, encrusted with sequins, was meant to be worn in the romantic semidarkness of a candlelit private club or Southern California garden, lit by tiki torches. Not in the broad, unforgiving daylight of a Saturday morning.
It was funny, she thought, how even a couture gown from Shantung on Rodeo Drive managed to look tawdry in the morning light. Especially when combined with a side slit, bare legs and peep-toe spike heels with a crisscross ankle strap. Only last night, every detail had whispered class. Now her outfit screamed hooker. No wonder she was getting funny looks.
But last night, in the middle of everything, Kim hadn’t been thinking about the morning. She’d just been thinking about getting away. It seemed as though a million years had passed since then, since she’d dressed so carefully, so filled with hope and optimism. Lloyd Johnson, star of the Lakers and the biggest client of the PR firm she worked for, was at the pinnacle of his career. More importantly for Kimberly, he’d found his dream house in Manhattan Beach. They planned to live there together. It was supposed to be her night, a moment of triumph, maybe even a life-changing occasion if Lloyd had decided to pop the question. Well, it had been life-changing, just not in the way she’d anticipated. She had sunk everything she had into her career as a sports publicist. And overnight, that had crumbled. She was Jerry Maguire without the triumphant ending.
She finally reached the front of the aircraft, murmuring a thank-you to the flight attendants as she passed. It wasn’t their fault the flight had been so miserable, and they’d been up all night, too. Then, just as she stepped onto the Jetway, the security doors opened and a ground-crew guy in a jumpsuit and earphones blew in on a gust of frigid wind.
The arctic air slapped her like a physical assault, tearing at the silk dress and skimming over her bare legs. She gasped aloud and gathered a fringed wrap—the only outerwear she had—around her bare shoulders, clutching it in one fist, her jewel-encrusted peacock evening bag in the other.
Sweet, merciful Lord. She had forgotten this—the East Coast cold that simply had no rival anywhere in California. She grabbed her long red hair but was too late. It had already been blown into a terrifying bouffant, and she was fairly sure she’d lost an earring. Lovely.
Holding her head high, she emerged from the Jetway and entered the terminal, walking at a normal, unhurried pace, though she wanted to collapse. The red-soled Louboutins with their three-inch heels, which had looked so fabulous with the single-shoulder sheath, now felt hideous on her feet.
Silently cursing the couture shoes and clutching the silk wrap around her, she scanned the concourse for an open shop to buy something to wear on the last leg of the trip, to the town of Avalon up in the Catskills, where her mother now lived. Last night, there had been no time to grab anything, even if she had been thinking straight. She’d made the flight with moments to spare.
To her dismay, all the kiosks and shops along the way were still closed; never had she craved a pair of flip-flops and an I ♥ NY T-shirt more. It was a long walk to the commuter concourse, especially in these heels.
She passed people in warm winter clothes, probably heading up to the mountains for a weekend of fun. She pretended not to notice the looks of speculation, the comments whispered behind snugly gloved hands. Ordinarily, other people’s opinions were her first concern. But not today. She was too tired to care what people were saying about her.
Across the way stood a guy, leaning with his foot propped against the wall, staring at her. Okay, so a lot of guys were staring at her, since she was dressed like an escapee from a Hooters convention. He was easily six foot five and had long hair, and he wore cargo pants and an army surplus parka with wolf fur around the hood.
She was an idiot for not being able to ignore him. Men were her downfall; she should know better. And—please, Lord, no—with a leisurely air, he pushed away from the wall and seemed to be ambling toward her. Kim had never been much of a student of literature, but as he advanced on her, she found herself remembering a phrase coined by Dorothy Parker—What fresh hell is this?
More quickly than was prudent in the skinny heels, she headed for the moving walkway, wishing it could be a magic carpet, whisking her away from her troubles. She stepped aboard—and felt one of her heels sink down between the grooves of the walkway. Gritting her teeth, she tried to tug her foot free. As she did so, the other heel sank into another groove.
And just when she thought the day could not get any worse, it did.
ISBN: 9781459234505
Copyright © 2012 by Susan Wiggs
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