Embers

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  He drove her downtown, both of them talking and laughing and reminiscing at a mile a minute, and they checked into a hotel overlooking the lake, the park, and the fountain. There they made wild and completely indiscreet love for several hours without having to worry about paper-thin condo walls. They ordered in room service, because Meg had never had room service, and after that they made love again, and after that, Meg, still wired, said, "Let's go walking," because she was afraid to fall asleep, afraid that this was another dream, another vision.

  It was the middle of the night, and they were virtually alone in a city of four million. They walked down Michigan Avenue hand in hand, peering at the fabulously upscale wares displayed in the windows there, and then went around to State Street, because Tom wanted her to see the Christmas windows at Marshall Field's.

  "I've come here every Christmas since I was eight," he said, unable to keep the anticipation out of his voice as they approached the fabled department store. "I'd take an El down here myself and leave hand and noseprints on the windows from one end of the store to the other. I loved the village scenes, the happy families. I was a scruffy little urchin, and sometimes I'd have to panhandle for my return carfare. But I never missed the Christmas display. It gave my life ... hmm ... continuity, I guess."

  He leaned over as they walked side by side and kissed her lightly, his frosty breath mingling with hers. "Little did I know," he mused, "that I was gazing at my destiny."

  They came upon the first window, a traditional Santa's workshop scene, with Santa's elves sawing and hammering and Mrs. Claus serving up cookies to all the help, even the little guy who kept falling on his keister. The next several windows were village scenes, charming idylls where the inn and shopkeepers obviously never had to worry about paying the bills, and the carolers never got mugged. After that was a beautiful, elegant creche scene — Italian, Tom was certain.

  But it was the last window that held Meg and Tom fast in a sudden spell: a collection of dollhouses, each on its own pedestal, beautifully spotlighted and shimmering with their own sophisticated magic. At eye level above the others was the Eagle's Nest itself, with all its gabled rooms aglow. The open side faced away from State Street; one could only peek through the tiny latticed windows. A note explained that the dollhouse was on loan.

  Meg let out a cry of amazement and pressed her hands and nose against the store window for a closer look, much as Tom must've done in his urchin days.

  Tom said softly behind her, "Wherever she is, I hope she's at peace."

  Meg turned and slipped her arm through his. "I think she's even happier than we are," she said, absurdly happy herself.

  Tom squeezed her close. "Impossible."

  "Nothing," Meg said with a grin, "is impossible."

  Epilogue

  Allegra St. John tapped the cabdriver on the shoulder and said, "Stop! Pull into that space!"

  The driver said, "Sure, miss; but the Inn Between's another few blocks yet. You won't be wantin' to walk, not with all them packages you got with you."

  "Thank you. I don't intend to," she said. She pointed to the painted sign that hung over blue-and-white-checked café curtains in a small restaurant window: Comfort's Kitchen. "Do you know whether that's owned by Comfort Atwells?" she asked.

  "Yeah, sure; Lloyd's wife. Now that I think on it, you might be takin' your suppers there. They got some tie-in with the Inn Between. Make sure you ask for a meal voucher when you register. You don't want to miss Comfort's steamed blueberry pudding; her hard sauce is wicked good."

  Allie thought about marching into the café then and there, but the place was packed. Besides, she didn't want Comfort calling ahead and ruining the surprise.

  So. Comfort got her restaurant after all. Allie smiled and said, "You can keep going."

  The driver pulled out of the space and Allie settled back, more nervous now than at any time since the day a month ago when she decided to fly back to the States. In some ways the decision had been made for her: when one has reached the absolute bedrock of boredom; when one's husband has been sighted on a private beach with a nubile thing half one's own age; when one has tried it, spent it, seen it, toured it, swum it, and skied it... .

  That ‘s when a girl wants to come back home. If for no other reason than to find out how long and how far she‘s been gone.

  Allie closed her eyes, shutting out the last five years. She took a deep breath, then pulled herself together. Slipping a gold compact from her bag, she snapped it open to see deep violet eyes staring back at her, reassuring her that thirty was an age that only other people looked.

  Or was she wrong? Had she aged? Her face was flushed but untanned, despite her Mediterranean lifestyle. She'd used sunblock before sunblock was all the rage, and had worn long, flowing cover-ups while competing ingénues skipped across the hot sand in little more than dental floss.

  She'd driven more than one man wild with curiosity in the bargain.

  Five years! How did that happen? She began mentally going over the presents she'd brought with her. Too many? Would it look as if she were trying to buy her way back into the family's affection? She hoped not. The Swiss-made fly reel, the antique gold earrings, the checkers set crafted of ivory and inlaid wood, the funky solid-silver sheriff's badge that she'd found in a Paris flea market ... could anyone really object to such small, discreet trifles?

  Possibly the French doll with its couturier-filled trunk was a little extravagant, but Sally must be old enough by now to enjoy it. And Terry and Timmy — in their mid-teens, so hard to believe — could either use the Gucci wallets or throw them away, but they should be exposed to something besides Velcro-clad nylon to keep their money in.

  Allie sighed a jittery sigh and looked around. They were turning onto her old street. She regarded it not as a street of smart and pretty bed-and-breakfasts, but as it was in the old days, peely and friendly and a real neighborhood. She thought of Bobby Beaufort, who'd made a tree house and let only her in, no one else. The tree, a towering oak, was still there; she had no idea where Bobby was. When he got back from Switzerland after that wild, wild visit, he'd upped and got someone named Cora pregnant, and presumably he was with her still.

  That news had come in a letter from Meg, the last one Allie had had the heart to answer, over four years ago. After that, Allie had fallen off the edge of... somewhere. Into ... something. It was all such a blur now.

  But Bobby Beaufort wasn't. She smiled as she remembered the week he'd spent with her in St. Moritz, when she'd broken away from Dmitri and holed up with him at The Palace. What a pair they'd made! She in her Milan knock-offs, he in his funeral suit, stepping through the hotel's carved portal and down the seven fabled steps that led to The Restaurant, where princesses and playboys looked up and then down their noses at them.

  The sex had been phenomenal, the best she'd ever had, and it lasted until the money Bobby got from selling the Harley ran out. After that he went back to Maine and apparently found Cora. And after Bobby — because of Bobby — Allie ended up meeting St. John.

  The cab pulled up in front of the Inn Between and she was suddenly reminded of Tom Wyler's Cutlass and the way her heart pitter-pattered when she saw it parked in the same spot. Was it actually ever possible?

  The cabdriver began unloading her things on the curb. Allie raised one eyebrow and said, "Bring everything inside, please." She paid him generously and, without waiting, walked up the porch — the veranda — of the Inn Between.

  She stepped into the hall, the hall that had once seemed so wide and spacious to her: new wallpaper, new carpet, some furniture not quite old enough to be antique. It was much the same.

  No one came out to greet her. Nothing‘s changed, she thought, irrationally pleased. She looked around for the little service bell provided for the guests, the one she used to bang whenever she came in the front door, and found it on a linen-draped side cabinet. She took a deep, deep breath, then raised a perfectly manicured hand and brought it down on the bell with a
pain-n-n-ng.

  The next sound she heard was the high shriek of a child, followed by clump-clump footsteps running in her direction from the back rooms.

  "Rachel, honey, no, no!" came Meg's voice, gay and laughing, from the kitchen. "That's not Daddy. Daddy won't be here until suppertime —"

  A two-year-old with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and big hazel eyes stopped short when the tall woman with jet-black hair standing before her turned out not to be her daddy. Stuffing one hand in her mouth, Rachel looked up at Allie appraisingly, then laughed at her silly mistake, turned on her heel abruptly, and clump-clumped back toward the kitchen.

  Two seconds later, the tiny innkeeper's assistant was back again, pulling her mother by the skirt. Customer! was written all over Rachel's fat-cheeked little face.

  Allie laughed, then looked past the toddler at her mother, who was holding a carbon copy, only shyer, in her arms.

  "Meg — twins," she said softly, tears springing to her eyes.

  "Allie!"

  "I'm home, Meggie," said her younger sister. "I'm home."

  More for your Nook by Antoinette Stockenberg

  (Select a book title to visit the Nook Book Store and purchase a copy.)

  Coming next: 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.

  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.

  Select here to read a sample of Beyond Midnight.

  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?

  Select here to read a sample of Emily's Ghost.

  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.

  Click here to go to a sample of Beloved.

  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.

  Select here to read a sample of Time After Time.

  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.

  Click here to go to a sample chapter of Safe Harbor.

  Keepsake

  Wonderful, witty, humorous writing

  --The Romance Reader

  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 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 ...

  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 murder is uncovered that threatens the family, the nursery, and Laura's deepening relationship with him.

  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.

  If you enjoyed reading this novel, please "Like" Antoinette Stockenberg's Facebook author page!

  BEYOND MIDNIGHT Sample

  Antoinette Stockenberg

  "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.

  Chapter 1

  March.

  Helen Evett dropped a log into the jumpy flames of her cozy
hearth, then went over to the sitting room window and closed the heavy drapes of faded rose, muting the sound of sleet that tapped against the panes.

  This March will be different.

  She poured herself a glass of sherry, settled into a deep-cushioned chair in front of the fire, and cracked open the cover of a brand-new biography of Freud that she'd been meaning to read since Christmas.

  It's been four years now. Long enough.

  Five minutes into the book, Helen looked up and began staring at the flames, unable, after all, to shake herself free of the mood. March in Massachusetts was long, cold, and cruel, full of false hope. March was a liar. March couldn't produce a damn thing except April first, the anniversary of her husband's death.

  For four years in a row, Helen Evett had tried to convince herself that spring would be less painful. She had planted hundreds of snowdrops and burned cords of wood, and yet here she was, facing April again with dread. The memories of that fateful day had burned deep and left scars: the somber troop commander standing at her front door, the slow-motion ride to the hospital in a state police car, the shocking sight of Hank's gray, lifeless face.

  She hadn't dared pull the sheet farther back than his face; part of his chest, she knew, had been blown away.

  Helen sighed heavily. Things would get better after April first. But tonight it was still March.

  "Mom! I'm home!"

  In the hall outside the sitting room, Helen heard the satisfying thunk of the heavy oak door falling into place. One child back, one to go.

  "How're the roads?" she called out. Becky had good instincts and a level head, but her driver's license was so new it still smelled of plastic.