Also by Heather Heyford
First Comes Love
The Sweet Spot
The Oregon Wine Country Romances
The Crush
Intoxicating
Kisses Sweeter Than Wine
The Napa Wine Heiresses Romances
A Taste of Chardonnay
A Taste of Merlot
A Taste of Sauvignon
A Taste of Sake
Right All Along
A Willamette Valley Romance
HEATHER HEYFORD
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
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
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
LYRICAL BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Heather Heyford
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
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ISBN: 978-1-5161-0258-7
Acknowledgments
What do you get when you play a country song backwards? You get your house back, you get your wife back, your dog back, your truck back . . .
Joking aside, writing books has given me enormous admiration and respect for songwriters. Ironically, it can be harder to write something short than something long. Every word has to pull its own weight. That’s true of all kinds of music, but I’m particularly in tune with country music’s midland roots and wordplay that can be funny and thought provoking at the same time.
Often in my books, the hero is the one who needs to learn something. It’s been my experience that if men would just open their eyes, things would fall neatly into place! Right, ladies? Then again, if not for that blind spot, we might not need soul-searing love songs and romance novels.
And so I’d like to acknowledge Pat Terry and Travis Tritt for inspiring Right All Along with their ballad “Help Me Hold On” about a guy who finally recognizes that his best friend is the love of his life, and who tries to mend the damage he’s done while there’s still time. I hope you love it as much as I loved writing it.
Chapter One
Late May
Marlborough, New Zealand
One of Jack Friestatt’s twins ran up to him, rust-colored braids flying out behind her.
Jack’s hand went to her upper back in response to her side hug. “Where’s Frankie?” he asked, scanning the soccer field. Where there was one twin, the other was usually close by.
“She sprained her ankle,” Freddie puffed, pointing to a bench where her sister sat, holding an ice pack on her ankle.
Jack jogged over to Frankie with Freddie on his heels.
Sister Mary Margaret—guidance counselor, French teacher, and girls’ soccer coach—excused herself from another parent and came over to where Jack knelt before his daughter.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Bit of a sprain,” said the nun in her heavy Kiwi accent. “Might want to wrap it when you ge’ home, just ta keep down the swellin’.”
“Let me see.”
Gingerly, Frankie peeled back the ice pack. Jack saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than that the skin was pink with cold.
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
“You’ll live,” he said, giving her a grin and tugging her braid.
“How do you know what it feels like?” spat Frankie, scowling.
What had happened to his sweet little girls over the past several months? One minute they were perfectly complacent, the next they’d started arguing with him and their grandmother over everything.
“Do you ’ave a minute?” asked Sister.
“Hang tight,” Jack said to the girls. “I’ll be right back.”
He and the coach meandered away from the shouting children and the other parents who were arriving to pick up their kids.
“How’s the harvest coming along, then?”
May was autumn in New Zealand. “The new vines are finally producing. We’re in the midst of our first crush.” Speaking of which, there was plenty of work that needed doing. Jack was impatient to get back to it. He glanced behind him at his girls.
“And the twins?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your daughters?”
Why was Sister asking him? She saw the twins every day at school.
“Fine. Why?”
“Their grades might be slipping a bit.”
“Maybe a little. But they’re not failing anything—are they?”
“I still ’ave their French finals to grade. Tell me . . . is Frances still enjoying playing soccer?”
“She’s whined a little.” Actually, a lot. “Don’t all kids complain when it comes to doing what they’re supposed to do?”
“Middle school can be a difficult time. Children are experiencing change on a daily basis, simply through the process of growing. There are the awkward, physical manifestations. The emotional and hormonal changes that make them that much more vulnerable . . .”
Jack watched his girls from a distance. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“I wonder if her injury isn’t more psychological than physical.”
“You think Frankie’s faking?” he asked, incredulous.
“Faking’s too strong a word. It could be that an injured ankle is an expression of pain she’s feeling inside. Is there anyone the girls can talk with about
these confusing changes they’re experiencing?”
“They can always talk to me,” said Jack, becoming a little miffed.
“Of course. They’re blessed to have you. Never underestimate the role of a father. But there comes a time in a young girl’s life when she might prefer to talk to . . . someone who has been through what she’s experiencing. In other words, a maternal figure. Someone consistent, who can ground her when she’s feeling unsure. Establish predictable routines.”
Jack’s mother, the undisputed family matriarch, immediately leaped to mind. Just as quickly, he dismissed her. As much as he respected her and appreciated the help she’d given him since Emily died, Melinda Friestatt was CEO of the family vineyards and winery. Even though they all occupied the same house, she was often busy working. Not only that, he sensed a growing gulf between her and the twins.
Maybe he was spending too much time in the vineyards himself. That’s why he’d come to New Zealand from his home in Oregon five years ago, to add sauvignon blanc to his family’s growing list of wines. Mother said if he was successful, she would consider granting him a bigger role in running the company.
Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to see it. But now that he thought about it, Sister was right. The twins had begun pushing the envelope.
“I don’t want to overstep. St. Catherine’s has grown extremely fond of the girls, and we’ll miss them when they’re gone. But we always knew the day would come when you would take them back home, to America, where they belong. The school year is winding down. Factoring in the state of your business, of course, perhaps now might be a good time.”
From the beginning, the plan had been to stay in New Zealand until the new vines produced fruit and then reevaluate.
“Whatever your decision, I know you’ll do what’s best for your girls.” Sister enfolded his hands between hers and patted them. “God bless you.”
Chapter Two
Ribbon Ridge, Oregon
Harley Miller-Jones drove through the flat swath of the Chehalem Valley, past modest family farmsteads with ambitious vegetable gardens until she came to rolling hills combed with grapevines.
Slowing, she peered through the windshield up at the grand Victorian mansion crowning the ridge right before she pulled into the driveway of the little concrete-block house she’d grown up in, built during the Depression with economy in mind.
Neither Dad’s truck nor Mom’s SUV were there. Letting herself in using the key from under the hollowed-out fake rock on the stoop, she set her backpack on a kitchen chair and looked around in the quiet. There was the same shabby-chic living room furniture that had been there forever. She fingered new, printed cotton curtains. Recognized Mom’s chicken scratch on a scrap of paper: detergent—toilet paper—garden center: impatiens.
For years, Harley had been waiting tables to make ends meet. Finally, her hard work and dedication to her craft were finally paying off. When she’d decided on the spur of the moment to make the three-hour drive from Seattle to tell her folks the news, she should have realized there was a chance they might not be home. Now she’d just have to wait.
Restless, she opened the fridge. Score! Dad’s epic lobster mac and cheese . . . his specialty. Dad had always been the cook in the family.
She sat down with a bowl and a spoon and thought about how she used to boost herself up on a cushion at this very kitchen table with her tongue curled over her lip, frowning over her beginner attempts at copying pictures out of library books.
In high school, Harley took every art elective she could, even staying after school sometimes to wash paintbrushes and scrub sinks. Junior year, Mrs. Rhoades entered one of her drawings in a contest. Harley was thrilled when she won. Senior year, she won again. Mrs. Rhoades told her that she had been born with a gift that, with practice and dedication, might be honed into a useful skill. She encouraged her to apply for a scholarship. But Harley had no specific vision for her future. All she knew was that she liked to draw. Not only that, there was no extra money for college tuition. And even if there was, where did you even begin to pick a college? Then there were all those applications and financial aid forms to fill out. Harley’s parents had never gone beyond high school, so she knew they couldn’t be of much help.
When Mrs. Rhoades realized there wasn’t much chance of her continuing her education, she took Harley under her wing. She explained that to understand how shapes work in three dimensions, it was better to draw from life than pictures. The Victorian was the ideal subject. It dominated the view from Harley’s bedroom window. In the summer, the sun etched the shadows of the surrounding oaks onto its pale yellow façade. In fall, the turrets peeked through the autumn mists like a castle in a fairy tale. Winter revealed its sharper angles. Harley had drawn it in every season and from every perspective.
By the time she graduated, her house drawings had become her signature. She started selling prints on a popular arts and crafts website, investing her meager profits in higher-quality art supplies: sable brushes, handmade Japanese papers with deckle edges. Having found some success with that, she developed her own website and began selling directly from there.
Bit by bit, her sales grew. Not satisfied with designs on paper, she conceptualized them on dinner plates and researched ways of making that happen. After a few false starts and wrong turns, a dinnerware manufacturer agreed to collaborate with her on a small collection of china. A branding guy came up with the name Honeymoon Haven. While family was of utmost importance to Harley, she’d never been seduced by the idea of the white lace gown or having cake smashed in her face. But she had to admit, the name had a ring to it. Consumers thought so, too. The first and now the second run of Honeymoon Haven dishware had sold out.
An hour later, when neither of her parents had shown up yet, she decided to hell with the surprise and called her mom’s cell.
“Hello?” Mom’s voice was all but drowned out by jangly music, loud beeps, and chimes.
Harley winced and held the phone away from her ear. “Mom? Where are you?”
“At Dotty’s. Where are you?”
“I’m here. At home, in Newberry.”
In the phone, she heard the telltale metallic ratchet of a handle being yanked.
“Talk louder. These slot machines are so loud I can’t hear a thing you’re saying.”
“I said, I’m here. At your house.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? I’d have stayed home.”
“I wanted to surprise you—” she adjusted a light blue iris in a vase, “—and Dad. I’m taking a couple of days off.”
“Well, I’m here now, and I just won a hundred dollars on this nickel machine. Whoa!” Ding-ding-ding-ding. “Make that a hundred and fifty! Mama’s on a roll, baby girl!”
Harley sighed. “Where’s Dad?”
“What’s that?”
“I said, where’s Dad?”
“Tillamook. He’ll be back early tomorrow morning.”
How could she have forgotten? April was spring Chinook season. Dad always took a few days off his job fixing and selling used motorcycles for Joe Bear to go to the cabin. He even let Harley cut school and go with him, before she started high school and got so in to her artwork she didn’t want to miss classes.
“Figured it’d be just me tonight, so I headed up here to Dotty’s.”
“We probably passed each other on the road. How late do they stay open?”
“Two thirty.”
If Mom kept winning, they’d have to sweep her out of the casino with a broom.
“I’ll wait up for you.”
“Oh, honey, don’t do that. You know what they say: when you’re hot, you’re hot. No telling how late I’ll be.”
Mom might like her slots, but she didn’t touch so much as a drop of alcohol. She said she’d seen more than her share of drunks in her dancing days, and she wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that. Besides, though she’d given up dancing long ago, she had filled the void with hard-core hiking an
d yoga. Downward dogs and hangovers didn’t mix.
“See you in the morning, then. Be careful driving.”
Chapter Three
Harley got up early to catch her parents before Dad had to go to work.
“I have something to tell you,” she said as she stirred her coffee. It’s about my dinnerware with the Honeymoon Haven motif.”
“Cin?” said Dad, hopping on one foot on the backdoor mat, pulling on his work boots. “Throw some of that macaroni and cheese in my lunch bucket, will ya?”
Mom opened the fridge and peered inside. “It’s gone.”
“Whaddaya mean, gone? There was just some of it left in there yesterday. Who ate it?”
“I did,” said Harley. “Last night, for supper.” She took a deep breath. “Dad. Mom. The china company wants to expand our brand partnership. Starting next year, my Honeymoon Haven designs are going to be on serveware and table linens . . .”
“Really!” Mom smiled. “Hear that, Tuck? Tucker Jones! How many times do I have to tell you not to wear those boots in the house? I just cleaned the floor.”
“Three steps,” he said, edging past Mom to get to the freezer. “Just want to show Harley my catch and then I’ll be out of your hair.” He reached into a plastic bag and carefully withdrew a firm length of silver iridescence with a bright black pupil and a hint of pink along its belly. Dad cradled the fish with hands like meat hooks at the ends of beefy forearms covered in tattoos of cancan girls and mermaids. “How do you like that?”
Harley talked and texted with her parents regularly. Sometimes they even video chatted, though that usually ended with them suddenly remembering something urgent they had forgotten they had to do and had to go without delay. But Dad had an intense physicality that could only be truly appreciated in the flesh. Even if he would never understand the first thing about her work, she adored him. She grinned up at him. “Nice.”
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