by Doreen Alsen
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Doreen Alsen
Worth a Thousand Words
Copyright
Dedications
Prologue
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
Epilogue
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Angelique sat on her beach chair,
inhaling the June breeze that always carried the taste of salt. Of course that salt wasn’t doing her hair and complexion any favors.
Her feet felt a lot better than they had when she’d hobbled out of the Sea Crest Inn. Still, a good soak in the ocean and some of the foot balm she had for after a long day walking the runway should do the trick.
“Hey!”
Oh, look. Her handsome neighbor, Tim, with his very large dog.
They stood at the bottom of their stairs watching her with matching grins. Well, not quite matching. The dog’s tongue stuck out of his mouth while Tim kept his in his mouth.
“Hey,” she called back. She stood, only wincing a little bit. “Out for a walk?”
He held up the leash. “Yep. Want to come along?”
She hid a grimace that threatened to spread all over her face. “Uh, no thank you. I’m happy to stay right here for now. It’s a pretty and restful view.”
“That it is.” He looked out to the distance. “So, Miss Angie No Last Name, what did you do today?” He smiled at her. “Or maybe you can let me know your last name.”
Angelique’s breath hitched. She’d give him the name she’d put on those tax forms she had to fill out. “Doucette. Angie Doucette.”
He raised his brows. “Doosit? Angie Doosit? That’s not a name you hear around these parts. But then, your accent is a big clue that you’re from somewhere warmer.”
“That’s true.” She looked out over the water.
Praise for Doreen Alsen
“This story [WORKING MY WAY BACK TO YOU] from the Lobster Cove Series is emotional and romantic. Doreen Alsen knows exactly how to pull at the heart strings to create a story that will long time be remembered by the reader.”
~Fresh Fiction Reviews
~*~
“The best part of finding a new author you have not read before, is finding there are other books of theirs to try. I thought this [CHARMING DAVE] was a beautiful story. It had everything you could hope for in a book, romance, humor, drama, and a really good story.”
~Single Title Reviews
Worth a
Thousand Words
by
Doreen Alsen
The Lobster Cove Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Worth a Thousand Words
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Doreen Alsen
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2016
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0975-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0976-7
The Lobster Cove Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
To the Provincetown High School, Class of 1975!
“We are the Fishermen, Mighty, mighty Fishermen! Everywhere we go, people want to know,
who we are, so we tell them!
We are the Fishermen!”
Didn’t we have us a time?
Yes, we did!
~*~
To Rhonda Penders,
the best publisher in the world.
Your support has been invaluable.
~*~
And, as always,
to Eberhard, Emilia, and Louisa.
Prologue
Angelique Durand huddled on the edge of a cold metal bench in the middle of a holding cell in a Parisian jail. She shivered, even though she wasn’t cold. In fact, the air was heavy and hot, full of the scents of cheap perfume, funky old sweat, and stale cigarette smoke.
The plugged up toilet in the back of the cell didn’t help matters.
Surrounded by hookers, drug dealers, and crack-heads, she was totally out of her element. No place could be further away from the world of high fashion, where she’d lived for the past year and a half. She wrapped her arms around her middle.
She’d thought the other models were her friends. She couldn’t believe they thought she was a thief.
Angelique was done with the fashion scene, which ended up being all flash and glitter, with nothing substantial. Once, if, she got out of this nightmare she swore she would start a brand new life, far, far away from the shiny, glossy designer runways of Paris.
“Mademoiselle Durand, you must come with me,” the police officer said to Angelique as she unlocked the door of the jail cell.
Angelique closed her eyes hoping to quell the dizziness that washed over her. She’d been in this cell in a Parisian maison d’arrêt since her arrest four days ago.
Arrested for a crime she didn’t commit.
She opened her eyes and lifted her chin. Whoever planted the fortune in diamond jewelry in her purse wanted to see Angelique humiliated and she was not going to give that person the satisfaction. As she shuffled to the door of her cell, she held out her wrists for the handcuffs.
“No need for that,” her jailer told her.
Just like that, in the time it would take to snap her fingers, hope flicked on in her breast. The officer led her up the stairs and into an office.
“Here she is, sir. Do you need me for anything else?”
The man seat
ed behind the big desk in the center of the room shook his head. “Non, merci. You may go.”
The other man in the room stood and turned. “Angelique.”
And, le bon Dieu, it was Jacques Leblanc, her brother Lucien’s attorney here in Paris. Her knees buckled and Jacques caught her and led her to a chair and dropped her into it with great care. “Breathe,” he said, his voice soothing and kind.
“We are dropping all charges against you. You’re free to go,” pontificated the man behind the desk.
Angelique shook her head to clear her hearing. “The charges are dropped?”
“Yes. Someone who was in the models’ dressing room and saw someone put the jewels in your bag has come forward.”
Jacques lifted a box that held her things, her Chanel tote and her calfskin Louboutin heels. “May I change my shoes?” The sooner she got the ugly sneakers they’d made her put on when she’d first been arrested, the better.
He handed her the expensive stiletto heels as she toed off the offending footwear. She sighed as she slipped her feet into her own shoes.
“I’ve got orders from your brother to take you to his flat here in town. He’s unable to come right now due to problems with his London restaurant, so he wants you to stay put.”
“For how long?” For once she’d do what Lucien told her. If he wanted her to stay put, that’s exactly what she’d do. She grabbed her tote and hung it over her right shoulder. She fought the urge to make a quick trip to the ladies room to fix her make-up, even though she knew she must look a fright.
“I don’t know. We’ll find out when he calls. He pulled quite a few strings to get this mess smoothed over.”
Of course, he had. Lucien was the King of the String Pullers. Right that moment she wanted a shower, a glass of wine, and a soft bed to sleep in. She hadn’t slept since before her arrest. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Jacques nodded. “I’ve got a car waiting out front.”
Tears welled and prickled against her eyelids as relief flooded through her. Even though her future was uncertain, to say the least, she felt better than she had in a long time.
They walked through the doors to the outside and a burst of sunlight blinded her. She shielded her eyes against the onslaught. She gasped and her knees threatened to crumble underneath her again.
Cameras, there must have been hundreds of them, flashed brighter than a million suns along with clicking and whirring noises. Over it all, reporters and paparazzi shouted her name and waved their hands in the air, trying to get her attention.
Overwhelmed, she hung back as Jacques grabbed her arm and tried to plow through the restless throng. “Please stand aside. Mademoiselle Durand has no comment.”
“Over here, Angelique,” yelled the reporter closest to her. “Give us a smile, cherie!”
“No,” she shook her head and whispered as the world started to swoop and swirl around her.
“Hold on,” Jacque commanded and held her elbow tighter as he pushed his way through the camera-snapping crowd to the waiting limo.
She had to duck and bob to avoid flailing elbows, jutting camera lenses, and feet that threatened to trip her. Police officers jumped into the fray and tried to clear a path to the car.
The photographers wouldn’t stop coming, pushing toward her, all of them trying to get her attention.
Angelique couldn’t speak. She felt like she was the bait in a zombie movie, with the press of bodies against her and Jacques, the grasping hands pounding out a random, heavy beat; the clicks and whirrs of their cameras all made it impossible to think and made it impossible to get away.
A paparazzo stepped on her foot as another pressed against her legs from behind. Her legs, still none too steady, almost gave out as she twisted away from the camera lens in her face.
She wrenched her ankle and cried out as she fell. At the same moment, a camera lens the size of a small elephant crashed into her right cheek.
She raised her arms to protect herself from being crushed as tears exploded out of her eyes in a hot rush. Kicked in the ribs a couple of times, she heard people screaming obscenities and being shoved around.
Then it all stopped. For one terrifying second all she could hear was the clicking of cameras around her and her own weeping. Wetness spattered her face, wetness she assumed was her tears. She cracked her eyes open and found it wasn’t tears after all.
It was blood. Her face was covered in it as it gushed out of her cheek.
She screamed and that was the last thing she remembered.
Chapter One
“I now pronounce you man and wife! You may now kiss your bride.”
Tim Baldwin watched his best friend, Jeff Myers, wrap his arms around his brand, spankin’ new wife, Beth, and plant a lip lock worthy of the record books.
Jeff and Beth deserved all the happiness in the world. After years apart, they finally found each other. Tim knew better than anyone how much Jeff suffered after Beth disappeared. His buddy deserved his happily ever after.
As for himself, Tim thought, not so much.
Good thing Jeff had asked him to be his best man instead of asking him to be the wedding photographer, because who-da-thunk internationally acclaimed, Pulitzer Prize winning photojournalist T.L. Baldwin had lost his gift?
He couldn’t take a picture to save his soul. Life as he knew it was over.
Cut it out, he told himself. He needed to get a grip. His best friend was finally married to the woman he’d loved forever. Add on to it, he had a kick ass son with Beth.
He glanced over to where Jeff high-fived his son Danny. Twin grins spread over both their faces. Who knew someone could be so happy?
“Tim.”
He turned to see the bride smiling up at him. “Hey, gorgeous.”
The word didn’t even begin to describe Beth. Radiant maybe. She glowed. Being Beth, both traditional and lovely, she wore a white lace dress and a crown of blush roses in her hair.
“Thank you for being here today.” She hugged him.
“Wouldn’t think of being anywhere else.” He bent to give a quick peck to her cheek.
“Hey, get your own woman. This one’s all mine,” Jeff teased as he pulled Beth out of Tim’s arms.
“You’re a lucky man.” Tim held his hand out to shake, but Jeff grabbed him and gave him a one-armed bro hug.
“Don’t I know it? We’ve been waiting for this moment a long time.”
The photographer came up to them. “Let’s head over for some pictures.” The wedding reception was taking place in the ballroom of the Spinnaker Yacht and Sail Club.
Despair and jealousy stabbed Tim in the heart at the thought of this photographer. He probably had a day job at Sears taking portraits of wiggly, drooling babies and snot-nosed kids, and could take pictures while Tim couldn’t anymore.
Jeff and Beth couldn’t have asked for a prettier day to get married. The sky was robin’s egg blue and dotted with high fluffy clouds. The sun shone brightly, while a light breeze kept the day cool. Gulls swooped and squawked as they dive-bombed to snap some food.
Tim looked over the docks of sailboats and wished he were on his own boat. The longing grew with every ping and pang of halyards knocking against their masts. Whitecaps raced to the shore on top of the deep blue ocean.
That’s when he saw her and his world turned upside down.
A solitary woman walked along the beach. Barefoot, wearing a flowered sarong and bikini top, she meandered along the foam of the waves as they broke on the shore. Her long black hair cascaded down her back as the wind toyed with it.
She wore sunglasses, but he imagined that her eyes were dark and maybe a little mysterious.
She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Just as Tim was about to jump down to the beach and run after her, Jeff called for him. “Hey, Tim! Get over here. We need you for the pictures!”
Oh, right. Those damned photos. He shot one last glance at the woman, but she was off in the distance now.
“Coming,” Tim said as he tore his gaze away from her. “I’ll be right there.”
What if he never saw her again? He had to find out who she was and where she lived.
****
Angelique Durand strolled in the surf. The water was so cold here in Maine. As she was born and bred in Louisiana, she wasn’t prepared for how chilly the ocean was.
She walked away from the surf, sat on the stony beach, and looked out to sea. She’d come to Lobster Cove to hide and to find redemption.
The small seaside town, well, more like a village, had seemed the perfect place to do both those things. Her brother had arranged everything for her and she was grateful. One look around the town told her that she had found her home, a quiet life as a recluse where nobody knew her name.
Where nobody cared if she was the notorious, disgraced, super-model Angelique.
The few people she’d met knew her as Angie, and she wanted to keep it that way.
She glanced over to the Yacht Club, where a wedding party posed for pictures. She shuddered. She never wanted another photo taken of her again.
Never.
The wedding people laughed and the wind carried the sound so she could hear them from where she sat. She envied them. She didn’t have a lot to laugh about.
Angelique missed her brother’s wedding because she’d been over in Europe, the French Riviera no less, and had been too busy to make the trip back to Addington, Massachusetts, where Lucien and his wife, Hope, lived.
How foolish and selfish she’d been.
Such a brat.
As she watched, a man in a tuxedo pulled away from the crowd and walked to the end of one of the docks where the boats were moored. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared out over the water.
In her previous life, all she’d see was how hot he was. Now, all she could see was sadness. Deep, soul-crushing sadness.
He mourned. He grieved deeply. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just did.
He carried burdens, she imagined, heavy ones.
Then he turned his head and zeroed in on her, like she was his true north.
She felt caught. She couldn’t look away if she tried. This man was a kindred spirit united with hers by bone-shattering loss.
She looked away from this singular man, this lonely man, and walked the long way back to her cottage, where safety and sanity lived.
