by JoAnn Ross
River’s Bend
JoAnn Ross
© Copyright Castlelough Publishing, LLC 2014
Kindle Edition
Cover illustration by Paul Janovsky
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Praise for JoAnn Ross’s books
“Skillful and satisfying. With its emotional depth, Ross’s tale will appeal to Nora Roberts fans.”
~ Booklist
“The talent for great storytelling is obviously embedded in JoAnn Ross’s bones.”
~ RT Book Reviews
“Shelter Bay is the kind of town I’d love to live in myself . . . I can’t wait for the next book in the series.”
~ Love Romances & More
“Beautifully descriptive, this heart-warmer captures coastal small-town flavor perfectly . . . A perfect read for a long winter’s night.”
~ Library Journal
“Ross always delivers a wonderful story . . . Masterfully plotted and executed, this book (The Homecoming) kept me engrossed from beginning to end.”
~ Fresh Fiction
“JoAnn Ross has the reputation for scribing some of the best contemporary romances on the market.”
~ Affaire de Coeur
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for JoAnn Ross’s books
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Excerpt from A Sea Change
About The Author
1
“The bid is fifteen hundred and sixty dollars. Do we have fifteen-seventy? Seventy-five? Who’ll give me fifteen-eighty?”
Rachel Hathaway stood silently at the back of the wainscoted room, her gray eyes resolutely dry as she watched the past fourteen years of her life being sold off piece by piece. The thick cloud of perfume hovering overhead was beginning to give her a headache.
When she was a little girl growing up on an Iowa farm, her parents had encouraged her to believe in fairy tales. An obedient child, Rachel willingly complied. After graduating with an advertising degree from Iowa State University, she went off to New York City, where she got a job working as a copywriter for a prince of a man named Alan Hathaway.
On their first date, she and Alan decided they wanted to have children together. On their second, Alan proposed and Rachel moved into his one-bedroom castle in Brooklyn. As the years went by, Alan’s business grew by leaps and bounds, allowing them to move into a larger palace in Connecticut where Scott—heir to the Hathaway Advertising throne—was born.
The only problem with fairy tales, Rachel had discovered, was that they didn’t warn you that the prince could die of a perforated ulcer, the creditors could end up with the castle, and it could be back to the ashes for Cinderella.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dapper auctioneer cajoled winningly, “may I remind you that this table is in excellent condition. Even without the matching chairs, it could be considered a steal at two thousand.”
Remembering the years of celebratory dinners shared around the elegant dining room set, Rachel wondered how anyone could put a price on love. She’d worked the floral needlepoint covers for the chairs herself that long-ago winter when she’d been pregnant with Scotty.
Flushed with the glow of impending fatherhood and concerned for her health, Alan had insisted she quit working. Bored nearly out of her mind, she’d taught herself needlework to pass the long hours spent waiting for her husband’s return from his Madison Avenue advertising agency.
“Fifteen-seventy-five,” the auctioneer conceded when his efforts were met by a stony wall of silence. “Going once, twice, gone to the lady in the red hat.
“The next item going up for bid is a superb-quality Sheraton revival satinwood bookcase.”
“You look as if you could use a break,” Janet Morrison murmured as the workmen carried the dining room set from the dais.
“I’m fine,” Rachel insisted, her gaze directed toward the bookcase.
She and Alan had discovered it in a little out-of-the-way shop in London the summer Scott had turned two. They’d justified the hefty purchase price by telling each other that the bookcase would become a family heirloom. Something their son would pass on to his children.
“Well, I’m in desperate need of a cigarette,” Janet said. “Come keep me company.”
Taking Rachel by the arm, she practically dragged her out of the library, down the long terrazzo hallway and out onto the back terrace.
“I thought the doctor warned you to give those things up if you wanted a speedy recovery,” Rachel reminded her long time friend and neighbor.
“I still have a few weeks until surgery.” Janet lit the cigarette with a gold monogrammed lighter. “Besides, everyone I know gains at least ten pounds when they quit smoking. I’m attempting to forestall the inevitable as long as possible.”
At forty-eight, Janet was fourteen years older than Rachel. Her honeyed complexion was nearly flawless, save for the small network of lines fanning outward from her eyes and the slight bracketing around her russet-tinted lips. Like so many other women in the neighborhood, she was resolutely fit, tanned, and blond.
Cursed with fair skin that refused to tan and rain-straight black hair, Rachel had, on more than one occasion, envied her best friend.
“I still don’t understand why you feel you need a face-lift,” she said honestly. “I think you look great.”
“Easy for you to say,” Janet retorted. “Your husband didn’t just hire a new secretary who looks as if she should be turning cartwheels and leading cheers for the high school football team.” She groaned the moment the words left her mouth. “Oh, damn, honey. I’m sorry. It just slipped out.”
Rachel could feel her lips smiling, but inside she remained numb, as she had for the past eighteen months. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Really.”
It was Janet’s turn to submit Rachel to a lengthy examination. “No,” she said finally, “you’re not. Oh, you’ve been putting on a good show, but anyone who truly knows you could see that you’ve just been going through the motions. Although it’s no wonder, considering the mess Alan left behind.”
Rachel didn’t immediately answer. Instead, from her vantage point atop the hill, she looked out over the acres of serene, unspoiled woodland, realizing that this would be the last time she’d be able to enjoy the view. The trees were still a deep, leafy green, but in another few weeks they’d be ablaze in their autumnal coats of red, gold, and bronze, and she’d miss seeing the free-flowing stream cutting through the brilliantly colored forest.
Come winter the str
eam would freeze solid, but for the moment it tumbled merrily over moss-covered rocks, oblivious of its fate. The same way she’d been before Alan’s death.
“Do you remember when I began volunteering one day a week helping people who visited the food bank fill out SNAP applications?” she asked suddenly.
“Of course. I didn’t really believe that there were any food stamp recipients in Connecticut.”
“I know. You asked me to bring a few extra stamps home for pâté and caviar.”
“We were having a party that weekend, and every little bit helps. Is this trip down memory lane leading anywhere?”
Rachel dragged her hand through her hair. Her simple gold wedding band—one of the few pieces of jewelry she hadn’t sold—gleamed in the afternoon sun. “I met so many women there, women who’d led lives of convenience and comfort, who were suddenly forced into dire financial straits due to divorce or their husband’s death.
“They weren’t underprivileged. They were intelligent and well educated. Yet each had made the mistake of allowing her husband to make all the decisions, to handle the money without her knowledge or consent. I felt sorry for them, but inside, I couldn’t help feeling a little smug, you know? Because Alan and I always shared everything.” She sighed heavily. “At least I thought we did.”
“How could you have known the recession had put Alan’s business into such a slump? He was only trying to protect you.”
That was the same thing Rachel had been telling herself over and over again these past months as she’d struggled to pay off the debts incurred by her late husband. Unfortunately, she hadn’t reaped any financial rewards by understanding Alan’s motivation.
“I know. I just wish he’d trusted me enough to come to me with his problems.”
Janet put her hand on Rachel’s arm. “And what could you have done?”
Looking down at her friend’s perfectly manicured fingernails, it occurred to Rachel that her own nails were ragged and unpolished.
“The same thing I’ve done,” she answered without hesitation. “Sell the Manhattan apartment, the house, the furniture, the jewelry, take Scotty out of private school, and return to work full time.”
“That’s not the life Alan wanted for you.”
“Well, like it or not, it’s the life I ended up with. If he’d only bothered to ask, I would have told him that I’d rather go back to our first apartment than continue living in Connecticut without him.”
“He undoubtedly believed he could turn the business around.”
Rachel exhaled a soft, rippling little sigh. “I know.” And he would have. If it hadn’t killed him first.
Both women remained silent for a time, gazing out over the rolling expanse of lawn. The tennis court needed work. The red clay was badly scuffed and covered with debris. Dead leaves floated on the swimming pool she kept forgetting to cover.
“So, how’s Scotty taking the move?”
“I thought he’d be upset about changing schools for the second time in eighteen months and leaving all his friends behind, but all he talks about is moving to the Wild West. In fact, not only have cowboys replaced the Yankees in his nine-year-old hierarchy, I haven’t had to listen to a Spiderman or Masters of the Universe plot for six weeks.”
“Kids are resilient.”
“Isn’t that the truth? Although it was tough in the beginning, now you’d never know that his world had been turned upside down.” Rachel was grateful for her son’s apparent ability to bounce back from what had been a disastrous eighteen months.
“How about you? How are you holding up?”
Rachel took her time in answering as a covey of quail bobbed across the lawn. Drawing in a breath, she leaned her head against one of five white wooden posts supporting the slate roof. The post bore the inscription Alan Loves Rachel. Her husband had carved the romantic declaration the weekend they’d moved into the house nine years ago.
“I’m fine. Really,” she said as her friend gave her a long, judicious look.
“You’re still too thin, but I think you’re beginning to look a little less tense. And either you’ve discovered some miracle cosmetic cover-up I don’t know about, or the circles beneath your eyes are finally beginning to fade.”
“I’ve been sleeping better lately.” Ever since she’d made the decision to move to Oregon. “Sometimes all through the night.”
“Well, that’s something. Did you finally break down and take my advice?”
“Advice?”
“About seeing Larry Newman.”
Dr. Lawrence Newman was president of the country club and on the board of directors of several hospitals, as well as being a leading psychiatrist. There were probably very few people in Rachel’s circle whom he hadn’t seen on a professional basis, causing Alan to have once suggested that if the good doctor ever decided to write his memoirs, the book would probably sell out in Greenwich within minutes.
“I had one appointment.”
“Really? How did it go?”
Rachel shrugged. “It didn’t. I didn’t go back.”
“If it’s the money, I can lend you Larry’s fee.”
They both knew it would be useless to offer Rachel the funds outright. While the rest of her life may be in tatters, Rachel’s pride had remained formidable. Ignoring legal advice to declare bankruptcy to get out from under the burden of her husband’s business responsibilities, she’d insisted on paying off every last dollar, at considerable personal sacrifice.
“It’s not the money.” Rachel felt her cheeks burn as she remembered the look of pity on the psychiatrist’s handsome face. After the pity had come the pass.
“Larry hit on you, didn’t he?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Rachel, practically every woman at the club has had an affair with the guy.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. Don’t tell me you never noticed? Ever since he moved to town, there’s been enough hanky-panky to generate a new Sex in the Suburbs series that would make Peyton Place look tame by comparison.”
“I never knew.” Rachel wondered if Janet had participated in any of the alleged hanky-panky.
“How could you, since whenever you and Alan showed up at any functions, you couldn’t keep your eyes—or your hands—off each other.” Janet shook her head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you wide-eyed innocents that lust is supposed to die by the first anniversary?”
“And love? When does that die?”
“By the fifth. At least.”
“I never stopped loving Alan.”
“Nor he you. That’s what made the rest of us jealous as hell.” She stubbed the cigarette out on the stone terrace with the toe of her Christian Louboutin pump. “I do wish you’d spend tonight with us instead of staying at some dreary motel.”
“It’s not dreary.” Just not the Four Seasons Alan would have booked. “And I truly appreciate the offer, but I really want to spend our last night in town alone with Scotty. In case he gets depressed about leaving the only home he’s ever known and wants to talk about it. Also, because of delays cataloging everything by the auction house, instead of moving last month, as I’d hoped, it’s already mid-September. Oregon schools started earlier than here and I don’t want him too far behind.”
“He’s a bright kid. He shouldn’t have any trouble catching up,” Janet assured her. “Look, I understand why you want to open your own restaurant. You’ve gone to cooking school, you’ve catered every party around here for the past five years, even before you took my advice and started charging, and everyone loves your food. But what in the hell made you decide on that Last Chance Café in Oregon? What’s wrong with Connecticut? Or even Manhattan?”
“It’s the New Chance,” Rachel corrected. “In the first place, I could never afford to open a restaurant in Manhattan and Connecticut isn’t that much less expensive. For what six month’s rent would cost here, I was able to buy the café outright. And have enough left over to rent a h
ouse.”
“Both sight unseen,” Janet reminded her.
“There were photos on the internet.” The real estate agent had sent the link after Rachel had responded to a classified listing in Restaurant Magazine.
“Blurry photos. And what you could see isn’t going to win you any Michelin stars.”
“I’ll admit it looks as if it could use a little work. But it’s rather . . . unique.” In a rustic, Oregon ranching country way.
“Unique.” Janet sniffed. “That sounds like real estate jargon for a dump. Along the lines of a ‘Honeymoon Special.’ Or ‘Handyman Fix-up.’ For heaven’s sake, Rachel, just because Alan died doesn’t mean you have to banish yourself to the wilderness.”
“I’m not banishing myself,” Rachel repeated what she’d been saying since she’d come up with the plan. “I’m starting a new life.” In a new town and a new house where every room she went into didn’t remind her of her husband, forcing her to face all the years they’d never have together.
“So, start a new life here,” Janet insisted. “Expand your catering company or open a small restaurant, begin dating again, enjoy yourself for a change.”
“I tried dating, remember?” Her one-time excursion into the singles world, with the agent who’d listed the Manhattan apartment Alan used whenever he stayed in the city, had turned out to be an unqualified disaster.
Janet shrugged. “So, Bernie was a bust. There are a lot more fish in the sea.”
“That’s probably true enough. But I’m not into angling these days.”
“I’m really going to miss you.” Janet threw her arms around Rachel.
Moisture stung her eyelids as Rachel returned the hug. “And I’m going to miss you.”
“I’ll come visit,” Janet promised as they parted.
“By next summer I should have the café running well enough to take a few days off,” Rachel said. “We’ll drive over to the beach. The scenery’s supposed to be magnificent, and Chef Madeline Durand has opened a restaurant and cooking school on the coast.”
“I’ll bet her restaurant’s not in a log cabin,” Janet said.
“You’d win that bet. But it is in the Shelter Bay farmhouse she grew up in.”
