Beyond Midnight

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  "Oh. Do you want me to watch Katie some more?"

  "No, no. . . you go ahead. Have fun," said Helen, sighing.

  "Okay," Becky said uncertainly, and left, a little less bouncy than before.

  She left the suite and Nat and Helen burst out laughing. "I heard that!" Becky said from the hall. When he was sure she was out of earshot, Nat shook his head and said, "Whose idea was this family honeymoon, anyway? Katie, wait, not on the bed—let me wipe the sand off your feet first."

  "Oh-h-h, come on," Helen coaxed. "It's Bermuda! The kids are loving it. And it's the last break we'll all have together for a while. You like Bermuda, don't you, Katie?" she asked her newest child.

  "Yes!" said Katie, standing unsteadily on one foot as her father brushed the sand out of her toes with his fingers. "Especially the starfish. I wanna go back and get it."

  "This little piggy's in trouble now," said Nat, wriggling her toe menacingly.

  "Oh, Daddy! I'm too old for that game."

  "Oooh, Miss Hoity-Toity! I hope you're not too old for a nap?"

  "I'm definitely too old for a nap."

  "That's what I thought you'd say. What about some quiet time instead?"

  "How about a snack and then some quiet time?" Helen asked.

  A deal was struck. Helen settled Katie in the adjoining room with a glass of milk, a Bermuda tea biscuit, and a Dr. Seuss, then came back to see Nat bending over the balcony rail, looking down at the pool.

  "I'm glad she didn't see you leaning over like that," Helen chided softly.

  Nat sighed. "I know. I wonder if she'll ever get over the fear."

  "In time."

  He waved—obviously at Becky and her new friends— then came back inside. "I don't like the look of the fella she's talking to. I wish she'd wear something more ... modest ... than that bikini thing."

  Helen laughed and said, "They all dress like that. Heck, if I looked like her, I'd dress like that. At least she wears both pieces."

  Nat sighed again. "Why do you think I didn't want us to go to a French island?"

  He made it sound like a fate worse than death.

  Helen wrapped her arms around him from behind and leaned her cheek on his back. "You are so sweet. Fatherhood is going to make you an old man in no time flat."

  "Well, it's a whole new set of worries, a seventeen-year-old. It makes four look easy."

  "And don't forget Russell."

  "Ah ... Russ," Nat said, his voice swelling with affection. "My man. That boy is so cool."

  "What, cool. He's a typical fifteen-year-old," she said, utterly grateful for it. "Except taller."

  "Did I tell you he beat me at the gym four games in a row? Michael Jordan could take lessons."

  Smiling contentedly, Helen ducked under Nat's arm and together they stood and looked out at the serene vista before them. It was a perfect Bermuda day. Soft breeze, bright sun, pink sand, blue sea.. . the whole idyllic scene, framed by soaring palm trees to the left and to the right. The gentle rollers that slid over the sand seemed—to Helen, in her present mood—to have come from a great, great distance; from somewhere where angels cavorted with dolphins and spirits rained blessings on all living things.

  "I see a basketball scholarship ahead," Nat said dreamily. "I see Duke ... Seton Hall ... Notre Dame ...."

  The words tripped off his tongue reverently, a father's litany of hallowed places.

  "We'll go to all his games," Nat said, lost in his fantasy. "We'll cheer him on. We'll get thrown out of motels for having rowdy victory celebrations. We'll—"

  Helen gave him a squeeze. "We'll do the best we can, my love," she said, gazing out at the sea. "We'll do the best we can."

  More for your Nook by Antoinette Stockenberg

  (Click on book title to purchase from Barnes & Noble)

  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 ...

  Click here to go to a sample chapter of A Charmed Place.

  Embers

  "A deft blend of mystery and romance … sure to win more kudos"

  --Publishers Weekly

  To Meg Hazard, it seemed like a good idea at the time: squeezing her extended family into the back rooms of their rambling Victorian home and converting the rest of the house into a Bed and Breakfast in the coastal town of Bar Harbor, Maine. Paying guests are most welcome, but the arrival of a Chicago cop on medical leave turns out to be both good news and bad news for Meg and the Inn Between.

  Click here to go to a sample chapter of Embers.

  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?

  Click here to go to a sample chapter of Emily's Ghost.

  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.

  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.

  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.

  Time After Time

  "As hilarious as it is heart-tugging ... a rollicking great read."

  --I'll Take Romance

  When a party planner meets a party pooper, things will probably not turn out the way either would like. Liz Coppersmith hopes to move beyond kids' parties at Chuck E. Cheese to planning premier events among the upper crust in Newport, Rhode Island —but her first upscale client is confirmed bachelor Jack Eastman, who's struggling to keep the family empire afloat and would be just fine with Chuck E. Cheese.

  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 ghos
t. 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!

  A Charmed Place Sample Chapter

  Antoinette Stockenberg

  "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 ...

  Chapter 1

  "He'd look perfect tied to my bedposts," Norah murmured.

  Joan lifted the binoculars from her friend's grip and focused them on the lighthouse at the tip of the windswept peninsula. After a minute, she said, "They'd better be pretty strong bedposts."

  She held out the binoculars to Maddie Regan, who, as always, was the first to show up at Rosedale, her family's summer cottage on the Cape. "Here, Maddie. Have a look."

  "Thank you, no," said Maddie, walking away from the kitchen window with her box of books. "Unlike the two of you, I happen to have a life."

  Norah arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "Well, la-di-da. Doing what? Spending another summer on the Cape, watching the beach erode? Get with the program, Maddie. Women our age have to keep their eyes open. Especially women our age in Dulltown."

  Maddie managed a wry smile and said, "There's nothing wrong with Sandy Point. It's where I want to be every year come June. It's where I want a teenage daughter to be. It's quiet; it's safe; it's—"

  "Dull. Let's face it. It's dull. We aren't the Hamptons. We aren't the Vineyard. We aren't even Newport. There's nothing to do in Sandy Point, and no one rich to do it with."

  Joan, still focused on the peninsula, said, "This one could change your mind, Norah. No kidding. Wow. Killer aura. He's standing in front of the lighthouse, looking out at the ocean. The wind's blowing his hair around. You can't mistake the guy. It really is him. Sure you don't want a peek, Maddie?"

  Maddie shook her head and kept to her box of books.

  Norah took Maddie's refusal personally. "You do understand our situation here? Three women, nada men—none worth bringing down from Boston, anyway? How are we going to network? This is turning into a serious dry spell, Maddie. I'm still separated. Joan's still single. And you're still—"

  "All right, all right. Divorced," Maddie conceded. "But unlike you two, not dribbling with lust."

  "Why should you be?" Norah shot back. "Your ex has a condo two miles away, and he's willing to bed you any time you want."

  "But I don't want."

  "I've never really understood that," Joan admitted. "Michael's always been so kind, so considerate to me."

  "So considerate to everyone," said Norah with a caustic smile. She repossessed the binoculars from Joan and aimed them on her prey. "Nuts. He's gone. No, wait. Here he comes out of the lighthouse—with a basket of laundry. Good Lord. Dan Hawke is going to hang his own laundry. Dan Hawke!"

  Joan, as usual, had a theory. "He's a war correspondent. He's probably used to washing his socks in some dead soldier's helmet."

  "Joannie, the way you put things. Okay, here we go. First item out of the basket: jeans. I'd say a thirty-four waist, thirty-six, tops. How cute—he's holding the clothespins between his teeth. Oh, Maddie, you should look. He looks nothing like he does on TV."

  Maddie dropped another box of books onto the kitchen table and began unlocking its cardboard flaps. "How would you know, Norah? You never watch CNN."

  Without taking her focus away from the lighthouse, Norah said, "Now, now. Just because I sell shlock art for a living, it doesn't mean I don't watch CNN."

  "Have you ever actually seen him in a broadcast from a war zone?"

  Norah shrugged and said, "No. But it doesn't mean I don't watch CNN."

  "Well, I watch it," Joan chimed in, "and I can tell you, the guy makes an impression. It isn't his tousled hair or his flak jacket; they all have that. And he's not especially to-die-for handsome. It's more his air of—I don't know—reluctance. As if he can't stand what he's doing but he does it anyway because somebody has to, and he can do it better."

  "Bullshit," Norah argued. "War pays his bills."

  Joan, less assured but more introspective than taller, thinner, richer, red-haired Norah, decided to dig in her heels. "He hates his work. I'll bet my house on it. He's come to Sandy Point because he's burned out."

  "Pillowcases," said Norah, looking up from her binoculars and flashing the other two women a knowing grin. "That's a good sign. He's only been renting for a couple of days. He must be fastidious."

  "Fastidious!" Joan had another theory. "That's the last thing he'd be. War correspondents eat leaves and grass if they have to, and sleep in the crotches of trees."

  "A waste," said Norah with a snort. "He should be sleeping in another kind of crotch altogether."

  "Norah!"

  Maddie said it too sharply for someone who wasn't supposed to be listening. She looked away. Norah was being outrageously—well—Norah. It didn't mean anything.

  Norah seemed oblivious to the scolding. A second or two later, still gazing through the binoculars, she said, "One, two three, four, five, six hankies. How quaint: he uses handkerchiefs."

  Joan had theories for that, too. "Of course he uses handkerchiefs. Do you really think he can buy purse-sized Kleenex in the mountains of Afghanistan? Besides, they make good tourniquets."

  She added in a thoughtful voice, "I remember one of his reports from Chechnya. There were half a dozen rebels huddled around a campfire, trying to keep warm, and most were in rags. He wasn't wearing anything better. I suppose he bartered his jacket for information."

  "Whatever." Obviously Norah wasn't listening. Her high cheekbones had become flushed with the first faint sign of her formidable temper. Maddie braced herself.

  Norah turned to Maddie in a fed-up way and said, "You know what your problem is, Maddie Regan? You're too damned prim. You're too damned proper. And you're too damned passive."

  She handed off the binoculars to Joan and launched into an all-too-familiar lecture. "You assume the Right One will just drop in your lap while you're sipping iced tea on your patio." She folded down one of the box flaps over Maddie's forearm, forcing her to pay attention. "And meanwhile life is passing you by. You've been divorced for four years, Maddie," she added, sounding extremely annoyed about it. "You're almost forty. What're you waiting for?"

  Maddie reached into the box and pulled out a hardcover. "I'm waiting for this guy to make the New York Times," she quipped, waving a Jensen novel in front of Norah. "He's vastly underrated."

  Norah responded with a stony look, so Maddie gave her an honest answer. "I'm not waiting for the Right One ... or the Wrong One ... or anyone, Norah. I have my hands full with all the relationships—"

  "None of them sexual!"

  "—that I can handle at the moment."

  Nudging the cardboard flap open again, Maddie lifted Philip Roth's Goodbye, Columbus out of the box, and a novel by Orwell, and Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. This was the summer to update the Freshman survey of the modern novel that she taught. Morrison, Rushdie, maybe even King? Much more relevant. She'd meant to revamp the course last summer, but last summer she was still caught up, along with the rest of her family
, in shock. No one did much of anything last summer.

  "And I'm not prim," she threw out over her shoulder.

  Passive, maybe. Proper, obviously. But not prim.

  "Of course you're prim!" snapped Norah. "Who the hell else could resist gawking at a bona fide celebrity who's spending the summer a few hundred yards away from her?"

  "The man is renting a lighthouse," Maddie reminded her friend. "In a backwater summering hole. It's obvious, at least to me, that he wants privacy."

  "It's obvious that he doesn't want it. He went and became a celebrity of his own free will! If you had a shred of decency in you, you'd be fawning over him like the rest of us. He's entitled to it!"

  "Oh, pooh," said Joan in a disappointed voice. "He has a woman with him."

  "What? Let me have those," said Norah, snatching the binoculars back from Joan with such vigor that she knocked Joan off balance.

  "Watch it!" Joan snapped. The edge in her usually soft-pitched voice was a clear sign, at least to Maddie, that Norah had gone over the line again.

  He has a woman with him.

  Norah stared intently through the binoculars. After a thoughtful silence she said, "Hard to say. If she's his lover, she's not a recent one. They seem too used to one another. She's leaning against the mud shed with her hands in the pockets of her sundress, mostly listening to him—the wind just blew her dress up; great legs—and nodding once in a while. I get the sense that she's just soaking him up. As if they go back together."

  Norah looked up for a moment. "I'm right that he never married?"

  Joan said, "Not as far as I know. He made People's most-eligible list a few years ago—after the War—but then he kind of faded. So it's possible he went off and did something stupid, but I doubt it. We would've read about a wedding, in People if not in Newsweek. I imagine he was just living with someone. Probably her."