by Noelle Fox
Written in the Stars
Northern Lights Romance
Book 1
Noelle Fox
Written in the Stars
Copyright © 2017 by Noelle Fox, LLC.
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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 any actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover art by The Killion Group, Inc.
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
ISBN: 978-1-944042-18-9
Thank You
Table of Contents
WRITTEN IN THE STARS
Copyright
Prologue
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
Dear Reader
Excerpt from GUIDED BY THE STARS
Prologue
Derek Wakefield watched James Whittaker, Esq. pull a paper from his file drawer and settle back into his chair.
In front of the lawyer’s desk, Derek stood, arms folded, scowling. It pissed him off to be so nervous. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like he was in trouble.
Yet.
“Here’s what I have so far.” James glanced up at Derek, as if he expected him not to be listening. As if. “‘Ms. Grace Cooper,’ etc., ‘Saratoga Springs, New York,’ etc. etc. Dear Ms. Cooper. As your father’s attorney, I am writing to you about an offer I think you will find intriguing. Given that your father was not a presence in your life—’”
“‘Not able to be a presence’ in her life.” Derek scowled harder. His ex-wife had prevented any hope of that. Very efficiently. One day she and his baby daughter were there. The next they weren’t.
James blinked. “Okay. ‘Given that your father was not able to be a presence in your life, his wish is—’”
“‘Dying wish.’”
James looked up. “You’re not dying.”
“I was when I thought of this.”
“Only potentially. Not now.”
“I’ll die someday.”
“We all will. Right now you’re in total remission with a good chance the cure will be permanent. That is not dying.”
Derek growled pretty much the way his dog Clancy did when he was seriously annoyed. Derek was forty-eight, but sometimes he felt like a cranky old man. Why couldn’t James get the damn stick out of his poo-bah and put in what Derek was paying him to put in? This had to be done right or there was no point writing the damn letter in the first place. “‘Dying wish’ or forget the whole thing.”
James held his gaze for several seconds, then sighed, picked up a red pen and added the word. “‘It is his dying wish—’”
“‘Was his dying wish.’ I’m not dying anymore. As you said. See? It works out.”
James pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache, which undoubtedly Derek had caused.
Yeah, boohoo.
“‘It was his dying wish to share with you the part of the world he loved most. He is offering you—’”
“No.” Derek shook his head emphatically. “‘He left to you.’”
“I can’t say that.” James’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a will.”
“Grace’s mother has had over a quarter century to turn her against me.” He bunched his mouth, hating having to explain himself. “If Grace thinks I’m already dead when she comes here, I’ll have time to get to know her.”
“But that’s—”
“Before I tell her the truth.”
“Derek…” James exhaled loudly and edited the page. “How about, ‘You are therefore entitled to a two-week all-expenses-paid vacation at the Northern Lights Retreat in Aurora, Alaska, situated on Polaris Island in Alaska’s Alexander Archipelago.’”
“No, no.” Derek was disgusted. “She isn’t going to know where that is. Just say we’re west of Prince of Wales Island on the Inside Passage.”
James didn’t even object that time. Maybe he was learning.
“‘The resort offers guided mountain hikes, kayaking, fishing and whale-watching, plus caves and an abandoned gold mine for exploration. The lodge has a beautiful library, a movie theater, exercise room with personal trainer and a spacious, comfortable lounge overlooking Aurora’s picturesque harbor. There are also a variety of classes available from yoga to wood-carving, and a massage therapist on staff. Our restaurant—’”
“‘Award-winning restaurant.’”
James pinched his nose again. “What award, now?”
“Health department.” Derek smirked. “Haven’t killed anyone yet.”
James actually cracked a smile—the poor guy needed to lighten up. Derek’s bout with leukemia had taught him to let the small stuff be, and to go after the big stuff as tenaciously as possible. Which was why he was in this damn office being hassled over every word of one of the three most important letters he’d ever write, to daughters he should have contacted decades ago, and would have if he weren’t a stubborn coward.
“How about, ‘Our Michelin- and Zagat-rated top tier restaurant, visited daily by royalty from around the world…’”
“Now you’ve got the hang of it.” Derek grinned at him. “Okay, I can let that one go. Plain ‘restaurant’ is fine.”
“Whew.” James went on reading: instructions on how Grace could make and pay for the necessary reservations, and whatever other legal crap he had to put in there.
Derek walked to the window and stared out at the resort he’d inherited from his father in the late 1990s, a resort he’d spent most of his last two decades renovating and expanding. For the lodge he’d chosen graceful lines of natural wood and glass that caught and reflected the morning light. Scattered around the main building like chicks around a mama hen were separate cottages available for rental. The rest of the tiny town of Aurora—all three streets of it—followed the coast around the harbor. Behind their remote speck of civilization stretched a valley separating the evergreen-blanketed peaks of Mount Eagle and Mount Hawk.
This part of his life he’d done well. He’d turned the resort around, saved it from the brink of bankruptcy, which in turn had brought Aurora back to life with new jobs and stability. This he was proud of.
The parent thing not so much.
Over his shoulder James’s printer spewed out the newly-edited letter, the first of three that Derek hoped would be catalysts for changing that sad and regretful part of his past.
If all went as planned, sometime in the near future he’d be given two preci
ous weeks to redeem himself in the eyes of his middle daughter, Grace.
Chapter 1
Grace Cooper slammed her bedroom door behind her and threw herself onto her bed, landing face down.
The End.
She’d just come back from the real estate closing. Last night she’d barely slept for dreading it. A lot of dreaded things didn’t turn out as badly or feel as horrible as expected.
This one had.
A Touch of Grace, in Glen Falls, New York, the tiny city’s first restaurant serving small plates drawn from traditional dishes all over the world, had failed. The building had just been sold to a national chain that served indifferent, bland, pre-cooked, oversalted, underflavored utter crap.
Not that she was bitter or anything.
Three years earlier, her realization of a lifelong dream had opened to great fanfare, great reviews and great business. Grace had been on her way. Who said this new restaurant stuff was hard? Look at her! Barely out of the CIA, Culinary Institute of America, and she already had her own place. She was officially a chef, her own boss, able to construct menus her own way, cook meals the way she’d always dreamed she could, the way she firmly believed they should be prepared. Fresh. Varied. A fixed meal consisting of flavor profiles that started mild and light and built to richer, more spiced foods. Wine pairings that followed the arc of the courses.
And then, after everyone had tried and loved her food, the cozy atmosphere and the impeccable service, the customers had stopped coming. She and Sean, her business partner, had tried all the sad desperate moves of a restaurant on the slide. No longer offering lunch. Trying out a Sunday brunch. Coupons in local freebie packages. Free drinks. Deep discounts during the week.
Nothing worked.
She knew she shouldn’t take it personally but she did. The gradual dissolution of a once-perfect marriage couldn’t be much worse. In this case, her spouse had been her customers, during the honeymoon constantly telling her she walked on water, now cheerfully holding her head under it.
Ignorant ungrateful boorish undiscerning ratfink poopyheads.
Not that she was bitter or anything.
Tears rained down on her flowery quilt, the one she’d bought when she moved out of her mom’s house in Saratoga Springs, so full of excitement. So naïve.
She rolled over onto her back and stared listlessly up at the ceiling, starting the familiar loop of self-flagellation: Maybe…if she’d just…if she’d only…
Done. Finished. Sold. Time to move on.
To what?
Until she found another lightning-strike perfect situation, she’d have to get a job in someone else’s restaurant, give up her hard-won independence, cook his or her food the way he or she envisioned it…
Not that she was bitter or—
Grace sat up determinedly.
Enough. She was lucky to have the training and qualifications to find a job. She had no husband or child tying her to any place; she could go wherever there was work. Someday she’d be back on her feet and be able to try again for her own place here in New York State, to execute her own vision of what the restaurant experience could and should be. Next time she wouldn’t make the same mistakes. Next time she’d succeed. And if not that time, the time after that. She was only twenty-seven. Over the hill for the Olympics maybe, but a mere babe in the restaurant world. She had time.
Her cell rang. Rolling over, she pulled it out of her sleek leather purse, a splurge after the restaurant had taken off, now a reminder not to count those chickens. Maybe it had been silly to dress up for the closing, but Grace wasn’t going to show up to such a miserable occasion looking as defeated as she felt.
Crap. It was her mother.
She allowed herself a small wilt of self-pity. Katherine Janowicz never called when things were going well, when she was happy and wanted to chat, or to find out how her only child was doing. She called when she was miserable. And since she’d discovered two weeks earlier that her fourth husband, the man she’d started dating when they were both married to other people, was…guess what?
Cheating.
As much as Grace tried to feel her mother’s pain, part of her wanted to shriek, What did you think would happen? Same thing that had happened before. And before that. And—
“Hi, Mom.” She got off the bed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, searching for her tissue box. She’d been using it a fair amount lately, as the restaurant’s demise became more obviously inevitable, and the box had therefore been on many exciting adventures around her apartment. “How are you doing?”
“He wants a divorce.”
“Aw, Mom.” Grace hung her head in genuine dismay. “Really? He won’t go to counseling?”
“He won’t even consider it. I’m not right for him. It was a mistake. All the same crap.”
“I’m so sorry.” She found the Kleenex, tugged a tissue out, and managed to knock a pile of mail off her desk. “You should go to counseling on your own.”
“Why? There’s nothing wrong with me.”
Grace rolled her eyes and knelt to pick up the spilled envelopes, circulars and catalogs. “It’s not about finding something wrong with you. It’s about helping you feel better at a time when you need to.”
She half-stood, then noticed the corner of one more envelope that had slid under the bed. The letter from Alaska. The weird one. When had it arrived? Weeks ago. Incredible as it seemed, she’d put it out of her mind. So much else going on.
“I don’t need to pay someone to tell me that my husband is a douche-bag.”
Grace cringed. “Mom, I know this hurts. But you married him knowing he was a cheater. You shouldn’t be surprised when he—”
“We were both miserable in our previous marriages. Miserable! You don’t know what that’s like.”
“No, you’re right, I don’t.” And really, she was totally fine with that. Because it was plenty of torture watching her mother fling herself in and out of marriages with self-centered morons after she’d escaped Grace’s dad when Grace was still a baby. If Grace ever married, she’d date the guy for fifty, sixty years, then feel she knew him well enough to tie the knot.
“And we were in love.”
Grace suppressed a snort. Infatuation. Chemicals. Not to be trusted. Except her mom did, every single freaking time. “I know.”
“Then you shouldn’t judge.”
“I’m not judging you, Mom. I just think if you talked to a therapist, you could figure out why you keep ending up with guys who are horrible to you. You can finally break the cycle.”
“Men are jerks, that’s all I need to know. Everything is about them, all about what they want, nothing to do with you unless you’re giving them what they need.” Her mother’s voice shook with rage, a sure sign any reasonable discussion would be impossible. “This is the last time. I’m finished. Through. Never doing this again. Never!”
Not that Mom was bitter or anything.
“Good for you.” Except Grace had heard all that before. Every single freaking time. She held the Alaskan letter up, scanning it again. The content had certainly caught her attention, though she half-expected it would turn out to be a scam. When it had arrived, she’d been frantically busy, and not in the mood for any more complications. “Mom, I need to ask you something. About my dad.”
“God, Grace. Now? Really? Like this isn’t a difficult enough time for me?”
“I know, but this is important.”
Her mom made a sound of exasperation. “All right. What is it about the selfish pig you want to know?”
“I got this letter.” She told her mother about the offer.
Her mother gasped. “The jerk. I can’t believe he did this. After all this time.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, Mom? You told me Dad died when I was a girl.”
“Oh!” Her mother’s voice rose half an octave. “Well, yes, he did!”
“Then why is he dying again now?”
“How should I know why he does wh
at he does?”
Grace took a deep breath, heart pounding. “Mom, you are not making sense.”
“I’m sorry.” Her mother started crying. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened.” She spoke gently, stomach churning, which happened fairly often on the phone with her mother.
“Everything I did was to protect you. I didn’t want you trying to find him and getting hurt. He was such a bastard.”
“Okay. Okay. Shhhhh.” Grace closed her eyes, trying to figure out how she’d carve time out of this conversation to go quietly insane. Her father had been alive during most of her life, and she’d had no idea. “It’s okay. I understand.”
Katherine’s sobs gradually abated. “It was all I could think of to do. You don’t know what I went through getting you away from him.”
“I know. It was hard. You were very brave.” Still clutching the letter, Grace collapsed back onto her bed. Her mother exhausted her sometimes. A lot of the times. Lately—all of the times. “He’s apparently dead all over again now, so it’s done. I’m safe. It’s fine.”
“Do you forgive me?”
“Of course, Mom. Of course I do.” Did she? She’d have to wait until she could process the information. Certainly her father sounded like a piece of work. Bad-tempered, immature, incredibly selfish, bordering on neglectful and cruel. The only good things Mom had ever said about him were that he had a great smile, and that he loved dogs. “Back to the letter, does this sound like something he would do?”
“God yes. Exactly like him. He comes off as the hero, nobly thinking of you on his deathbed, providing you with this great vacation at the place he loved most in the world, and he never had to do a goddamn thing where you were concerned but stick his dick into my—”
