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Dear Reader,
Thank you for returning for the final story on Summer Island, a locale I first introduced this June, in the Signature Select Saga novel, You Made Me Love You.
In this story we see what happens to the last two of the forget-me-not friends—Jennifer March and Gabe Brooke. Jennifer, the loyal best friend, and Gabe, the spurned lover, have both been marked by the death of their friend, famous jazz singer Simone DeRosier. Finally it is time for them to deal with the past and find their own happily-ever-after.
The inspiration for the bed-and-breakfast where most of this story takes place came from a lavender farm I visited in Kelowna, British Columbia, with my stepmom Gwen and daughter Tessa. It was amazing to see acres of lavender growing on the hills above Okanagan Lake. All I needed to do to fit this place into my story was to replace the lake with the Pacific Ocean and to add a sheep farm on the eastern boundary. And there it was…Lavender Farm Bed and Breakfast.
I hope you enjoy returning to Summer Island this one last time. If you would like to write or send e-mail, I would be delighted to hear from you through my Web site at www.cjcarmichael.com. Or send mail to the following Canadian address: #1754 - 246 Stewart Green S.W., Calgary, Alberta, T3H 3C8 Canada.
Sincerely,
C.J. Carmichael
Secrets Between Them
C.J. Carmichael
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Former chartered accountant turned fiction author C.J. Carmichael has published twenty novels with Harlequin Books. Highlights include a RITA® Award nomination for her Harlequin Superromance novel, The Fourth Child (which was also a Romantic Times BOOKclub Top Pick); a romantic-suspense career achievement nomination from Romantic Times BOOKclub; and a nomination for her Harlequin Intrigue title, Same Place, Same Time as a Romantic Times BOOKclub Reviewers’ Choice Best Harlequin Intrigue of 2000.
C.J. lives in Calgary, Alberta, with two teenage daughters, and a dog and a cat. Please visit her at www.cjcarmichael.com.
For my daughter Tess and stepmom Gwen,
in memory of a lovely summer afternoon.
CONTENTS
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
LEANING AGAINST THE FERRY railing, Nick Lancaster squinted at the horizon and wondered if the faint outline of land ahead was Summer Island. His adrenaline surged, making him as lighthearted as a kid at Christmas.
Almost there.
Finally.
If the island weren’t so bloody remote, he would have been there sooner. But it had taken him more than a week to drive from New York City across the country, then over the border to Vancouver. Of course, he could have flown, but he hated flying and besides, he liked having his own vehicle. He’d bought his Land Rover with the royalties from his first book and there was an attachment there that amused his friends and family to no end.
Once in Vancouver, he’d caught the ferry and began the forty-minute crossing to his final destination—the vacation home of deceased jazz singer Simone DeRosier.
By now Nick knew almost everything there was to know about the musician: her early childhood in Hartford, Connecticut, her distant relationship with her professor father, her marriage to communication magnate Harrison Kincaid and all the details of her fabulously successful career.
Then there was her death. It had been reported as a suicide initially and that was what had initially attracted him to her story.
Why would a world-famous star with a doting husband and a young daughter take her own life?
Turned out she hadn’t. She’d been killed. And with that turn of events, he’d been hooked. For the past twelve months he’d devoted himself to this project. Still there were unanswered questions.
Summer Island had to be the key. Simone had spent her vacations here, from when she was a teenager until the day of her death, three years ago. She’d met her best friends on Summer Island, the so-called forget-me-not friends she’d immortalized in her Grammy-winning song of the same name. Including Simone there’d been six of them at the beginning.
Now only four were still alive, and three of the four lived on the island. Nick intended to talk to them all, but one in particular had captured his interest.
The outside world didn’t know much about Jennifer March. Somehow her friendship with the big star had escaped the media scrutiny of the others.
Nick had first gotten wind of her in an old article in Vanity Fair. Simone had mentioned a friend, Jennifer, whom she loved like a sister. Later, he’d found a photograph taken after one of Simone’s New York City concerts. The star had her arm around a pretty blond woman. Usually Simone was photographed with men, so this was a real aberration.
The blonde hadn’t been identified in the accompanying article, but Nick’s curiosity had been roused as soon as he’d seen it. Could this be the Jennifer he’d been looking for?
It turned out his hunch had been right and his subsequent research had led him straight to Summer Island. He’d had a break when he discovered that Jennifer’s family owned a bed-and-breakfast on the island. It had seemed like the perfect omen.
He’d asked his agent to book him a room at Lavender Farm for the month of September. Michele, of course, had been only too happy to oblige. She was as excited about this book as he was.
The little blob on the horizon was bigger now. Nick looked around the deck and noticed a man standing a few yards to his left. “Excuse me. Is that Summer Island?”
“Sure is.”
“That’s what I thought,” Nick said. “Thanks.”
He started to head below deck and as he passed by, the other man smiled. “I hope you enjoy your visit. Summer Island is a pretty special place.”
“Yeah,” Nick replied. “So I’ve heard.”
There was something familiar about the man, but by the time Nick had gone to the washroom, then ordered a coffee, he’d forgotten all about him.
AFTER THE FERRY DOCKED, Nick drove his Rover from the parking level, down the ramp and onto the main road. He stopped at a big sign. To the right lay the north end of the island where his bed-and-breakfast was. To the left was the island’s only town, Cedarbrae.
Deciding he was hungry and needed a meal, Nick turned left.
Summer Island was a place of rocky shorelines and thick rain forests. Even in town the trees were massive. Mostly cedars, Nick guessed, though he knew from his research that some of these were also Douglas fir and oak. Occasionally he spotted the twisted shape and smooth red bark of the distinctive arbutus tree.
He felt a long way from New York City as he drove along the deserted road. He wondered how a person could live full-time in a place like this. So small and rural and isolated. He had nothing against the great outdoors. But he’d only been here a short while and already it felt as if his thoughts were echoing around in his head.
He needed people.
A sign pointed left and he turned again. Here was the town and it was small. Most of the amenities were on the main street, which ran parallel to the ocean.
In less than a minute he’d seen the whole place. He circled back to Derby’s Diner, a white clapboard structure, with green-and-white awnings shading the windows. The almost-full parking lot seemed testament to a decent lunchtime menu, so Nick nosed his Rover into one of the few empty spaces and went inside.
Only two tables and one booth were available. He was headed for the smaller table, when he noticed a redhead across the room. He did a doubletake, at first disbelieving, then amazed, then intrigued.
Molly Springfield was on Summer Island?
And then he realized he shouldn’t be surprised. It seemed that everywhere he went in his journey to learn about Simone DeRosier, Molly Springfield had been there first. He still didn’t know who she was, exactly, or what she wanted. But clearly it was time he made a more concentrated effort to find out.
He checked out her luncheon companion, a tall, thin blond woman, older, probably in her late thirties like him. He experienced a second shock as he realized he was looking at Jennifer March.
From the photograph he’d seen, he’d known Jennifer was pretty. But in person, she had a wholesome, natural beauty that was totally disarming. He could picture her in a shampoo commercial with a garland on her head and a meadow of wildflowers at her feet.
Wow, where had that image come from? Teenaged memories of flipping through his mother’s magazines hoping to spot a lingerie advertisement?
The fact that Jennifer was seated with Molly Springfield was an interesting development.
The first time he’d run into Molly he’d tried to question her. But as soon as she heard that he wanted to write Simone DeRosier’s biography, she’d gone running. She hadn’t let him get near her since.
At one point he’d speculated that she might be writing a book, too. But if so, it would be her first. She had no publishing history.
It couldn’t be coincidence that she was on Summer Island, though. And chatting up one of the original forget-me-not friends. They sure did look cozy, like they’d been pals for a while.
Both were dressed in yoga pants and colorful, formfitting tank tops. Their hair was tied back from pink-tinged cheeks. All evidence pointed to the likelihood that they’d just come from an exercise class.
They were so engaged in their conversation, they didn’t even notice him. Quickly Nick changed course, bypassing the table and choosing instead the booth directly behind Molly. She couldn’t see him here unless she turned completely around in her seat. Even then, she’d only make out the back of his head.
He picked up a menu and pretended to read it while he focused on their conversation. At first the words were just a blur. He closed his eyes. Concentrated.
They were talking about Jennifer’s mother…
“HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN SHE died?” Molly asked.
“Eighteen.” The older Jennifer got, the more she realized how lucky she’d been to have such a happy, protected childhood. Good parents, close friends, a storybook life in the storybook setting of Summer Island.
All that had ended after her mother died though.
“It’s scary how fast your life can change.”
“I know,” Molly commiserated. She’d lost her mother a few years ago, too, which was why Jennifer felt comfortable confiding in her.
“I’m not sure how I would have coped without my friends. They were all amazing. Harrison helped me deal with the lawyers and the financial mess left behind because Mom didn’t have a will.”
“He’s a rock, Harrison,” Molly agreed.
“Gabe took charge of the funeral arrangements and wrote the obituary for the Summer Chronicle, while Emerson arranged for his family landscaping business to handle all the gardening and yard work at the B and B for an entire month.”
“They really rallied around you.”
“Dad and I were such a mess. We needed the help. Aidan stepped in and canceled reservations and refunded deposits for the next few weeks so we had a chance to catch our breath. He even set us up on a computer system.”
“What about Simone?”
Just the name brought a smile to Jennifer’s face. “She was the one who made me laugh and helped me believe that the future wasn’t as bleak as it seemed right then.”
“She was something, huh? So famous and yet she still made time for her old friends. I wish I could have met her.”
Jennifer said nothing to that. She wasn’t so sure Molly and Simone would have gotten along. Simone never had trouble making friends with men, but women were something else. Not many could put up with being in the other woman’s shadow all the time. But Jennifer hadn’t minded. The fun of having Simone as a friend had been worth it.
But she couldn’t see Molly willingly taking the backseat to anyone…even a world-famous musician. Molly was flamboyant and confident in a way that Jennifer envied.
“What about you, Molly? You must still really miss your mom.” She’d moved here to make a fresh start after her mother’s death. Unlike Jennifer, Molly didn’t have any other family.
“Oh, I’m coping.”
Typical of Molly to keep her answer vague. Molly didn’t like to talk about the past. She was all about the future, or so she said.
“Well I’m really glad you ended up on Summer Island. I haven’t had a good heart-to-heart talk like this in ages.”
“We need to go out more often. Have I ever told you that you work too hard?”
“Only a hundred times.” Jennifer laughed. “But we can’t all be free spirits like you.”
“Is that really how you see me?”
“Well, sure. You moved across the country to an island where you didn’t know anyone and started your own yoga studio. You’re artistic and spontaneous, full of energy and brave…” Jennifer sighed. Not one of those adjectives could be applied to her. “In fact, sometimes you remind me a lot of Simone.”
“You still miss her, don’t you?”
“My aunt says too much. She says I lived vicariously through Simone and that it’s time I learned to have my own adventures.” Jennifer shook her head. “Can you imagine?”
Molly looked at her speculatively. “Actually, your aunt might have a point there.”
“I don’t think so.” Molly, who had no responsibilities to anyone other than herself couldn’t understand. Jennifer barely had time for yoga two times a week, let alone adventure.
“Frankly, I think we both could use a dash of excitement. Preferably of the romantic sort.”
“Oh, really? Seen anyone who interested you lately?”
“Well…to be honest…” Molly drummed her fingers on the table. “What about that friend of yours, Gabe Brooke. He’s single again. I know he’s rich and he’s certainly gorgeous.”
“Yes, Gabe is all those things. You should go out with him, Moll. Want me to fix you up?”
“What about you? You’ve known him longer.”
“Yeah, but we’ve been friends forever. Dating would be weird.” And it would. Though once she hadn’t felt that way. “Besides, I’m good friends with his ex-wife.”
“What happened there? Why did they split up? People say it was because of Simone but she’s been dead for three years now.”
“It’s complicated.” Jennifer rubbed her forehead. She didn’t want to talk about it, but if Molly really was interested in Gabe, then she probably should know the basic facts.
“Gabe was in love with Simone for years, but when she married Harrison, he turned to Nessa. Nessa had always been crazy about him and she thought she could make their marriage work. But Gabe never seemed to get over Simone. He was always at her beck and call.”
“Did they have an affair?”
“I don’t think so. But Nessa felt emotionally abandoned anyway. And who could blame her.”
Molly leaned back, wrinkled her nose. “He doesn’t come out sounding like a very nice guy.”
“Oh, but he is. You have to realize the power Simone had over people, men in particular. Once Gabe realized how much he’d hurt Nessa, he felt badly and tried to make amends. But it was too late.”
Jennifer could sympathize with how Nessa must have felt. Once, Jennifer, too, had had a crush on Gabe. Years had gone by before she’d worked up the nerve to tell him. Only, just as she started talking, he’d blurted out how devastated he was that Simone was dating Harrison instead of him.
She’d realized then that Gabe saw her as nothing more than a buddy, a pal, another one of the gang.
She’d told herself that it was just as well.
But now, briefly, she felt the burn of that old rejection. No sense blaming Simone, though. She couldn’t help that all the men loved her. That was simply the way it had always been.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTERNOON AT THE bed-and-breakfast was Jennifer’s favorite time of day. Her father usually took a nap on his reclining chair in the sitting room, with his sister Annie in the chair next to him, reading. This was when Jennifer was free to putter in her gardens and work on the lavender products she sold at a craft store on Saltspring Island.
Jennifer took her shears and a large shallow wicker basket out to the gardens in the front yard. She was expecting a new guest and this way she wouldn’t miss her arrival. At any rate, the Lavandula multifida needed to be harvested again.
Her mother had planted the original lavender, for which the B and B was named. As the years went by, she’d started experimenting with other cultivars. Now there were lavender beds on all sides of the house, sometimes three or four in a row, with neat gravel paths between them.
The best time to snip the lavender stalks, if you wanted to dry them, was just when the flowers started to bloom. Jennifer stooped next to a perfect specimen. All around her bees were busy pollinating, but they didn’t bother her as she carefully snipped at the stalks, just above the bushy plant growth.
Later, she’d tie them in tiny bundles with rattan and use them to decorate the jars of lavender jelly and vinegar she’d make during the colder winter months.
A peaceful half hour passed. Just Jennifer, the lavender, a few dragonflies and the bumblebees. Her basket was almost full when she heard a vehicle approach. She straightened, put a hand to her lower back and stretched. That must be Nic Lancaster, from New York City.
They didn’t often have guests from so far away. She was a little excited to meet this woman. Jennifer shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun so she could watch as a dusty old SUV came into view.
The driver pulled up to the house, then stepped out from behind the wheel. She frowned. Squinted. No, she wasn’t seeing things. Her guest wasn’t a woman, but a man. And while his vehicle looked weathered and battered, he definitely did not.
Late thirties, she guessed. Fit and naturally athletic judging by those shoulders and muscular legs. He wore typical summer outdoor gear—hiking shorts and boots, with a navy shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
He’d been facing the house, perhaps reading the sign for the bed-and-breakfast, but then he turned and stared at her. Though about twenty feet of flower garden separated them, Jennifer felt a power in his eyes that made her mouth dry.
Their guests here were usually families, retired couples, college kids on break. She couldn’t remember the last time a single man, an attractive single man, had checked in.
Which he might not do if she didn’t stop gawking at him.
In her defense, she didn’t think she was the only one having a moment here. The man in front of her seemed just as transfixed by her as she was by him.
He watched her approach with such intensity that she should have felt self-conscious. But, she didn’t.
“Hi, I’m Jennifer March. Welcome to Lavender Farm.” She put the basket on the ground, then held out her hand, amazed that she could sound so poised when she felt anything but.
“Jennifer.” His hand was warm, his grip firm.
She removed a strand of hair the wind had blown across her cheek. “You’re Nick Lancaster?”
“Yes. Sorry, I should have identified myself right away.” His smile was a little crooked, a quirk that added a dash of self-deprecation to his confident air.
“Your reservation was made by a woman. I didn’t know she was booking for someone else.”
“That would have been my agent. She took care of the travel arrangements. I must say, I had no idea it was going to be so pretty here.”
He looked right at her as he said that and her usual shyness suddenly kicked in. Was he flirting, or just being friendly? If he was flirting, what should she say in response?
Though Simone had been gone three years, Jennifer knew exactly what she would be saying if she were here. Go for it, Jenn! Here’s your big chance.
Let him know you’re interested and available.
But now that it was happening, or might be happening, she felt awkward and tongue-tied.
“Um…why do you have an agent?” He was certainly good looking enough to be an actor. But he was also in incredible shape, so maybe he was a professional athlete.
His laugh was easy, natural. “I’m a writer. Michele Ashburn, the woman you spoke to on the phone, is my literary agent.”
She never would have guessed that. He didn’t look like the scholarly sort. “What do you write?”
For the first time since he’d arrived, he glanced away from her and hesitated with his answer.
“I’m writing a book,” Nick said, finally.
“Oh.” They’d had a couple of authors stay at the B and B over the years. One had been working on a travel guide for kayakers in the Gulf Islands, another had been doing an environmental survey for his doctorial thesis. “What’s your book a—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish her question as the front door opened and her father stepped out to the porch.
“It’s time for afternoon tea, Jenn. Should I put the kettle on?” He paused at the sight of Nick, several yards away. “Is that our guest from New York City?”
Jennifer dashed up the stairs to hand her father his walking stick. He hated the cane, but she lived in fear that he would one day fall and break a leg. Since his stroke, he’d been a little wobbly on his feet.
But no damage had been done to his acuity. Even though her father could no longer handle the day-today work of running the bed-and-breakfast, he still managed the accounting side of things. He also checked the bookings every morning and made a point of greeting new arrivals personally.
“Dad, this is Nick Lancaster. Nick, my father, Phil. He and my mother started this bed-and-breakfast almost forty years ago.”
Nick stepped forward to shake her father’s hand. “This is a really beautiful place.” His eyes were on Jennifer again, and once more she felt as if his compliment for the place included her.
Aunt Annie appeared from the side of the house. Though she ate her meals with the family, she slept in a small cottage on the property that had once been a potting shed. It was fully winterized now, with plumbing and a small kitchen.