A Stranger in Wynnedower (40 page)

Jane Austen "Book Maven
" - May 2012 - 5 STARS

This is a unique modern-day
romantic suspense novel, with eerie gothic tones—a well-played combination,
expertly woven into the storyline.

Brief Description
:

Beth Kincaid left her hot
temper and unhappy childhood behind and created a life in the city free from
untidy emotionalism, but even a tidy life has danger, especially when it falls
apart.

In the midst of her personal
disasters, Beth is called back to her hometown of Preston, a small town in
southwestern Virginia, to settle her guardian's estate. There, she runs smack
into the mess she'd left behind a decade earlier: her alcoholic father, the
long-ago sweetheart, Michael, and the poor opinion of almost everyone in town.

As she sorts through her
guardian's possessions, Beth discovers that the woman who saved her and raised
her had secrets, and the truths revealed begin to chip away at her self-imposed
control.

Michael is warmly attentive
and Stephen, her ex-fiancé, follows her to Preston to win her back, but it is
the man she doesn't know who could forever end Beth's chance to build a better,
truer life.

Excerpt from Kincaid’s
Hope...

~ One ~

She’d
built her life before; she could do it again.

Beth
Kincaid had awakened before dawn, but the memory of yesterday, of being fired,
was a dark, gnarly place in her brain. She pulled the goose down pillow over
her head hoping to slip back into sweet oblivion.

Not
happening.

She
kicked off the covers. She was an early riser and always had been. Apparently,
that didn’t change with the circumstances.

First,
a hot shower, pounding and steaming, a brisk blow-dry of the hair and then a
little makeup—a
swish of the hand towel
to shine up the faucet completed the morning routine.

Beth
shook out her folded jeans and held them up to her waist. She hadn’t seen them
in a long time. She sorted through the shirts hanging in the closet, bypassing
the silk shells and dressier button-downs, opting for a sky blue cotton shirt
with pearl buttons.

Next,
coffee, but there was no rush. She wouldn’t be among the DC beltway commuters
this morning.

On
the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, the answering machine
splashed its blinking red light onto the wall—the same as it had last night
when she came home. She turned her back to it and concentrated on getting the
coffee maker working.

Soft
strains of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March came from nearby. Beth jumped, startled,
and coffee grounds scattered across the countertop. Stephen—she’d called him
yesterday, but he’d asked all the wrong questions. She found her purse and dug
the cell phone out of the side pocket.

“Hi.”

“Hello,
beautiful. How are you? Better today?” His tone dropped. “You scared me, you
know, not answering the phone. I was worried.”

“I
didn’t feel like talking.” She sniffled and was embarrassed that she couldn’t
help it.

“Remember,
I’m the guy you’re going to marry.”

“I
know. It’s just…”

“Beth,
please let me help. Getting laid off is bad news and it’s tough for you now,
but Haddin Technology gives generous severance packages. You’ve been there for
almost ten years.”

She
cringed. Stephen’s mind was always on money these days. His investments had
tanked and she sympathized, but….

“I
can’t talk about it now. I’ll call you later.”

Her
finger hit the End button without consulting her good manners.

Beth
clutched the phone. She could see him—almost as if he were right in front of
her—his dark eyes, almost black, so concerned, so sincere.

He’d
stopped asking her to take a loan against her 401K, but since yesterday it was
severance, severance, severance. If he said that word one more time, she’d
scream.

When
the Wedding March began playing again, she stuffed the phone under the chair
cushion. He didn’t understand. No one could.

But
that wasn’t true. Maude always encouraged and supported her.
Maude Henry, no relation and under no obligation, had
rescued Beth and her brother, Daniel. She’d done her best to help them—two
troubled children with no one to protect them. Years later,
just before Beth left town, Maude had given her a
book.

Beth
stopped in front of the bookcase and ran her fingers along the spines of the
books. There it was—
Clarissa’s Folly
. She slid it from its spot on the
shelf.

The
dust jacket was gaudy and melodramatic, an illustration of a young woman in a
long, full-skirted dress standing in front of a gray stone house and clutching
a red cape about her, against the wind. In the background, a man stood near the
corner of the house watching her. Tall and slim, dressed in black, his face was
shadowed below the brim of a tall hat.

The
jacket branded it a gothic romance, decades out of fashion and a misfit among
her other books. Almost an embarrassment. She’d considered discarding it many
times, or, at least ripping off the dust jacket. Why hadn’t she? Because of
Maude. She didn’t have the heart—or the lack of heart—to throw it away.

The
inscription was the important part. She flipped open the cover to the words
Maude had written on the title page in her
disciplined
and perfectly formed handwriting:

To
Beth on her eighteenth birthday,

Make
your own life. Don’t let it be made for you.

Love,
your Maude

Beth
appreciated the advice, but had always been bemused by the choice of book.

She
whispered, “Maude, I did what you said and look where it’s gotten me.”

A
photo stuck out from between the pages. She brushed the edge gently with her
fingers, then pulled it out. Michael. Dark hair, blue eyes and a smile that set
her tingling from head to toe. Back then, of course. Not now. Not in a long
time. They’d been so young then. Only a decade ago? It seemed like another
life. And beside him, Daniel, always looking so serious, but as mischievous as
his ginger hair suggested.

She
reached up and touched her own—more gold than red, but otherwise so much like
her brother’s.

One
page of the book was bent. Beth smoothed out the rumple and the text caught her
attention.

The maidservant conducted
her down the stairs and through the tall doorway of the dining room. Madam was
already seated at the table to the right of a handsome, well-dressed
dark-haired man. Clarissa’s breath caught in her throat. Quickly, she sought to
regain her composure.

The footman drew a chair
from the table, opposite Madam, and waited. Clarissa approached and with each
step she was surer.

It
was escapist, nonsense fiction. Nothing to do with real life.

Beth
returned the book to the shelf and grabbed her old comfort sweater from the
sofa. She slid her arms into the loose sleeves, then pulled the front together
to hold the softness closer.

So,
what next?

She’d
like to see Maude.

There
was no employer to notify and her neighbor, Celeste, could get the mail. Why
not drive to Preston and visit her?

Beth
pushed open the sliding door and stepped out onto her small balcony. She
breathed deeply hoping fresh air would cool her brain.

The
parking lot below was almost empty. The spring-freshened breeze lightly masked
the mingled odors of asphalt and stale exhaust. Beyond the parking lot and a
buffer of cedar trees, most of the Route 50 traffic headed north and east, away
from Fairfax and toward the DC environs. The world—the employed part—was en route
to work. Her car sat idle a few rows back with the morning dew still clinging
to the windshield.

Only
one person was in view, a man sitting in a shiny dark SUV. He was almost
invisible behind its tinted windows. The side window was down and his large, muscled
arm rested on the sill. The morning sun glinted on gold jewelry around his
wrist and on his hand.

He
was a stranger and she was glad. She didn’t want nosy neighbors speculating why
workaholic-no-time-for-gossiping, all-business Beth was home at this hour on a
work day.

The
damp, metallic cold of the wrought iron railing reached through the nubby knit
of her sleeves. Beth pressed her fingers to her face, to her throbbing temples.
Her omissions were catching up with her. She’d never lied about her past, but
she didn’t believe she owed anyone, including Stephen, her life story.

She’d
told him her parents died when she was young and that a local woman had raised
her. That had satisfied him. He liked being free of family ties and emotional
baggage. They both did. Romance and hearts and flowers had never been a part of
their relationship, but then again, neither had regret or remorse. Until now.

Yesterday’s
shock had provided some kind of catharsis and opened her eyes. Their
relationship—once so sparkly—had no more substance than a cheap trinket.

But
breaking up? He wasn’t going to make it easy. All the more reason to disappear
for a few days.

Beth
went back inside and yanked the suitcase from the closet and opened it on the
bed. She didn’t need to pack much. She wouldn’t be gone long—just long enough
to hear Maude’s calm common sense advice. Her toiletries fit into
specially-sized plastic bags and her clothing into packing cubes. Nice and
neat. With a satisfied grunt, Beth closed the suitcase and carried it into the
living room.

Beth
pictured Maude, thin with perfect posture and iron-colored curls tight to her
scalp—and with a wide smile when she opened the front door and saw Beth.

The
blinking red message light caught her eye again. Time to take care of it. She
flexed her fingers and punched the blinking red light.

“You
have three messages. First message.” There was a brief pause, then, Stephen’s
voice said, “Beth? You aren’t answering your cell. Are you there? Call me.”

Groan.
She hit Erase.

“Second
message.” This time it was a woman’s voice. Familiar. It caught her attention
with the first words. “This message is for Beth Kincaid. This is Ida Langhorne
calling from Mr. Monroe’s office. You might remember me?” There was a pause.
“Well, I’m sorry to leave a message like this, but Miss Maude has passed. A few
days ago.…”

Beth’s
mind went blank. Mrs. Langhorne’s slow, southern lilt made ‘a few days ago’
sound like a question. The words hit her brain, but she couldn’t think. Mrs.
Langhorne continued speaking. Beth slapped the Stop button.

…has
passed. A few days ago…

Something
tore in her heart. With a trembling hand, she pressed Play again.

“…he
sent a letter, too, because we had trouble tracking you down. Your number’s
unlisted. Anyway, we found your phone number in her address book today. We had
a small funeral service yesterday—just the way she wanted. I’m real sorry,
honey. When you get to town, stop by the office and we’ll give you Miss Maude’s
papers. Bye, now.”

Only
Maude had her contact information.

There
was no love lost between Beth and the people she’d left behind in Preston ten
years ago. In the years since, her trips to Preston had been brief and solely
for the purpose of visiting Maude.

The
red light continued to blink, waiting, insisting she listen to the third
message. She pushed the button.

“Third
message. Beth, this is Michael. Maude gave me your number a while ago. You’ve
probably heard by now, but I wanted to make sure you knew. It’s about Maude.
She’s gone. If you’d like to talk, call me.” He left a phone number.

One
person from Preston had called, after all. His voice touched her in a way that
the old photo hadn’t. Her eyes hurt. She waited for the tears to start.
Expected them. Wanted them. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell.

It
was the effect of shock. Maude was gone. Employer was gone. Reality had
suffered a sudden inversion.

She
closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing. This apartment in Fairfax was
her present. The small town of Preston was her past.

Look
forward, Bethie, not back.

But
sometimes the past returned to claim its share of the present.

She
called Mr. Monroe’s office and left a message on his answering machine. “It’s
Beth Kincaid. I’ll be in town this afternoon.”

She
unplugged the coffee maker. She’d grab a cup on her way out of town. But s
he had to tell Stephen something. She couldn’t simply
disappear.