By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs (35 page)

Dream a Little Dream

"A truly wonderful modern fairy tale "

— Kristin Hannah,
New York Times
bestselling author

Three Generations Under One Turret
:
from bestselling author Antoinette Stockenberg comes a witty,
modern fairy tale of romance and family and ghostly star-crossed
lovers.

Beyond Midnight

"Full of charm and wit, Stockenberg's latest
is truly enthralling."

—
Publishers Weekly
In 1692, Salem, Massachusetts was the setting for the
infamous  persecution of innocents accused of
witchcraft.  Three centuries later, little has changed. 
Helen Evett, widowed mother of two and owner of a prestigious
preschool in town, finds her family, her fortunes, and her life's
work threatened —all because she feels driven to protect the sweet
three-year-old daughter of a man who knows everything about finance
but not so much about fathering.

Sand Castles

"A riveting story of selfishness, betrayal,
and love that readers will find hard to put down."

—
Library Journal
Wendy Hodene thinks she has it all: a charming husband, a great
kid, a house that she loves (even if it doesn't have enough closet
space), and family nearby. And then her husband manages to win a
multi-million-dollar lottery, kicking off a tidal wave that sweeps
all of her assumptions into the sea like castles in the sand. The
man she thinks she knows becomes a virtual stranger, and the
stranger she hardly knows at all is the reason why.

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.

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?

Time After Time

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

—
I'll Take Romance
In Gilded-Age Newport, an upstairs-downstairs romance between a
well-born son and a humble maid is cut short of marriage. A hundred
years later, the descendants of that ill-fated union seem destined
to repeat history. Or not.

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
ghost. 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.

Antoinette Stockenberg

"A spellbinding thriller that is both intense and
riveting."

--
Romantic Times

Newly married to a man of wealth and
reputation who's very willing to be stepfather to her child, Sara
Bonniface would seem to have all she's ever wanted. But her young
daughter has other ideas, embarking on a crusade to learn more
about her birth father. And that's where Sara's life begins to spin
slowly out of control ....

****

Dear Mr. McElwyn,

It's been two days, and unfortunately I
haven't heard from you in reply to my e-mail. If you’re on vacation
I'll understand, but if you're not and are just nervous about
answering me, don't be. I'm not a stalker or anything. All I'd like
is a simple yes or no to my question of did you know a girl named
Sara Johnson twelve years ago ?

Yours sincerely,

Abigail Johnson Bonniface

P.S. I'm sending you a copy of this
e-mail via snail mail, just in case for some reason you aren't able
to get online. I'd rather have you answer me by e-mail, though, and
not snail mail. You can e-mail from a cybercafé or even a library
if your computer is down. Did you know that?

Not a stalker? The hell she wasn't! She knew
where he lived now, and she was sending him mail. What next?
Carrier pigeon?

What a pain. He moved the cursor over to the
delete button and zapped her into oblivion for the second
time.

Dear Mr. McElwyn,

I still haven't heard from you. You must be
on vacation. I've been doing a little research and have discovered
that you’re a private investigator. That is so cool. Are skills
like that inherited? I would love to do an interview with you for
our school paper. Hopefully when you get back, you'll get in touch
right away.

Best wishes,

Abigail

The e-mail was so filled with scary
implications that Ben choked on his toast, then scalded his tongue
when he tried to wash down the bread with black coffee. He was a
fraction away from being apoplectic.
School paper?
Lawyers
didn't write for school papers, and neither did matchmaking aunts.
Just how old was Abigail, anyway, and why, dear God, did she care
if there was a gene for investigative skills or not?

Who the hell was she?

Was it possible?

His mind went tumbling back to a certain
midnight in a tumbledown apartment overlooking Narragansett Bay.
He'd been lying on his bed, waiting for Sara to come out of the
bathroom where she'd been doing things with a diaphragm. He
remembered how she looked when she emerged: shy but willing, a
feast for him to behold. She had a great body. It was on the
old-fashioned side and just made for loving, and he remembered
thinking that he was on the verge of having the best night of his
life.

He remembered saying, "You all set,
then?"

But he could not, for the life of him,
remember her answer.

Not her exact words. They had seemed
reassuring at the time—but then, she could have said, "Oh, sure; I
have a bottle of vinegar in my purse," and he would have been just
as reassured. He didn't really care if she was protected or not.
All he really cared about at that moment was getting her between
him and the sheet. Everything else was just words.

He raked his memory, trying to dredge up the
exact ones she'd used.
Uh-huh? You bet? Fer sure? Darn
tootin'?

Just how safe were diaphragms, anyway? Could
they pop, like rubbers?

Could she have lied? Could she have said
nothing at all, and could he have made up a lie in his head for
her? Had he been that damned horny for her?

Could sperm wiggle their way home around
that kind of barrier? Were diaphragms just a truly lousy concept in
birth control?

Was Abigail Johnson Bonniface somewhere
around twelve years old?

Ben was in a sweat now. He shut his computer
down and made himself get dressed and drive to city hall and spend
the morning in the dusty, dreary basement there, poring over deeds
and assigns, trying to track an ex- spouse's hidden assets, trying
to understand how Abigail could possibly think that being a PI was
cool.

By the time he walked out it was raining; by
the time he got home he was soaked. He had a simple reason for
returning to his apartment instead of trying to cozy up to the
neighbors of his client's ex-spouse to find out where the bum might
be hiding: he needed to change into dry socks. So he peeled off the
wet ones and while he was at it, he turned on his computer.
Abigail's e-mail glared at him, demanding action.

Delete.
Delete delete delete her from
his thoughts. Whoever she was, she was an unnecessary intrusion
into what he laughingly called his life. He didn't ask for the
e-mail. He didn't want the e-mail. He had better things to do than
to wonder all day who Abigail Johnson Bonniface was.

He deleted the e-mail, shut the laptop down,
and went back out to do his job. He got in his car, turned on the
ignition, swore, turned off the ignition, went back to his
apartment, and turned on the computer.

He had to go back and poke through the
e-mail trash folder, something he didn't like to do on
principal—trash was trash—but he retrieved Abigail's last e-mail
and, for whatever reason, hit the reply button. Best not to use her
name; best to be simple and to the point.

Who are you?

Sincerely,

Ben McElwyn

Before he could second-guess himself, he hit
the send button. Off it went. At least the damn ball was finally
out of his court, and he'd be able to get some sleep.

Night came, and he tossed and turned.

****

Abigail came home from school and went
immediately to her computer to check her e-mail. She hadn't been
able to get online for nearly twenty hours, and she was almost sick
from the frustration of it.

She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers
as she waited.
Please, please, please let there be a bmac5
today.

She opened her eyes and there he was: bmac5.
It was a miracle! She opened the e-mail in a state of ecstasy but
was instantly crushed to see such a short message. It was
practically rude. She'd done everything she could think of to be
intriguing but not clingy, and this is all he could come up with?
Six words? He probably had an admin write it for him. It was
so
insulting. She felt like a panhandler who had just had
someone throw a crummy quarter in her cup.

Deciding to give him a taste of his own
medicine, she composed a response:

I think, your daughter.

Sincerely,

Abigail

She sat back and folded her arms across her
chest. How would he like getting
that?

Should she send it? Really, actually send
it? It would teach him
such
a lesson.

No, she decided, after thinking about it. It
was too abrupt. He could have a heart attack or something. Anyway,
he hadn't even said if he was the Ben who knew Sara—although if he
wasn't, then he probably wouldn't have answered at all. Or maybe he
was just plain curious.

Either way, Abigail resolved not to send the
e-mail. She would stick with her original plan. First he had to
tell her if he knew Sara. Then, and only then, would Abigail tell
him who she was.

A shave-and-a-haircut knock on her door told
her that her stepfather was on the other side of it. "Abby?" she
heard him say. "You in there?"

"Yes! No!" she said, hitting the send button
in her panic. Off went her answer through cyberspace, leaving
Abigail too shocked to think. She had enough sense to get rid of
Ben McElwyn's e-mail, but that was about it. When her stepfather
came in smiling, she was speechless.

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 ...

****

"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."