Read Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) Online
Authors: Jill Winters
Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)
K
ingdom
b
y
t
he
S
ea
Jill
Winters
Copyright © 2011 by Jill
Winters
All rights reserved. No part of this
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The scanning, uploading, and distributing
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Please Note
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.
This book is dedicated to Carl,
who never let me give up on myself and this manuscript. Thanks for all the
laughs and advice, the Christmas movies, childhood-snacks-week & the
chocolate cake bakeoff (oh wait…). I’m forever grateful for all the times you
gently reminded me, “Okay…now what about the book?” May we be friends forever!
Acknowledgments
Special thanks
to Geo for
so many
things (including teaching me Poker so I could write
Chapter 17), and to my family who makes me laugh and gives me helpful
feedback. Thank you to my friend B.K. who took time out of his busy,
high-profile schedule to dabble in some brainstorming and to nag me about my
true calling in life. Finally, I am very grateful to the Chatham Coast Guard
and Chatham Historical Society for assisting me in my research and giving me
the grand tour. Thank you!
Dear Reader,
If
you have never visited the lovely town of
Chatham
,
Massachusetts
, it may be
something to consider. In autumn, it is one of the most idyllic, serene places
I’ve ever seen. As soon as I arrived I felt as though I’d stepped into a
charming postcard, with bursts of fall color & hints of Halloween. Of
course the writer in me managed to imagine danger around every cobblestone
corner and intrigue behind each rustling tree.
From
there grew my story of Nicole Sheffield, a bookish, somewhat sheltered heroine,
who is in way over her head when she inherits her aunt’s house on the beach.
Although
Kingdom by the Sea
is fictitious, the brief accounts of
Chatham
lighthouse
history provided in the story are true. Also, the diary of Josiah Hardy II is
real; I had the privilege of reading a copy of the document while I was doing
research at the Chatham Historical Society.
I
hope you will enjoy this twisting tale and check out my other books, too.
Best wishes!
Jill
Winters
She
should have known something was wrong when she heard her dog start barking.
But then, the weight of what she should have known seemed to mount in seconds.
Nervously,
she patted the wooden planks, searching as far out as her arms would splay.
She couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her. The air in here was thick,
almost suffocating. Still, she was focused solely on finding the thing—it was
a little late to go back now. To pretend it didn’t exist. Crouched
uncomfortably, she reached further inside the cramping space until her
fingertips brushed across a soft velvety item, set way back.
Impatiently
she clawed at it, determined to pull it forward. Finally she was able to get a
good grip on the satchel and drag it up into her arms. But it was only
fleeting moments after—before she could fully understand the significance of what
she had found—that she felt a strangle-hold like a vine twisting around her
legs. She tensed and panicked—then struggled against the sudden constriction.
Oh,
God, no…history repeating itself, different yet
—
Suddenly
she was being pulled. Like a rewinding film strip, she was careening
backward. In her head was even the ticking thrum of film reel as it coils
back. Right before it lands with a
snap.
The odor of sweat and dirt
overwhelmed her. Confusion and terror nearly choked the breath from her
lungs. And she heard the sound of her heels clacking on the steps, as she was
dragged roughly across the threshold.
PART I
Later
there would be questions. There would be doubts and discovery—of a hidden
picture, adultery, and even murder—and there would be fear. But now it started
with a Monday in Cedric Davy's office.
The
room was as dark and rich as mahogany. Sunlight filtered through the octagonal
window above the bookcase, and dappled across the wide, cherry wood desk.
Nicole's family had already been seated when she arrived. As always, Nicole's
mother, Gwen, looked like a stern little pixie. She had short dark hair and
pale skin, the contrasting effect somewhat neutralized by a smattering of
freckles. Her father, Anthony, appeared infinitely more at ease, even dressed
in a tailored suit, crisp tie and Rolex—at which he spared another glance.
Between
Gwen and Anthony sat Nicole's sisters, Linda and Alyssa, as much a buffer as a
support. After four years of divorce, it seemed that Gwen and Anthony had not
yet mastered the high-minded art of civility, and certainly not friendship. At
this point, given the devolution of a twenty-seven-year marriage, Nicole would
say that her family shared a strained kind of closeness. Her two sisters were
a study in contrast. Cynical and smoky-beautiful, Linda wore her hair almost
like a protective cloak of black cashmere. Alyssa was vivid and bright, with a
cherry-colored ponytail that swung when she moved.
Linda:
pretty and pessimistic. Alyssa: flippant and fashionable.
Reducing
people to their basic categories was, Nicole had discovered, an occupational
hazard. She'd been an archives librarian for three years now, and had become
maybe too accustomed to assessing, classifying and delineating. Still...when
she'd looked at her family that day, she had found herself doing it.
Gwen:
loyal, capable. Anthony: protective, smart.
Then
she thought of Nina.
Warm, poetic. Gone.
And
that was the reason they sat here today. They were gathered for the reading of
Aunt Nina's will. Absent was Nina’s and Gwen's younger sister, Beth.
According to Cedric Davy, they were still waiting for someone. But it couldn't
be Beth, Nicole knew. She had already heard
ad nauseum
from her mother
about how Beth wasn't coming.
Nicole
had met her aunt's lawyer, Cedric, once before. But over the evaporating
years, he had drooped. Twisting a lock of her own dark hair, she covertly
studied him. His pupils appeared like shiny black balls inside two heavy
sacks. His hair was like strands of pulled thread trying to cover an
overturned porcelain dish. Unoriginally, Nicole supposed, Cedric's decrepitude
became an immediate symbol for the time that had elapsed.
Cedric
, Nicole
categorized briefly,
well-meaning and mediocre
.
Suddenly,
the door opened and a man entered. He looked about sixty and was only faintly
familiar. “Good, Mr. Kelling, you're here,” Cedric said. “Take a seat and
we'll begin.” Nodding a brusque greeting to the room, he went to sit in the
back, in a chair against the wall.
Abel
Kelling had been Aunt Nina's on-and-off boyfriend for many years. Had Cedric
not said his name now, Nicole might not have recognized him. Abel's appearance
had also been distorted rather cruelly by time. He looked bloated and ragged;
there was nothing “pleasant” about his plump face and dissipated complexion.
Cedric
let out a raspy cough that scratched the air. Then, in a lawyerly voice that
lacked emotion, he read Nina's will aloud.
The
will was deceptively simple, but Nicole didn't know it at the time. In fact,
when she had climbed the narrow brick streets of
Beacon Hill
that morning,
she had never considered that entering Cedric's office would be like placing
herself at the tip of a slide.
To
sisters Gwen and Beth went various childhood relics, and to Anthony went a
signed first edition of
The Catcher in the Rye
. Nina left her nieces,
Linda and Alyssa, stock certificates and jewelry, and to Abel, her boat
.
“'Finally, to Nicole,'” Cedric read, “'I leave my house and all of the contents
therein unless otherwise specified.'” The room remained quiet, except for a
soft gasp that came from the back.
It
really should have come from Nicole, as she was stunned herself. Nina's
house! Nicole had not been there in at least a year, probably longer. It
didn't make sense. Surely Nina would have bequeathed her home to one of her
sisters. Or even to Cedric to sell and then divide the proceeds? Or—
“That's
it?
”
Everyone
turned.
Abel
Kelling was leaning forward in his seat, rapping his thumb on his thigh. He
looked purposeful, on edge, almost...angry? “What about the artwork?” he
demanded.