This time forever, p.1
This Time Forever, page 1
this time forever
Copyright © 2015, 2017 Patricia Paris
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Windswept
an imprint of BHC Press
Library of Congress Control Number:
2017941239
Print edition ISBN numbers:
ISBN-13: 978-1-946848-27-7
ISBN-10: 1-946848-27-1
Also available in Trade Softcover
Visit the author at:
www.authorpatriciaparis.com &
www.bhcpress.com
Edited by S.M. Ray
Book design by Blue Harvest Creative
www.blueharvestcreative.com
A Murderous Game
Run Rachael Run
THE GLEBE POINT SERIES
Letters to Gabriella
Return to Glebe Point
The Cottage
THE BONAVERAS
Lucia
Caterina
I dedicate this book to my mother,
who taught me what it was to love from the heart.
A relentless northeast wind howled across the Chesapeake, driving angry whitecaps one on top of the other to pound against an ever vulnerable shoreline. Ancient oaks and locusts groaned under the weight of ice laden limbs. Smaller, more delicate branches resembled slender glass fingers that filled the air with a low, eerie peal, as they tapped together like mournful chimes.
Blake Morrison stood motionless, his tall frame filling the opening of the back door to the house he’d grown up in. He stared in silence at the driving snow accumulating across the landscape.
“There’s no doubt in your mind he’s yours?” his brother Justin asked from behind him.
“No.” Blake pushed a hand through thick black hair that tended to curl at the ends when it needed a trim, as it did now. “And that birth certificate you got proves it.”
“All it proves is Connie Kingsley had a child. She listed the father as unknown. The kid could be anyone’s.”
“Cheryl had no reason to lie. And if you count back, the boy’s date of birth works out with the time Connie and I were together.”
Blake glanced back outside. The sailing skiff he’d left tied to the dock for the winter wrestled against its spring lines. They’d made it to March with no major storms. Now, as if to flaunt her power, Mother Nature had decided to sock them good.
He turned from the tempest and walked across the kitchen to join Justin at the table.
His twin eyed him. “Most women don’t tell you they love you then walk out on the relationship without a trace—especially if they’re pregnant. Maybe you weren’t the only guy she was seeing at the time. Maybe the kid belongs to someone else.”
“She wasn’t seeing anyone else. Benjamin’s my son.”
“You can always get a paternity test,” Justin suggested.
“If I can find them I might have to. Obviously, Connie didn’t want me to know anything about the kid.” Blake cleared his throat and glanced at the birth certificate on the table, still struggling to come to grips with his newfound fatherhood.
He'd met Connie and her coworker, Cheryl, when they were on a four month assignment in Annapolis a few years ago. The women had been staying at his buddy Chad’s house because Cheryl and Chad’s wife were sisters.
Blake had fallen in lust with Connie, and they’d quickly become lovers in what had been a mutually enjoyable relationship. She’d even told him she was falling in love with him. He’d thought given some time he might be able to fall in love with her too. But she’d stunned him by taking off without a goodbye. He’d felt pretty foolish to discover he hadn’t meant that much to her after all.
“I can’t believe I might have never known about Ben if I hadn’t stopped by Chad’s last week to pick up my power washer. Cheryl said she’s only been back twice since she and Connie were here a few years ago.” He shook his head at the chance irony. “She thought I knew. When she asked if I ever saw Ben…she thought I knew.”
“She wasn’t able to give you any idea where Connie is now? Is it possible she just didn’t want to tell you out of old loyalties?”
“I don’t think so.” Blake dropped onto one of the antique wooden chairs that had been his grandmother’s, his frustration mounting. “She seemed genuinely shocked I didn’t know. And all she could tell me was that Connie left Florida with Ben about two months ago. Cheryl said she’d wondered if Connie might have come back here. Apparently she left without giving her boss notice, or telling anyone she was leaving.”
Justin downed the last of his coffee. “Sounds like a pattern.”
“Yeah, but Cheryl did say Connie might have been running from a bad relationship. She said she’d been living with some guy who’d started to spook her.”
“What? Like being abusive, threatening her?” Justin’s words held the same concern Blake felt.
“I don’t know. Cheryl wasn’t sure, but it doesn’t make me feel very good about my son’s welfare.”
Justin leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin.
“What?” Blake asked.
Justin frowned. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, hell, something’s bothering you. I know that look, Jus.”
“It’s just that I don’t understand why Connie would leave and not tell you about the baby. Is there a chance she was…I don’t know…using you to get pregnant?”
Blake stared at him. “Now what the hell kind of sense does that make? Why would she intentionally get pregnant, then leave and have a kid by herself? I think she knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t have deserted her.”
“I only raised it as a possibility. Blame it on the lawyer in me. It may not have been malicious. Maybe she figured what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you.” Justin got up and refilled his coffee cup.
“Think about it, Blake.” He leaned his hip against the countertop. “Some women don’t want a husband. Doesn’t mean they don’t want a kid. If she did get pregnant on purpose because she wanted a child, then hopefully it means she loves the kid. Maybe she took off this last time because she was worried her loser boyfriend might hurt Ben.”
Blake didn’t like Justin’s suggestion. He wasn’t a damn stud service to be used and forgotten with no choice in the matter. “Even if what you’re saying is true, it doesn’t change anything. I’m still the kid’s father. I should have some rights.”
“Since paternity law isn’t my specialty, I’m not sure exactly what they are. But if you can prove you’re Ben’s father, you should be able to get visitation.”
Memories of their father taking him and Justin fishing, teaching them to sail, and wrestling with them in the back yard flashed through Blake’s mind. It would have been like that with him and his son. He would have taught him stuff the way fathers were supposed to. Connie had denied him that…Benjamin too.
“What if I want shared custody? Occasional visits can’t make up for lost time, but if I find out where they are, I’m going to want some kind of arrangement that gives me more than an afternoon here and there. Maybe he could be with me during the summers and a weekend or two a month.”
Justin rubbed the back of his neck. “You have a right to be upset. But why don’t you try to take one thing at a time. You don’t even know where Connie and the boy are. Before you start thinking about custody arrangements maybe you should just focus on seeing if you can find them.”
Blake closed his eyes and blew out a sigh. “I know you’re right. But I’ve got a son I don’t know a damn thing about. My son, Justin, mine. What do you expect me to do?”
“So you’ve made up your mind?”
Blake met his brother’s questioning gaze. Eyes identical to his own stared back, the same signature amber eyes they had inherited from their father.
“Yes. Did you honestly think I’d let anyone keep me from my own child?”
“No, no more than I would.” Justin reached out and laid a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “I know a pretty decent private investigator if you’re interested.”
“Thanks. I’ve got a feeling I might need one to find them.” But he would…and if he didn’t like what he found, Connie would damn well have a fight on her hands.
Seven months later
And New York thought it started the craze for retro. Delaney Brannigan craned her neck to look up at the old storefronts as she drove through downtown Glebe Point, Maryland. Maybe she’d taken a wrong turn and skidded smack into the middle of the 1960s. Not that she’d even been out of diapers until a couple decades later, but she’d seen pictures. Whoa, scary times for sure.
The town’s Main Street might have been the inspiration for a Norman Rockwell painting. In the center of the first block sat the Mosey In Diner. She read the gold letters painted across the large picture window again. Yep, she’d gotten it right the first time.
On the other side of the street was an old fashioned drug store. They probably even had a soda fountain like the one her dad said he went to when he was a kid. Could get a pickle almost as big as you, my girl, he always told her. And a cherry coke—the r eal kind, with syrup. Ugh, coke and pickles. Delaney recoiled at the thought.
After two short blocks she came to a stop sign, the abrupt evidence that she’d just seen the bulk of what Glebe Point had to offer, charming though it was.
When she’d finally convinced herself coming here was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, she hadn’t known it would be in the middle of nowhere with absolutely nothing to do. How had her free-spirited cousin spent a whole summer here?
The closer she got to her destination, the more the knot in her stomach tightened. The fact finding mission that brought her to this slumbering town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore might change three people’s lives forever. How could a person unwind with that kind of destiny changing responsibility weighing her down?
Delaney blew a curl off her forehead. Regardless of the outcome, she had no choice but to see it through. Her conscience gave her none.
According to the innkeeper’s directions, she should have made a right turn by now. Hickory Switch Way was supposed to be about a quarter mile past the pasture with the white goats. A quick glance at the yellow legal pad on the passenger seat confirmed it.
Delaney put the car in reverse, looked into the rear view and started backing up. She spotted the road sign half hidden behind the limb of an apple tree weighted down with a bumper crop of green apples. It was little more than a narrow country lane that ambled along a sleepy shoreline, home to several long, rickety looking docks. A menagerie of fishing boats bobbed together against the piers as if jockeying for position. She wondered who the boats belonged to since there wasn’t a house in sight.
After ten more picturesque miles, she found the next turnoff, a nine foot wide dirt and gravel path masquerading as another road. Thank goodness she’d left early. This place would be impossible to find after dark.
The country inn she’d located on the Internet touted itself as a peaceful repose, nestled among whispering loblolly pines that marched gracefully to the sea. Delaney spotted the inn’s sign and made a right onto the tree lined approach. An insistent finger of foreboding picked at her already frayed nerves, but she’d come too far to turn back now.
Two oversized cherry red pickups blocked most of the driveway. She squeezed through the narrow space between them and a well-established perennial border her mother would have loved. She swerved to avoid hitting a man who stepped out suddenly from in front of Big Red number one and just missed merging her front bumper with a large stack of two-by-fours. Rolling her jaw, she pulled to a stop in front of the inn’s winding slate walkway then turned off the car and got out.
The inn had an enormous wraparound porch lined with straight back white rockers, a collection of saw-horses, and several big, well dented green metal tool boxes.
As Delaney started up the walk, an elderly woman came through the double front doors with a tray in her hands. “Have some of these cookies, boys,” she called to the three men who lolled around the porch steps giving Delaney a thorough once-over. She hadn’t observed such blatant ogling since senior year of high school when Karen Hilton streaked across center field during the halftime show at the Homecoming game. Karen had proudly displayed their school colors, wearing one gold and one blue tennis shoe, and nothing else.
“Oh, hello, are you Miss Brannigan?” The woman had a smile so warm it could have melted the chocolate for her cookies without the use of a double boiler. Delaney extended a hand, momentarily forgetting her worries as she took in the welcoming face.
“Yes, I’m Delaney.” She glanced at the pile of two-by-fours then at her month-old silver Saab convertible. Aside from her townhouse, it had been the only major purchase she’d made with her own money. “Is it okay to leave my car parked there?”
The cookie lady pointed to a quaint structure about a hundred yards beyond the house. “You’ll be staying in the guest cottage right over there. You can park on the gravel pull-off on the side of the cottage. I’m sorry about all this.” She made a large sweep with her arm that took in the two Big Reds, the wood planks, and the rubbernecking men. “We’re doing some remodeling in the main house. I hope it won’t inconvenience you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I won’t be around much during the day anyway.”
“Dinner’s at six,” the woman informed her. “Oh, where are my manners?” She slapped an open hand against her generous bosom. “Goodness, I’m Mary, Mary O’Meara. As I was saying,” Mary reached out and touched Delaney’s shoulder, “dinner’s at six, or round about. We don’t stand on formalities here. Why don’t you get settled then come up to the house for a cup of tea. After driving all the way from New York, a cup of tea will be just the thing.”
Delaney stifled a groan. She’d really been hoping to relax for a few hours after her long drive. She didn’t want to offend her hostess, though, and these people might know Blake Morrison. She couldn’t afford to alienate anyone any more than she could afford to let them know the real reason she’d come to Glebe Point.
AN HOUR later, Delaney sat at the large trestle table in Mary O’Meara’s kitchen drinking a cup of tea as her hostess filled her in on Glebe Point’s upcoming social events.
“Oh, and Saturday night is the annual Halloween dance at the town’s fire hall.” Mary rubbed her hands together. “You should go. They always get lots of young folks like you.” She winked as if that should mean something. “And don’t worry about not being from around here. Everyone’s welcome as long as they go in costume. If anyone asks, you just tell them you’re staying with me.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” Delaney said, trying to be polite.
“Is that apple pie I smell?” One of the men from the work crew strolled into the kitchen and eyed the deep dish pastry on the counter.
“That’s right, Ted, fresh out of the oven,” the innkeeper told him cheerfully. “You wash up and help yourself. Oh, and tell that boss of yours I decided on the pull in windows. They’ll be easier for me to clean.”
“You got it, sweetheart.” The brawny man washed his hands then cut a large piece of pie. “Can I cut some for either of you?” He waved the knife in the air, seeming as comfortable in Mary’s kitchen as if it were his own.
“No thanks,” Mary and Delaney said in unison.
Ted put the knife in the sink then joined them at the table. “What brings you to Glebe Point, little lady?” He turned a chair around, straddled it when he sat down, then leaned over the back and forked a piece of pie into his mouth before looking up.
“Business. While I’m here I’d like to explore the area a little too. It’s so picturesque.”
“What kind of business?” Ted forked in another bite.
“I’m doing research for a cookbook featuring Bay cuisine. I’m hoping I can interview some area chefs and locals as well for material.” Delaney wondered if her story sounded convincing.
“Oh yeah? You a writer or something?”
“A chef,” she told him. “I have a catering business in New York.” At least that was true. “I’ve been thinking about doing the cookbook for a while.” Another truth…sort of…she had considered writing a cookbook some day.
“If you need anyone to test out some of your recipes, you just let me know, sweetheart.”
Mary slapped his wrist. “Now you go on, Ted. You’re as bad as that sad-eyed hound out back, always begging for handouts.”
Ted chuckled and finished off the last of his pie. Delaney couldn’t help but laugh with him. Ted and Mary seemed well used to each other’s friendly teasing.
“Damn.” Ted shook his head as he regarded Delaney closer. “Will you look at those dimples? When Blake hears what a pretty little filly you’ve got staying here, Mary, he’ll probably want to come install those windows himself just to check her out.”
Delaney’s mouth dropped open, but she clamped it shut before either of them could notice. They must know Morrison. How many Blakes could live in one small town? She felt a rush of…what…anxiety, anticipation, guilt? Yes, all that.
