Feels Like Home. Beth Andrews
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“I was your wife.”
Aidan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Was being the operative word.”
Her heart pounded so hard, Yvonne was sure he could see it fluttering the ruffles on her shirt. “Wife being the important one. I just want to make sure we can work together.”
“You really don’t know why my mother hired you, do you?”
Suddenly uneasy, she kept any hint of it out of her tone as she said, “She hired me to plan her wedding. And because the Diamond Dust needs someone to help coordinate events.”
“First of all, we only decided to start hosting events Sunday night—and before you start counting, that was only three days ago. And, out of all the events coordinators in the South, she hired you. It never occurred to you to wonder why?”
Yvonne brushed a piece of dog hair off her skirt. “She needed someone with experience. Someone willing to relocate—”
“She hired you,” he said flatly, “because she thinks if we work together, if you’re back in Jewell, you’ll get back in my life. She hired you because she wants us to get back together.”
Dear Reader,
I firmly believe in second chances. Maybe that’s why I love reunion stories so much. Going along on the journey with two people who’ve drifted apart only to find their way together again always leaves me with a smile and a sense of closure—it’s as if things have finally turned out the way they were meant to.
That’s how I feel about Feels Like Home. Though Aidan and Yvonne have been divorced for many years, they were meant to be together. Unfortunately, bringing them back together wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped!
If you’ve read either A Marine for Christmas or The Prodigal Son you know Aidan is stubborn, bossy and a bit arrogant. So, of course, getting him to realize he’d made his fair share of mistakes during his short-lived marriage wasn’t easy. But it was so worth it.
I try to make sure my characters earn their happy ending, that they grow and change as a result of the conflicts in the story. But mostly, I want them to become their best selves by loving, and receiving love from, the person they were meant to be with.
Though both Aidan and Yvonne have changed since she walked out on him years ago, the past is right there, between them every step of the way. Only when they’re able to see the other in the present, only when they’re able to forgive, can they move on to the future.
I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye to The Diamond Dust and the Sheppards. I had a great time getting to know these characters and writing their stories, and I hope you enjoyed reading them, as well.
I love to hear from readers. Please visit my website, www.bethandrews.net, or write to me at P.O. Box 714, Bradford, PA 16701.
Beth Andrews
Feels Like Home
Beth Andrews
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Romance Writers of America RITA® Award Winner Beth Andrews lives in Northwestern Pennsylvania with her husband and two teenage daughters. During the course of writing her Diamond Dust trilogy, she purchased copious amounts of wine, purely for research purposes. When not drinking…er…researching she can be found in the passenger seat of her SUV gripping the dashboard, slamming her foot on a nonexistent brake and praying fervently. Or, in other words, teaching her older daughter to drive. She still counts the days until her son returns from college—mainly because he already knows how to drive. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, www.BethAndrews.net.
This book is dedicated to all whose lives have
been touched by cancer. And to the men and
women who devote their lives to finding a cure.
Acknowledgments
My sincere gratitude to Mitzi Batterson of James
River Cellars Winery in Glen Allen, VA.
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 ONE
OH, DEAR LORD, what had she gotten herself into?
A cool breeze blew Yvonne Delisle’s hair into her eyes and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear as she stared up at the ancient carriage house. Her career as a wedding consultant, the sixteen years she’d spent on the pageant circuit and, most importantly, being the only child of Savannah social royalty Richard and Elaine Delisle, had all taught her one very important fact.
Appearances counted.
Especially when it came to weddings. So why on earth retired senator Allen Wallace and vineyard owner Diane Sheppard would want to have theirs in this particular building was beyond her. The wood siding was weathered and mottled, ranging from a dull gray to deep tan. Shingles were sliding off the steeply pitched roof. What glass was left in the windows was scratched beyond repair, and the left side of the overhang above the double carriage doors dropped precariously.
She tucked her cold fingers into the short pockets of her fitted jacket. Then again, it wasn’t up to her to decide where her couples got married. If it was, the Shields-Larson wedding never would’ve taken place at a dairy farm—complete with mooing cows and the pungent smell of manure.
No, she thought as she crossed to the building’s wooden door, the tall heels of her black pumps wobbling on the gravel drive. Her job was to make sure the bride got exactly what she wanted. Whether the wedding took place at a church, the beach or a carriage house that looked as if it should be condemned.
She hoped it didn’t fall down while she was inside.
With a quick prayer, she unlocked the door and stepped in. The smell hit her first—wet wood, motor oil and dust. Then she realized that even though the morning sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, it was colder inside than out. Leaving the door open, she flipped on the light switches. Several bare bulbs hanging from low-lying rafters flickered to life.
At least it was big enough to accommodate several hundred guests. Or it would be once it was cleared out. The place was packed with cardboard boxes, plastic tubs, shovels, rakes and other implements, wine barrels ranging from short and squat to one that reached her shoulder, old tools and large glass jars on a three-tiered wooden shelf.
Eyes narrowed, she turned in a slow circle and imagined the space as it could be. It had high ceilings, wide-planked floors and two exposed-brick walls. With some cleaning—okay, a lot of cleaning—a few coats of paint and new windows, it could be charming. In a rustic sort of way.
Maybe, just maybe, this could work.
She dug her BlackBerry from her purse and started to pace, kicking up dust as she typed in notes.
Candles. Dozens and dozens of white candles of all shapes and sizes. Miniature white lights strung along