www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For my parents, Tom and Eileen Madden.

       Thanks for always being there.

      PATRICIA COUGHLIN

      is a troubling combination of hopeless romantic and dedicated dreamer. Troubling, that is, for anyone hoping to drag her back to the “real world” when she is in the midst of writing a book. Close family and friends have learned to coexist peacefully with the latest cast of characters in her head. The author of more than twenty-five novels, she has received special recognition from Publishers Weekly and Romantic Times magazines. Her work also earned her numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA Award from Romance Writers of America. Ms. Coughlin lives in Rhode Island, a place very conducive to day dreaming.

      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

      Summer brought out the best in Wickford, Rhode Island. To be sure, other seasons held their own charms in the pretty little village. But even those die-hard locals who favored winter, when an icy wind blowing off the Atlantic kept tourists at bay, couldn’t deny that summer was somehow special.

      It was more than simply a season; it was a mood, a scent, an attitude. Wild roses bloomed in the cracks in the sidewalks, time unraveled, and the heat made everything, and everyone, just a little bit looser. It began in late May, around the time the take-out window at Hanley’s Ice Cream Parlor opened for the season, and built, steadily and lazily, until peaking just before Labor Day. Then, sometime in mid-September, the inevitable combination of chilly nights and yellow school buses would snap everyone back to their senses.

      Well, nearly everyone. There were rumors, legends really, passed down from one generation to the next in the beauty salon and hardware store—and if not everyone who heard believed, almost everyone wanted to.

      That’s not to say that summer cast a spell over Wickford. Exactly. But facts were facts, and village history held that if an otherwise sensible person was going to swap a thriving medical practice for a fishing boat, or run off with a mysterious and much younger saxophone player, or blow the retirement account on a six-speed, dual-exhaust motorcycle, it would happen on a long, hot day in July.

      Watching over all this sun-drenched madness for more years than anyone in the village had been alive, was the grand dame of Wickford, Fairfield House. She was a turn-of-the-century beauty, graceful and charming from her widow’s walk to her wraparound porch. From a distance, her pale yellow clapboards seemed to glow against the summer sky and full-leaded windows sparkled like diamonds in the sun.

      Sadly, things were not quite so pretty up close. The old lady was showing her age. For two years she had stood empty, and she did not take well to neglect. That was evident in a show of peeling paint and loose balusters, and in the weeds that had taken over the once prizewinning perennial beds.

      Inside wasn’t much better. A broom, a dust cloth and some elbow grease would help matters, and a decent handyman could restore the oak parquet floor, mottled with dark stains from the time the pipes froze and a radiator valve let go. But it would take something more to bring this particular house back to life.

      Outside, it was eighty-five degrees in the shade, but even with the windows open the rooms held a subtle chill that had nothing to do with high ceilings or ocean breezes. It defied logic. As did the feeling of utter and absolute emptiness that clung to the house in spite of a fresh scattering of empty beer bottles and fast-food wrappers, and a trail of dirty clothes. Not even the persistent drone of a television dispelled the air of isolation. It was as if the old house refused to acknowledge the presence of the man who had arrived three days earlier, cleared himself some room in the front parlor, and hardly moved since.

      He did occasionally rouse himself to use the bathroom or accept deliveries from Pizza Hut and the liquor store. And once, he made the trip from his chair all the way across the room to the old upright piano to turn a framed photograph so it faced the wall. It was a formal portrait of a handsome young Air Force officer in full dress uniform. His chest was ablaze with medals and his deep blue gaze reflected