Places by the Sea Read online

  Also by Jean Stone

  SINS OF INNOCENCE

  FIRST LOVES

  IVY SECRETS

  Places by the Sea is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  2014 Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1997 by Jean Stone.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-307-78535-0

  Originally published in the United States by Bantam Fanfare, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, in 1997.

  www.readloveswept.com

  v3.1_r1

  In Memory of Snuggles

  1981–1995

  THE BEST LITTLE DOG IN THE WORLD

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to the gang at The Outermost Inn in Gay Head, Martha’s Vineyard: Hugh and Jeanne Taylor, Barbara, and Nancy for the warmth of their laughter and sharing their stories, and Hollis, for introducing me to lucky stones, shark’s teeth, and sassafras roots; to the girls at The Daggett House (no relation to Tim!) in Edgartown: Kathy, Vicki, Nanette, and Pat; to my tireless editor, Wendy McCurdy and her always-supportive friend, Elinor; to my energetic, idea-generating agent, Loretta Weingel-Fidel; to Steven Cooper for chicken fried rice, black and white cookies, and listening; to my medical expert, David Page, M.D., who never hurt a character he didn’t like; to my research sidekick, Carol Zombik, for traipsing to lighthouses and going in wrong doors at restaurants; to Aunt Shirley, Aunt Lois, Linda, Jane, Cindy, Mo, and Maripat for putting up with me; and, of course—always—to E.J., for being E.J., for being there.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Editor’s Corner

  Prologue

  SUMMER, 1965

  “My mother will kill me if she catches me up here.” Jill crept up the stairs, her heart racing, her adrenaline pumping. Up the stairs, to the widow’s walk—an act as forbidden as climbing the cliffs of Gay Head.

  “She’ll be at the rummage sale for hours,” Rita said from behind her. “Besides, you’ve been dying to do this for years.”

  “It’s just a widow’s walk.”

  “It’s your house, Jill. And anyway, we’re not going to hurt anything.”

  As she reached the top stair, Jill stopped and tapped the wide-board floor with her fraying Keds. “My mother says it’s not safe.”

  “Bullshit. We know how to be careful.”

  Jill hesitated. She wondered if her best friend was right. They were, after all, twelve years old. It wasn’t like they were kids anymore.

  Rita moved up to the step below her. “Chicken.”

  Slowly Jill picked up her other long, skinny leg and placed her foot on the floor. Then, she looked up into the small square room. Cartons were stacked everywhere. Cartons, and an old black trunk, its top covered by a handmade quilt.

  Cautiously Jill stepped inside and tiptoed to the walls of glass, to the view she’d never seen. Three stories below, the shops lined the streets of Edgartown; next to them stood the white-steepled church, across from which stretched the water: Vineyard Sound, the harbor, even Katama Bay. A rainbow of sails dotted the blueness. Then she realized how quiet it was up here, so quiet it was hard to believe it was August, that there were tourists far below.

  “Wow,” Rita said as she moved into the room. “What a great hideout.”

  Jill gazed across the water. “Do you suppose my great-great-grandmother stood here waiting, watching for her husband to return from the sea?”

  “More like watching him stagger home from the tavern.”

  “Rita! My family owns the tavern. They aren’t drunks.”

  “My mistake. I forgot. The Randalls are perfect.”

  Jill kept her eyes fixed out the window, wondering what lay beyond the water, and why she’d never been brave enough to venture up here before.

  “Hey—I wonder what’s in this old trunk.”

  Quickly Jill turned. “Rita, I think we’d better go back downstairs.”

  “Wait. I just want to see …” She squatted in front of the trunk and tugged at the latch. “Shit. It’s locked.”

  Just then a voice bellowed up from downstairs. “Jill!”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “It’s her. Did you close the door?”

  “Sssh,” Rita mouthed, the flush on her cheeks as red as her hair.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Jill froze. Her heart felt as though it would fly from her chest. Suddenly Florence Randall appeared, her housedress askew, her face flaming pink, the sickening scent of her lavender-crocheted hankie surrounding her in a puff of deceptive sweetness. “Get out of here!” she screeched.

  Jill backed against the window. Her mother marched toward her and grabbed her arm. Jill winced at the hurt. Then, Florence spotted Rita at the trunk. “Don’t touch that!” she shrieked. She broke her grasp from Jill and lunged toward Rita. “Get out … you … you troublemaker!”

  Rita sprang up; her small frame darted past Florence.

  “Get out of this house!” Florence shouted after her. “Get out this instant!”

  Jill twisted quickly and ran down the stairs behind her best friend, the shouts of “You’ll be sorry!” and “Wait ’til your father gets home!” reverberating in her ears.

  They raced to the second floor, rounded the corner, sped down the hall, dashed down to the first floor, and flew out the front door. Outside, they sprinted toward the lighthouse without stopping, scrambling to their special place in under the private docks, their safe place, their escape.

  Her stomach cramped, her breath was short. Jill collapsed on the rocks. “I hate my mother,” she cried.

  Rita slumped beside her. “Yeah,” she grumbled, “no shit.”

  “Someday,” Jill gasped between breaths. “Someday, Rita, I’m going to get away from her. I’m going to get off this damn island. And I’m never—ever—coming back.”

  Chapter 1

  SUMMER, 1996

  “This is Jill McPhearson …”

  “And Christopher Edwards …”

  “Good Night, Boston.”

  The beat of their theme song rose; giant spotlights crisscrossed the set; twin cameras rapidly cut from angle to angle in split-second close-ups: Jill’s honey-gold hair, huge green eyes, and peach-blushed high cheekbones; Christopher’s loose, tawny hair, spa-induced tan, and bright white smile. In the monitor, Jill noted the sparks of chemistry that shot between them and bounced off the cluster of pavé diamonds on her earrings and matching gold choker. Tha
nkfully the cameras did not betray what was really going on in her mind.

  “Now,” came the director’s voice, and quickly, on cue, Christopher winked at Jill.

  The wink, of course, had been Addie Becker’s idea—Addie, their unstoppable publicist who had defied the critics and catapulted Good Night, Boston to a prime-time TV slot with meteoric ratings. Addie had believed in their show: believed that television audiences were tired of talk shows, bored with TV news magazines, and fed up with the fluff of entertainment offerings. She’d also believed that Christopher and Jill had something innovative, something powerful: Good Night, Boston featured good news about real people who accomplished extraordinary, caring, human things. The Globe called it “Refreshing.” The Herald said “Long overdue.” And two months ago, they had swept the New England Emmys.

  Clearly, Addie Becker had been right.

  Without hesitation, Jill smiled back at Christopher now, responding to his wink the way Addie had instructed, in the choreographed gesture guaranteed to whet the romance appetites of their viewers—proof that love over forty, indeed, was possible, and that bliss could be made in media heaven. Christopher, after all, was more than a co-host. The five-carat, pear-shaped diamond on Jill’s left hand was glittering proof of that.

  The credits rolled. The cameras pulled back for the softly lit, closing long shot. Jill unclipped her microphone and set it on the desk, wishing that the show could go on forever, that she could remain forever seated in the studio, doing what she loved best, beside the man she loved so much.

  But this was her last show for a month. The viewers had been told she’d be off making wedding plans, but that was a lie. Instead of picking out bridal gowns and selecting invitations, Jill was headed for Martha’s Vineyard to clean out her parents’ house—the house where she’d been raised. She had only returned once in over twenty-five years. Now, she had no choice.

  “Good show tonight, honey,” Christopher said.

  “You’re only saying that because you’re going to miss me.”

  “You’ll be back before you know it. Besides, we’ll have a great time this weekend.”

  Jill sighed. Christopher had no idea how difficult this trip was going to be for her. Sure, he was going for the weekend. But he would return to Boston Sunday night, carry on with the show, and leave her to deal with her past. Alone.

  “It doesn’t seem like the right time for me to leave,” she protested. “We’ve only been on the air six months.…”

  Christopher laughed. “Are you worried about the show or going to the Vineyard?”

  Aware that the red light of the camera was still aimed at them, she turned her head to avoid the viewers. “I’m worried about the ratings.” But she’d been in the business long enough—slugging her way from street reporter to news anchor to the desk at which she now sat—to know that summers were nothing more than rerun-packed lineups and that most viewers turned off their sets.

  “It’s August,” he said, as if reading her mind. “People are at the ballpark, not watching TV.”

  “Not everyone plays baseball. Difficult as though that may be for you to believe.”

  “And out,” the director spoke through her earpiece.

  Christopher laughed again as the studio lights dimmed. He undid his wiring, leaned over, and put his arm around her shoulder. “You’re right about one thing,” he whispered, kissing her neck. “I am going to miss you.”

  The tingle of his kiss made her smile, this time for real, this time not for the cameras. “And you’ll be running around Boston all month without me.”

  “One of us has to work, remember?”

  “And both of us better get out of here if we’re going to make it to Logan on time.” Jill hadn’t seen her children in a month and hoped that three weeks with their father in London had left them smiling, cheerful, and getting along. It didn’t hurt to believe in miracles.

  Christopher shook his head. “Sorry, honey. I have to stay here and meet the woman who’s filling in for you. Addie’s going to ride with you, though. She has some things to go over before you leave.”

  Addie was not what Jill had in mind. She had wanted this to be a family time—a night when the kids could get to know their soon-to-be stepfather. Between being away at their schools in New Hampshire and their time in London, they hardly knew Christopher at all, except what they saw on TV, if they bothered to watch at all.

  “But I’ll be at your house in the morning,” he continued. “Is eleven okay?”

  Eleven o’clock would, indeed, give them plenty of time to catch the one-fifteen ferry out of Woods Hole. The ferry that would take her home. Whether she liked it or not.

  Moving his hand to her cheek, Christopher traced the curve of her face. “Get it over with, Jill. Sell the house. Be done with it, once and for all.”

  She looked into his eyes—the pale blue eyes that for years had captivated the hearts of millions of baseball fans. There were still times when Jill was amazed that Christopher Edwards—the Miami Blazers’ legendary pitcher—had handpicked her to be his co-host, then to be his wife. With a career in which image meant everything, she couldn’t have asked for a better partner—nor could Addie have devised a more effective team.

  As Jill opened her mouth to tell him she loved him, a breathy voice resonated across the studio. “Mr. Edwards?” the voice asked.

  Christopher turned and shielded his eyes against the remaining studio light. Jill’s eyes followed his, toward a shadowy figure that stepped over a cable and into the light.

  It was a young woman. Blond, gorgeous, with long, long legs and full, high-riding breasts. “Mr. Edwards,” she breathed, “I’m Lizette French. Ms. McPhearson’s summer replacement.”

  “For God’s sake, Addie, she looks like a Playboy bunny,” Jill muttered as the limo maneuvered its way through the urban clash of cobblestone streets and high-rise buildings. “Lizette. What kind of a name is that? Lizette French. It’s absurd.”

  Addie lounged beside Jill, her bright yellow caftan folding over her portly lumps and spilling onto the seat, the daffodil sash of her wide-brimmed white hat draped over one sloping shoulder. She peered at Jill through cerise-framed eyeglasses. “You’re jealous.”

  “I’m forty-three years old, Addie. It’s the show that concerns me. Not Christopher.” As she spoke, Jill twisted the pear-shaped diamond for reassurance.

  “The show will be fine. Lizette comes across as a professional on camera.”

  Jill snorted. “A professional what?”

  Reaching across to the softly lit bar, Addie uncorked a bottle of champagne. “Let’s not be catty, darling. Lizette is from California.”

  “That figures.”

  “She’s been working for Focus.”

  “Focus is a national show.”

  “Owned by RueCom. Yes. I know.” Addie poured champagne into one flute and handed it to Jill. She filled another for herself.

  “How’d she wind up here? Swinging her body around my fiancé, stealing my place on my show?”

  Addie laughed. “She’s not ‘stealing your place,’ Jill. She’s filling in while you’re away. As far as swinging her body, I think that comes naturally.”

  “If she’s from California, I doubt that any part of her is natural.” She stared out the dark-tinted window, wishing the wine would quell the trembling inside her, wondering if her trip to the Vineyard was going to ruin her life in more ways than one. She silently cursed her mother for dying; for leaving her with this responsibility at the worst possible time.

  “Forget about Lizette. We have more important things to discuss.”

  Jill took another sip from her glass.

  “First, Ben Niles will be at your parents’ house tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “Who is Ben Niles?”

  “The contractor. Renovator. Whatever he calls himself. The man I hired to fix up the house. His signature alone will get you top dollar.”

  Jill nodded, vaguely remembering that Addie had
located someone through an article in Yankee magazine. She was glad Addie had made the arrangements: the less Jill had to do with the house, the better. Get it over with, had been Christopher’s words. Once and for all.

  Addie’s cell phone rang. She flipped it open and answered it. “When?” she asked into the small receiver, then paused. “How much?”

  Jill shifted on the seat. She detested cell phones. They had a way of interrupting everyone, everything. Though Christopher had begged her to get one, she’d refused. He’d accused her of being a telecommunications snob. She’d told him maybe she was just an island girl at heart.

  An island girl. The thought of it stabbed her stomach now. She set down her glass, folded her arms, and tapped her high heel-sandaled foot against the base of the leather seat.

  Addie clicked off her phone. “It’s all set,” she said to Jill.

  “What now?”

  “We’ve landed a spread in Lifestyles.”

  Martha’s Vineyard slid from her thoughts. “Lifestyles?” Her heart raced a little, her cheeks reddened and warmed. “Again?” The “People to Notice” section of the weekly magazine had recently mentioned Good Night, Boston and the engagement of the show’s co-hosts. It had been Jill’s first taste of national exposure—a taste she had found quite delicious. Like most things these days, the article had been Addie’s doing.

  “I’ve come up with a new angle. They’ll release it November first—two weeks before the wedding,” Addie continued. “You’ll be a shoe-in for Oprah, or at least Regis and Kathie Lee.”

  “What’s the angle?”

  Addie leaned into her and lay a hand on Jill’s arm. “The kids.”

  Through Addie’s round glasses, Jill stared at the fifty-year-old lines that framed the woman’s determined eyes. “What about the kids?”

  “We’re going to feature them.”

  She frowned. “Jeff and Amy?”

  Addie took a long swig, then refilled her glass. “It’s perfect, Jill. You and Christopher are going to be the family of the new millennium. Stepchildren, stepparents, everyone getting along. The new American dream.”