Wednesday, May 8, 2024

Welcome Kelli A. Wilkins today

 

Exclusive Excerpt from A Thousand Summer Secrets

A new release by Kelli A. Wilkins

www.kelliwilkins.com

Hi everyone,

Today I’m sharing an exclusive excerpt from my fourth gay romance, A Thousand Summer Secrets.

This tender contemporary romance takes place over a summer weekend, where two friends reconnect while seeking love and acceptance. I hope you’ll check it out, and if you like it, you’ll post a review.

Here’s the book summary and links:

A Thousand Summer Secrets

You can’t outrun your past…

Ten years after being disowned by his family for being gay, Eric Warren pays a visit to his family’s summer cabin. It’s his last attempt at reconciliation before moving on. But a surprise from the past is waiting for him.

Eric’s intolerant brother, Jamey, has several friends staying at the cabin for the weekend, including Matt, Eric’s boyhood friend and secret crush. The years haven’t faded their mutual attraction, and they quickly reconnect. But Eric is hesitant to get romantically involved. He’s emotionally broken and scarred from his traumatic past.

As Matt tries to help Eric, Jamey goes out of his way to sabotage his brother. And when the weekend events take a disastrous turn, Eric finds himself at a crossroads.

Should he follow his search for love and acceptance with Matt? Or leave the past behind forever?

Order your copy here:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Thousand-Summer-Secrets-Contemporary-Romance-ebook/dp/B0CZYYP5HC

All Other Platforms:  https://books2read.com/u/3nMKA8

Here’s the excerpt:

Eric straightened up from the refrigerator as he heard the cabin’s front door open. Shit! Someone was here. A wave of panic sliced through his belly. What if he had royally screwed this up and the cabin belonged to someone else now?

A second later, the sound of male voices reached him.

“If nobody’s here, then why are the lights on?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Eric took a deep breath and tried to settle his nerves. Be calm. Whatever happens next is supposed to happen, he told himself.

He stepped into the dining room, thankful that the cabin’s open floorplan let him see to the front door. A young man with light blond hair wearing denim shorts and a blue t-shirt stood in the living room near the couch. Eric recognized him in an instant. “Matt?”

Matt’s blue eyes widened and he broke into a broad grin. “Eric? Is that you?”

“Eric? What the hell is he doing here?” A tall, dark haired guy marched up to Eric and stood nose-to-nose with him. “You’ve got balls showing up here. How the hell did you get in?” he snarled.

Eric noticed his brother was carrying a large red cooler. “Spare key was in the usual place, Jamey,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice steady.

“Jamey, who is this?” a guy with a crew cut asked from the doorway.

Eric looked at him, then noticed two girls, a blonde and a brunette, standing behind him. His gaze flicked back to Matt. He was holding a large cardboard box filled with groceries. Apparently Jamey had planned a Fourth of July party.

“This is my brother, Eric, the murderer,” Jamey growled.

The girls gasped, then Crew Cut said, “I didn’t know you had a brother. Should we kick his ass and throw him out?”

Eric flashed Crew Cut his best smile. “Nice to meet you, too.” He turned to Matt. “Would you like to put that box down? Kitchen’s this way.” He waved Matt over and led him into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Matt said as he set the box on the counter. “I’m amazed you remembered me.”

“Of course I remember you,” Eric replied. Their gazes locked for an instant, then Matt turned away and started unpacking the box.

Eric leaned against the counter, his heart racing. How could he forget Matt? The cute boy next door he had known for years had grown up into an adorable guy, with an oval, clean-shaven face, small nose, and round chin. His wavy blond hair was tousled around his forehead and nearly came down to his shirt collar. Matt’s gorgeous blue eyes were framed by long lashes. Seeing him was a shock, but he was glad Matt was here. Maybe it was a good sign.

***

I’ll be sharing a “Behind the Scenes” look at the making of the book and a character interview with Eric in future blogs, so stay tuned.

I welcome comments and questions from readers and other authors. Visit my site www.kelliwilkins.com to contact me, see all my titles, and get links to my social media.

Happy Reading,

Kelli A. Wilkins

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kelli A. Wilkins is an award-winning author who has published more than 100 short stories, 20+ romance novels, and 6 mystery/horror ebooks. Her romances span many genres and settings, and she likes to scare readers with her horror and mystery stories.

Kelli released her fourth gay romance, A Thousand Summer Secrets, in April 2024. This tender contemporary romance takes place over a summer weekend, where two friends reconnect while seeking love and acceptance.

She published The Route 9 Killer, a mystery/thriller set in Central NJ, in early 2023.

Follow Kelli on her Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorKelliWilkins and visit her website/blog www.KelliWilkins.com for a full title list and social media links.

 


Blog Tour Stop: Homeward by Andrew Grey

 


Title: Homeward

Author: Andrew Grey

Series: Heartward Book 2

Genre:  M/M Contemporary Romance

Release Date: May 7, 2024

Edition/Formats Available In: eBook & Print


Second chances only happen in the movies… right?

For the past several years, Matthew’s life has been one challenge after another. Keeping his sister’s four orphaned kids fed, clothed, housed, and entertained has him run ragged. Now he’s losing the kids’ mentor and maybe his job, if the plant where he works as an electrician shuts down like the rumors say. When his car won’t start outside the hospital, it’s the last thing he needs. Matthew could use a hero… so of course that’s when Lucas Reardon shows up again.

A-list actor Lucas Reardon returned to his Michigan hometown to say goodbye to his father. The last person he expects to see is Matthew Wilson, the one who got away. Lucas helps Matthew out with the car, the kids, whatever he needs. But really, *he’s* the one who needs saving. Years of the fast-paced Hollywood life have worn him down to nothing, and a deranged stalker is making his life hell. Matthew becomes his refuge. But relationships need time to grow and bloom. With the paparazzi breathing down their necks and a deadline on Lucas’s return to LA, can they build a life worthy of the big screen?

 

Book Links

Amazon

Barns and Noble

DreamSpinner Press


Author Information & Links

Andrew grew up in western Michigan with a father who loved to tell stories and a mother who loved to read them. Since then, he has lived throughout the country and traveled throughout the world. He has a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and works in information systems for a large corporation.

Andrew’s hobbies include collecting antiques, gardening, and leaving his dirty dishes anywhere but in the sink (particularly when writing) He considers himself blessed with an accepting family, fantastic friends, and the world’s most supportive and loving partner. Andrew currently lives in beautiful, historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Author Links

Amazon Author Page

Barnes and Noble Page

Dreamspinner Press

Facebook

Facebook Group All the Way with Andrew Grey

Goodreads

Twitter @andrewgreybooks

Website

 

For Other Works by Andrew Grey

(Please Be Sure to Stop by His Website to See All of His Work)


Monday, May 6, 2024

Tour Stop: The Library Thief by Kuchenga Shenje

 


THE LIBRARY THIEF

Author: Kuchenga Shenjé

Publication Date: May 6, 2024

ISBN: 9781335909695

Hardcover

Publisher: Hanover Square Press

Price $29.99

 


The library is under lock and key. But its secrets can't be contained.

A strikingly original and absorbing mystery about a white-passing bookbinder in Victorian England and the secrets lurking on the estate where she works, for fans of Fingersmith and The Confessions of Frannie Langton

 

1896. After he brought her home from Jamaica as a baby, Florence's father had her hair hot-combed to make her look like the other girls. But as a young woman, Florence is not so easy to tame—and when she brings scandal to his door, the bookbinder throws her onto the streets of Manchester.

Intercepting her father's latest commission, Florence talks her way into the remote, forbidding Rose Hall to restore its collection of rare books. Lord Francis Belfield's library is old and full of secrets—but none so intriguing as the whispers about his late wife.

Then one night, the library is broken into. Strangely, all the priceless tomes remain untouched. Florence is puzzled, until she discovers a half-burned book in the fireplace. She realizes with horror that someone has found and set fire to the secret diary of Lord Belfield's wife–which may hold the clue to her fate…

Evocative, arresting and tightly plotted, The Library Thief is at once a propulsive Gothic mystery and a striking exploration of race, gender and self-discovery in Victorian England.

 

Buy Links:

HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/the-library-thief-kuchenga-shenje?variant=41109244739618

BookShop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-library-thief-original-kuchenga-shenje/20641408?ean=9781335909695

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-library-thief-kuchenga-shenj/1144095064

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1335909699/keywords=fiction


Excerpted from THE LIBRARY THIEF by Kuchenga Shenjé. Copyright © 2024 by Kuchenga Shenjé. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.


The story starts with a scandal that I thought would end my life. Fortunately, my scandal didn’t kill anyone. In fact, it pales in comparison with what I went on to discover at Rose Hall.

Thus far, the way I see it, in any good life you need to die several times to really lead a life worth living. There are little deaths and there are big deaths. My tale has both—and the real tragedy would be if this story were to die with me.

I was lying when I swore I would take this secret to my grave. I had no right to promise that.

*

 

 

Granger’s Bookbinders,

143 Long Millgate,

Manchester,

 

Rose Hall,

Lancashire,

November 20, 1896

Dear Mr. Granger,

I trust this note finds you in good health and that business is as steady as when last we met some years ago.

I write to you with an unusual commission. I will not trouble you here with the details of my current circumstances. Since the untimely death of my beloved wife, Lady Persephone, it seems the fates are in conspiracy against me. Suffice it to say that I find myself now in need of your excellent services and on a far grander scale than before.

 

The library at Rose Hall is, as you are aware, extensive. I am proud of the rarity and quality of the books it now houses, a collection that I have painstakingly curated over many years. I now find myself in the unhappy position of seeking a buyer for my collection. Many of the books, due to their age and mishandling by less cautious owners, are badly in need of restoration. There are perhaps some two hundred such artifacts. The nature of my circumstances make it necessary that this work be carried out to the highest quality and with the greatest rapidity. Since no bookbinder in the North West possesses skills equal to yours, I thought of you at once.

Please inform me as soon as you are able whether it is within your means to accept such a commission.

Your obliged and affectionate friend,

Lord F. Belfield

 


 

 

1

 

I fell in love with the feel of the cotton before I fell in love with the books. Leather felt too masculine and reptilian. Cloth was so much warmer and didn’t slip out of my hands as easily. As a child I played underneath the tables and made toy families from the scraps that fell at my father’s boots.

He would never talk to me about where the cloth we used came from, nor the contents of the books we worked on. There were a lot of things my father wouldn’t tell me, and rather than keeping me ignorant, his silence made me more curious. And fortunately, I was surrounded by the means to nourish that cu­riosity.

Most of the time we spent together as I grew up was in si­lence, folding, beveling and smoothing. I sometimes wished my fingers could be as thick as his; he didn’t grimace when school­ing leather and cloth into precise lines under his digital tute­lage. I tried to be like my father, but all the books he left lying around gave me opinions.

 

 

* * *

I arrived at the front door of Rose Hall looking more ragged than I would have liked. My breath was far from fresh, and the hair pins and clips I had used to imprison the frizzier strands had been loosened by the bumps of the rickety carriage. I had been dropped at the top of a tree-lined drive that was at least a quarter mile long, if not more. The December mists obscured my vision, and I could only just make out the shape of a grand house, the likes of which I had only really seen on biscuit tins in the windows of Manchester’s new department store, though I had imagined them as I read Brontë, Austen and Radcliffe. Even with the curls of mist in the air, I could tell this was a very English dwelling. As I approached it my feet slipped and shifted on the gravel, unused to navigating such terrain after only walk­ing on cobbled streets and across wooden floors.

Lord Francis Belfield of Rose Hall had been my father’s long-standing customer. He was the only man I’d ever seen look lux­urious without any air of pomposity. The men of Manchester were not known for wearing velvet, so the sheen of his jackets always marked him out as distinguished. It felt completely fit­ting that Rose Hall was an ode to symmetry and a more taste­ful example of the grandiosity of the mid-eighteenth century. It was an early Georgian home of Lancashire sandstone. Even though my father hadn’t mentioned it, the period of the build­ing’s erection and the mercantile success of Lord Francis Belfield were all I needed to know to deduce that the building and its grounds had been purchased with plantation wealth.

I knocked on the forest-green door and left my suitcases on the ground, hoping that looked more elegant than being strained down by the weight of my clothes, books and binding tools. In my pocket, my fingers found the folds of Lord Belfield’s let­ter. I inhaled, recalling once more the story I had so carefully rehearsed.

The door opened and a pair of prominent blue eyes glared at me through the crack. “Well?”

“Miss Florence Granger for Lord Francis Belfield, please.”

I took in the lines, too many for the face of someone who was still clearly a young man. The hand holding the door open was rough and calloused.

“He is expecting me,” I added.

“No ’e is not.”

I blinked, having not expected resistance this soon.

“I assure you I arrive here at the request of Lord Belfield him­self. I am from Granger’s of Manchester.”

The door widened and there stood a long-limbed boy of no more than twenty. His movements were almost feline. The way he handled the door without effort despite its apparent heavi­ness was quite a marvel.

“We are bookbinders. I’ve been sent to care for your master’s collection.” I retrieved the letter from the pocket of my coat and held it out.

He made no move to take it, but instead chewed his bottom lip, realizing there was truth to my words but clearly uncon­vinced by me. A female tradesperson at the door to Rose Hall was probably not a common occurrence.

“Young man, I excuse you of your impertinence, but I have been traveling for some hours and would like to rest,” I told him, trying a sterner approach. “Please fetch your master.”

“’E don’t rise before midday most days anymore. You can wait in the kitchens, if you like.”

Now it was my turn to falter. I had no way of assessing how appropriate this was. Should I be seated in the parlor? If I al­lowed myself to be taken to the kitchens, was I aligning myself with the downstairs staff? I was an artisan, not a servant. But a sharp ripple through my stomach made the decision for me.

“Very well, so long as your offer comes with a cup of tea.” I sighed and crouched down to pick up my suitcases.

“No, m’lady. I’ll tek those.”

He ushered me into the reception hall, lifting my bags up to his sides as if they weighed nothing at all. The door chuffed itself closed behind us with a low groan. The darkness of the perimeter indicated that there was no draft coming through, nor a single sliver of light. A curtain hung to the right of it and the man gave it a sharp tug. It concealed the entrance entirely once pulled across, an odd choice. It gave the sense of being sealed into the house somehow—not being able to see where one could escape.

Stepping into the hall, I was compelled to look up. It was a huge atrium, with dark green textured walls and candles placed at regular intervals which gave the illusion of a warm, close space. He led me over a black-tiled floor, underneath a vast yet delicate brass chandelier aglow with coppery bulbs. At the back of the hall, under the bifurcated staircase, he opened a hid­den door which led down to the kitchen. Before I had reached the bottom the herbaceous and deeply woody smells of the kitchen came wafting up to greet me. It was divine. But when we reached the flagstoned room I saw there was nothing on the stove; I could only imagine that months of cooking in a room with such small windows had baked the scent into the walls.

I was seated at a wooden table facing an array of copper pans and white jugs with the high windows behind me. It was clearly a kitchen intended for many staff, but there was none of the ex­pected bustle. Where was everyone? I shifted uncomfortably as I cast about for something to say, before realizing that I didn’t know the young man’s name.

“What is your name?”

“Wesley.”

“Wesley what?”

He gave me a strange look. “Bacchus. Wesley Bacchus. I’m the footman.”

He was telling me that as a footman, his surname did not matter. Of course there was no reason that I, as a craftswoman, should know the intricacies of these hierarchies, but I sat in si­lence, not wanting to betray myself further by speaking again.

I was grateful when the cook came in some minutes later—from a pantry, I imagined—but she barely looked in my direc­tion, merely banging a pan of water onto the stove. My stomach growled something fierce when she entered, almost as if my belly knew that I was meeting the person in charge of feeding the house.

I waited for her to acknowledge me, while Wesley contin­ued to look on with a smile playing about his lips. But she only retrieved a mug and a caddy, before placing a steaming tea in front of me with a snort. My shoulders slumped. I hadn’t ex­pected to be treated as a lady, but had hoped for at least some respect. Would my father have received such a poor greeting? I sipped the tea, grateful for its sweetness and warmth as the cook clattered about with her back to me. As I finished, she returned to the table with a thick slice of ham sandwiched between two slices of bread. There was also a large apple on the plate and in her other hand was a pewter cup of water. She’d clearly heard my stomach. But her face showed no compassion as she laid the blessed offering on the table.

With one last assessing glance at me, Wesley left, and the cook returned to the stove, making it clear she had no intention of speaking to me. I decided I could forget my manners just as she had hers, and devoured the most delicious meal I’d had in weeks. Salty ham on pillowy bread, with a delightfully sour apple and water that tasted like it came from the purest spring to cleanse my palate. After greedily wiping the crumbs off the plate with one of my fingers, I took out A Christmas Carol from my coat pocket and started reading until the words on the page began to blur. The beast of a carriage I had traveled in overnight had creaked with the strain of being drawn up even the slightest in­cline. Combined with the cold that jolted me from slumber, I had only been able to sleep in fits and bursts.

I awoke, suddenly, with my head on my crossed arms in front of me and my wrist soaking wet from my dribble. The plate and pewter cup had been taken away and Wesley was standing above me, a mocking smile about his thickish lips.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Miss. Lord Belfield says he’ll see you now.”

Wesley led me back upstairs, and down a corridor. As we passed a tall, gilded mirror, I stopped, horrified by my reflec­tion. My hair, after only days left to its own devices, was now once again completely untamed. My eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and my skin was pale, making my freckles stand out. Hastily, I tried to force my frizzed hair back beneath its pins as Wesley stopped too. He watched me with amusement until I had done the best I could, and we continued on our way.

I thought back to the last time I had seen Lord Francis Belfield. His best features were his long fingers, which were always en­cased in tight kid gloves that he never took off. Oh, and the smell of him! Rich pepper with a botanical soapy undertone, which always impressed me. Not in a way that would make me swoon. He’s not the kind of man a girl like me is meant to fall in love with. No, what I felt was awe. A man of his fortune had surely seen more of the world than most. He’d have tales of Saint Petersburg, Constantinople and Siam. If only I could ask him. The need to convince him of my employability made doing so inappropriate.

The door opened onto the parlor, and immediately I could see that the man I remembered from our shop was very dif­ferent from the man who sat in front of me. He was wearing a turmeric-colored silk waistcoat embroidered with indigo plants, paired with dark trousers. He had clearly dressed hastily, and a thread toward the bottom of his trousers was loose and trailing on the floor by his feet. I inhaled deeply but could not catch the spiced vegetal scent that usually accompanied his presence. He was much thinner than when I had last seen him, and his eyes drooped as if he had suffered many a sleepless night. He stood up from his seat to shake my hand but returned to it quickly as if he couldn’t bear to hold himself up for too long.

“My name is Florence Granger, sir,” I began, but he waved a hand.

“Yes, yes, I remember you. But why has your father sent you all this way without an escort? It must have been a fright­ful journey.”

“Oh, no, Lord Belfield. The journey was fine.” I cleared my throat to make space for the bigger lie. “My father sent me to complete the work on your collection that you requested.”

He looked at me aggrieved. Offended, even. The way his fore­head crumpled made me more aware of the thinning hair at his temples. Even disheveled, he was no less handsome. However, I pondered whether he might feel a sense of loss for the way he used to look. On my previous viewings of him, he looked like someone who was used to being seen and spoken of as a very handsome “young” man. Although he wasn’t superbly weath­ered, he now had the face of a man who had endured. A sad wisdom brought the tops of his eyelids a little lower. His jaw­line was a bit less tenderly set because his teeth were more used to being gritted together from stress. I supposed it was grief. He had lost his wife less than a year before, after all, leaving him with only his son.

“Why on earth would he do that? This hasn’t even been dis­cussed. Had he accepted the commission, I would have had the books sent to Manchester.”

Ah. This I had not considered. I remembered the words on the letter. I was sure that it was an invitation to stay and restore the library. My mouth was dry as I prepared my next lie.

 

Author Bio: 


KUCHENGA SHENJÉ is a writer, journalist, and speaker with work on many media platforms, including gal-dem, British Vogue and Netflix. She has contributed short stories and essays to several anthologies, most notably It’s Not OK to Feel Blue (and Other Lies), Who’s Loving You and Loud Black Girls. Owing to a lifelong obsession with books and the written word, Kuchenga studied creative writing at the Open University. Her work is focused on the perils of loving, being loved and women living out loud throughout the ages. The Library Thief is the ultimate marriage of her passions for history, mystery and rebels. She currently resides in Manchester, where she is determined to continue living a life worth writing about.
 

 

PRAISE: 

“Shenjé rightfully joins a distinguished line of authors who love books and secrets and know exactly how to combine the two.”—Booklist

 

"A tantalizing read that swells with secrecy and intrigue. It's hard to believe that Kuchenga Shenjé writes of the past, and not of the present. A beautifully and skillfully written debut."—Candice Carty-Williams, bestselling author of Queenie


"Shenjé shines a light on LGBTQIA+ love and people of color in Victorian England... Fans of Sarah Waters and Bridget Collins might have in Shenjé a new author to add to their TBR lists."—Library Journal

 

"Powerful, sagacious and warm, The Library Thief is both a gripping, multi-layered mystery and a gorgeously absorbing novel that demanded I return to its pages whenever I had the audacity to set it down. Without a doubt, Shenjé's wholly original debut has bestseller written all over it."—Joanne Burn, author of The Hemlock Cure
 
"A compelling novel that starts as a mystery and grows into a coming-of-age story, examining identity, belonging, loneliness and friendship within the restrictive and stifling world of late Victorian society. The Library Thief is filled with fantastically drawn characters and with a love of books that shines through the prose."—Katie Lumsden, author of The Secrets of Hartwood Hall

 "If this book's a thief of anything—it was my attention. I was hooked, the story opening with the tantalizing traditions of a gothic mystery and then unfurling in unexpected directions, threading themes of identity, sexuality and a woman's impossible choices into an intricate web of mysteries that would not let me go."—Cari Thomas, international bestselling author of Threadneedle

 


Sunday, May 5, 2024

New Book Release: The Summer Swap by Sarah Morgan


THE SUMMER SWAP

Author: Sarah Morgan

ISBN: 9781335474940

Publication Date: May 7, 2024

Publisher: Canary Street Press

18.99 US | 23.99 CAN

 

A recent widow’s plan to spend the summer in Cape Cod hiding from her interfering family is upended when she discovers her beach house has an unexpected guest, and the secret she's been keeping about her marriage threatens to be exposed. Perfect beach reading for fans of Taylor Jenkins Reid and Emily Henry.

70 year old widow Cecilia Lapthorne can’t bear the prospect of a family party to celebrate her birthday and the memory of her husband, famous artist Cameron Lapthorne. They had a toxic marriage but stayed together for the children, and bound by a big secret. She runs away to the Cape Cod seashore cottage she owned with Cameron--it’s where they first fell in love--but she hasn’t returned since she discovered him cheating on her there (for the first time). No one in her family knows about it, so she will be perfectly, delightfully alone for the summer.

Except struggling artist Lily has been secretly crashing on the sofa of the seashore cottage for the last couple of weeks. Unable to make rent after dropping out of medical school to pursue her dreams of becoming an artist and working as a housekeeper in Cecilia's Cape Cod enclave, she’s been illicitly camping at the cottage. Which isn’t a problem as it’s been unoccupied for years…until Cecilia unexpectedly shows up.

After the drama of discovering she has an unexpected house-guest has faded, Cecilia decides she’ll get along just fine with Lily for the summer. They form a tentative and powerful bond, based on shared love of art, but also the vulnerabilities they both share with each other. And when Todd, Cecilia’s beloved grandson (and the man who broke Lily’s heart in college) tracks her to the cottage, the three of them settle in for a summer of self-discovery, self-belief and second chances.

Buy Links:

BookShop.org

Harlequin

Barnes & Noble

Books A Million

Amazon

Excerpted from The Summer Swap by Sarah Morgan. Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Morgan. Published by Canary Street Press.

Running away from her life wasn’t something she was proud of, but with a view this good it was hard to regret the decision.

Lily tightened her grip on the handlebars and pedaled harder. Here on the northern tip of Cape Cod while the rest of humankind were still sleepy and had barely reached for the coffeepot, the place was hers alone.

All around her were sand dunes and the ocean stretching as far as she could see. She cycled the same route every day, and every day was different. Today the sky was a deep kingfisher blue, but she’d seen burnt orange, flame red and smoky silver.

It was a place favored by migratory birds and tourists, and generally she preferred the first to the second. The day before, she’d seen a blue heron and two snowy egrets. As far as she was concerned the fewer humans the better, but she owed her current job to the influx of summer people, so she wasn’t complaining.

She breathed deeply, letting the salt air fill her lungs and her mind. She felt free here on this windblown, sunbaked strip of seashore. For the first time in months, she felt better. Stronger. As if she might survive after all. The pressure had eased. She no longer woke at two in the morning drenched in sweat and panic, trapped in her life and hating every moment.

She felt something close to happiness, and then her phone buzzed and the feeling left her in a rush.

She pedaled faster, trying to outrun its insistent demand. She didn’t have to look to identify the caller. It was ten in the morning exactly. Only one person called her routinely at that time.

Dammit.

Guilt and an unshakable sense of duty made her squeeze the brakes and she pulled over, breathless, and dug out her phone. If she didn’t take the call now, she’d be taking it later and the thought of it looming in her future would darken the skies of an otherwise cloudless day. This was the price she had to pay for running away. You could run, but with today’s technology you couldn’t really hide.

“Lily, honey? It’s Mom.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

She’d been expecting this call, ever since she’d declined their invitation to come home and “talk things over.” As if talking it over yet again would change the outcome.

Every time she saw her mother’s name pop up on her phone screen her stomach churned. Guilt sank its fangs into all the soft, vulnerable parts of her. Her parents had made huge sacrifices for her, and she’d as good as slapped them in the face. And she hadn’t even given them a reason. At least, not one they could understand.

They deserved better.

“I’m on my way to work, Mom. I can’t be late.” Never had dirty pots and pans and other people’s laundry seemed more appealing. She’d rather deal with that any day than talk to her mother. Every conversation dragged her backward and left her so twisted with guilt she lost all confidence in her chosen path. “Is everything all right?”

“No. We’re worried about you, Lily.” Her mother’s tone was shaky. “We don’t understand what’s going on. Why won’t you tell us?”

Lily tightened her grip on the phone. “Nothing is going on. And you don’t need to worry.” She repeated the same words she’d said hundreds of times, even though they never seemed to settle.

“Can you blame us for worrying? We have a bright, brilliant daughter who has chosen to throw away the life she worked hard for. And with no reason.”

No reason? As if it had been a whim. As if she’d woken up one morning and decided to waste all those years of hard work just for a laugh.

“I’m fine. This is what I want.”

It wasn’t that her parents weren’t wonderful people, but communicating with them was impossible.

“Are you eating? Have you put on some weight? You were skin and bone when you left here.”

“I’m eating. I’m sleeping. I’m good. How are you and Dad?”

“We miss you, obviously. Come home, Lily. We can cook for you, and spoil you and look after you.”

Anxiety settled on her like a cloak, blocking out sunshine and her hopes for the day.

She knew what going home would mean. She loved her parents, but they’d hover over her with frowning concerned faces until she’d end up worrying more about them than herself. And then she’d do things she didn’t want to do, just to please them.

And it wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried staying at home. She’d done that in the beginning (mostly because her options were limited) and the pressure of pretending to be okay had been exhausting.

“I’m happy, Mom. I just need some space. It’s beautiful here. You know I always loved the ocean.”

“I know. I remember when you were six years old, and we couldn’t drag you away from the sandcastle you’d built.” There was a pause. “Honey, Dad made some calls. He thinks it’s not too late for you to go back to medical school if you want to.”

Lily’s heart started to pound. The sweat of anxiety threatened to become a full-blown panic attack. Her chest tightened. Her hands shook so badly the phone almost slipped from her fingers.

Interference, even well-meaning interference, should be designated a crime.

“I don’t want to. I know you and Dad are disappointed—”

“It’s not about us, it’s about you. We tried so hard to give you all the opportunities we didn’t have.”

Lily stared at the ocean and tried to find her inner calm, but it had fled the moment the phone had rung.

They’d made huge sacrifices for her, and she’d thrown it in their faces. She felt terrible. But staying would have made her feel worse.

“This is difficult for me, too, Mom.” The lump in her throat made it difficult to speak. “I know I’m hurting you and I hate it, but this is where I want to be. I can’t be a doctor. I want to be an artist.”

“You say that, but you’re cleaning houses.”

“To earn money while I try to find a way to do something I love.” While she tried to loosen the knots of stress in her body and untangle the mess in her head. “There’s nothing wrong with cleaning houses. I like it. And it’s a respectable way to make a living. You did it.”

“Because I didn’t have the opportunities you had.”

Lily felt guilt overwhelm her.

Her mother sighed. “Do you need money? We still have some savings.”

And she knew just how hard it would have been for her parents to pull that together after everything they’d already spent on her. She’d vowed never to take another cent from them.

“I don’t need money but thank you.” She didn’t want to think about the dire state of her bank account. She was determined to manage on her own now, no matter what.

“Lily—” her mother’s voice was gentle “—your father would kill me for asking because I know I’m not supposed to ask, but did something happen, honey? Did someone hurt you? Your dad and I always thought you’d make a wonderful doctor. You’re such a kind, caring person.”

“Nothing like that.” Lily’s throat burned. She badly wanted this conversation to end. “Could we talk about something else?”

“Of course. Let me think…not much has happened here. Your father has been busy in the garden.” Her mother spoke in a cheery I’m changing the subject to a safe topic voice. “The hydrangeas are beginning to bloom. They’re going to be stunning. I made the most delicious orange cake last week. No wheat. You know your father. Ground almonds instead of flour.”

“Sounds yummy.” She imagined them at home together and felt a pang. Despite everything, she missed them. Part of her just wanted to run home and be looked after but she knew that feeling would dissipate the moment she walked through the door. Within minutes the bands of pressure would tighten, and she’d be gasping for breath.

“I’m sure there was something I wanted to tell you.” Her mother paused. “What was it? Oh, I remember—I bumped into Kristen Buckingham last week. She’s always so charming and friendly. So normal.”

The last person Lily wanted to think about now was anyone with the name Buckingham.

“Why wouldn’t she be friendly and normal, Mom?” Lily knew how self-conscious her mother was around her friends and she hated it. It reminded her of being back at school and feeling like an imposter.

Her parents had scrimped and saved and worked multiple jobs in order to send her to the best school. They’d believed she’d have a great education and make influential friends. She would absorb their greater advantages by osmosis. It would be her ticket to a better life. They imagined her living her life in a bubble of success, mixing with people whose parents owned mansions and yachts and jets. People whose fridges were loaded with food and never had to worry about making it stretch to the end of the week. People who had drivers, and housekeepers, and staff who cleared the snow from their yard.

And she had met people like that, but most of the time Lily had felt like a stray dog that had somehow wriggled its way into a litter of pedigrees. She’d been afraid to reveal anything about her background, because she knew it was different from theirs. She’d masked her true self because she’d known that she didn’t fit. Despite her attempts to blend, she’d been badly bullied. To make things worse she’d also felt crushed by the pressure of work and parental expectation. To fail would have been to let them down, these people she loved so much and who loved her back. They’d half killed themselves to give her the opportunity. She couldn’t let herself fail.

Panic had hovered close to the surface the whole time, threatening to suffocate her. The only thing that had driven her from her bed in the mornings was the knowledge of her parents’ sacrifice and their pride in her. She hadn’t felt able to tell them how unhappy she was, or that locking herself in a cubicle while having a panic attack didn’t feel like success to her.

She’d been thoroughly miserable until the day Hannah Buckingham had rescued her from a bully who was trying to remove her ponytail with a pair of scissors. After that, everything changed.

Hannah was the granddaughter of the famous artist Cameron Lapthorne. She was a champion of the underdog. She had a fierce urge to protect anything threatened. She wanted to save the whales, and Sumatran tigers, and Antarctica. Lily was added to the list, and they’d become best friends from that moment. Hannah had said Lily was the sister she’d never had. Hannah hadn’t cared about the differences between their household incomes. Hannah hadn’t cared that Lily didn’t have her own bathroom, or a housekeeper to keep her room tidy, or tutors to make sure her grades were the best they could possibly be. Hannah had found Lily interesting. Hannah had wanted to know everything about Lily. She’d wanted to access her every thought. For the first time in her life, Lily had been able to be herself.

They’d been inseparable. Protected by Hannah, the bullying had stopped and Lily had flourished. With Hannah as her friend, her confidence had grown. She’d no longer felt like a misfit.

They’d gone to the same college where they’d both studied biological sciences and then they’d applied to the same medical school. When her acceptance letter arrived, Lily’s parents had cried. They’d been so proud and thrilled. It was the happiest day of their lives.

Lily had been happy and relieved that she’d achieved their goals. That she was everything her parents wanted her to be. That she hadn’t let them down. For a brief moment she’d believed that maybe she could do this.

But medical school had turned out to be a thousand times worse than school. She was surrounded by people who were brilliant, ambitious and competitive.

When the pressure started to crush her brain again, she tried to ignore it. She was going to be fine. She’d survived this far. There were many different branches of medicine. She’d find one that suited her.

It didn’t help that Hannah had no doubts at all. She’d known from the start that she wanted to be a surgeon like her father, Theo. Hannah wanted to save lives. She wanted to make a difference.

On the few occasions she’d met him, Lily had found Theo to be terrifying or maybe it was more accurate to say that she found his reputation terrifying.

Hannah’s mother, Kristen, was equally intimidating. She was an art expert, a whirlwind of brisk efficiency with a life so busy it was a wonder she fitted in time to breathe.

And then there was Hannah’s older brother, Todd, who was smart, handsome and kind, and the object of lust among all Hannah’s friends. Lily was no exception. Teenage Lily had fantasized about Todd. Twenty-three-year-old Lily had kissed Todd in a dark corner during a school reunion.

Lily was in love with Todd, but now Todd was dating Amelie.

Lily had trained herself not to think about Todd.

“I just mean that Kristen is very important, Lily, that’s all,” her mother said. “But she always takes the time to talk to me when I see her.”

“She’s just a person, Mom. A person like the rest of us.”

“Well, not really like the rest of us,” her mother said. “Her father was Cameron Lapthorne. I don’t pretend to know anything about art, but even I know his name.”

Hannah had taken her to the Lapthorne Estate once. It had been the best day of Lily’s life. She’d gazed at the paintings hungrily, studying every brushstroke, in awe of the skill and envious of anyone who could build a life as an artist. Hannah had given her a book of her grandfather’s work, and it had become Lily’s most treasured possession. She’d thumbed the pages, studied the pictures and slept with it under her pillow.

Ever since she was old enough to hold a paintbrush, Lily had loved art. She’d painted everything in sight. When she’d run out of paper, she’d painted on the walls. She’d painted her school bag and her running shoes. She’d said to her parents I want to be an artist, and for a while they’d looked worried. They’d told her no one made money that way and that she was smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer. Lily knew how much they wanted that for her, and she knew how much they’d sacrificed. She couldn’t bring herself to disappoint them. And so she had dutifully gone to medical school, underestimating the toll it would take on her.

“Lily? Are you still there?”

Lily tugged herself back into the present. “Yes. So how was Kristen?”

“Busy as ever. She was in the middle of organizing a big event at the Lapthorne Estate. Celebrating her mother’s birthday and her grandfather, the artist. It’s happening today, I think. Todd will be there with his fiancée—I forget her name. Amelie, that’s right. And Hannah will be there of course. Kristen invited us, and you, which was generous of her.”

Fiancée?

Lily started to shake. “Todd is engaged?”

“Yes. A bit of a whirlwind according to Kristen. They’d only been dating for a few months, and she thought it was casual. Had no idea it was serious and then suddenly they announce that they’re getting married. I’m sure that wedding will be quite an event. Kristen said it was yet another thing for her to organize, although I don’t understand why the responsibility would fall on her. She’s such an impressive woman.”

Lily wasn’t thinking about Kristen. Lily was thinking about Todd.

She imagined Todd in the gardens of Lapthorne Manor with a glass of champagne in his hand, and Amelie gazing up at him with that flirtatious look that fused men’s brains and made them do stupid things, a large diamond glinting on her finger.

Amelie had been the most popular girl in the school. She’d had the highest marks, the fastest time on the running track and the biggest smile. Amelie was the girl most likely to succeed. She was also the girl who had tried to cut off Lily’s ponytail with a pair of scissors. And now she was marrying Todd. Kind, funny, clever Todd.

Todd had broken Lily’s heart, and he didn’t even know it.

Her palms felt sweaty as she tried to focus on the call. “Are you going to the party?”

“No, of course not. Your father wouldn’t know what to say and I wouldn’t know what to wear. They’re your friends really, not ours. Kristen mentioned that Hannah is enjoying her clinical rotation, but you probably know that as she’s your best friend.”

Lily didn’t know that. Lily and Hannah hadn’t spoken since that terrible fight on the night Lily had packed her bags and left medical school for good.

Every time Lily thought of Hannah she wanted to cry. They’d sworn that nothing and no one would ever come between them, and they’d truly believed that.

They’d been wrong.

“I must go, Mom. I’ll be late for work, and I don’t want to let people down.” She winced as she said it, because she was all too aware that she’d let her parents down. “Don’t worry. I’m happy. I like my life.”

“We don’t want you to waste your talents, honey, that’s all. You’re capable of so much. You could be curing cancer—”

Curing cancer? No pressure, then.

“I hated medical school.” The words spilled out of her. “It wasn’t for me.” And the pressure of trying to keep up had almost broken her. She didn’t expect them to understand. They believed that if you were smart enough to be a doctor, why wouldn’t you be one? And she couldn’t figure out how to make her parents proud, but still live the life she wanted to live. “I want to be an artist, Mom. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You know that.”

“I know, but where’s the future in that? Your dad and I just don’t want you to struggle financially as we did. Life can be hard, Lily.”

Lily closed her eyes. She knew that. She knew how hard life could be.

“I’m managing fine. And I’m going to pay you and Dad back.”

“That’s not necessary, honey. We love you and remember there’s a home and a welcome here whenever you need it.”

Lily’s throat felt full. It would be easier to disappoint them if they weren’t so decent. If she didn’t love them so much. “Thanks. Give my love to Dad.”

She ended the call, wondering why big life decisions had to feel so difficult and wondering why, when there were so many people her mother could have bumped into, she’d had to bump into Kristen Buckingham.

Her little bubble of happiness had been punctured.

Todd was engaged. He was going to marry Amelie, and no doubt they’d have two perfect children and a dog and live a long and happy life with not a single bump in the road.

But she wasn’t going to think about that now. And she wasn’t going to think about Hannah. Twice in the last few months she’d almost texted her. Once she’d even typed out a message, but then she’d deleted it. Hannah had been furiously angry with her, and Lily had been angry with Hannah. They’d both been hurt, and Lily had no idea how to move past that hurt. Given that she hadn’t heard from Hannah, presumably she didn’t know, either.

The friendship that they’d believed could never be damaged, had been damaged. Broken. Amelie might as well have taken her scissors to it.

But that was in the past now.

Hannah was living in the city, and Lily was here on the Cape, and even though she’d brought all her emotions with her it was still preferable to being in the smothering atmosphere of her parents’ home. And at least it had been her decision to come here. For the first time ever, she was living the life that was her choice.

She just wished it felt easier.


 

Author Bio:

Sarah Morgan is a USA Today and Sunday Times bestselling author of contemporary romance and women's fiction. She has sold more than 21 million copies of her books and her trademark humour and warmth have gained her fans across the globe. Sarah lives with her family near London, England, where the rain frequently keeps her trapped in her office. Visit her at www.sarahmorgan.com

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