âYou asked yesterday if I had any questions. Well, I do.â
Ava looked up to see Scott standing in the doorway.
âHi,â he said, not moving into the room. âI didnât realize this was your studio. I was just walking by and I saw you working. Then I remembered what youâd said about questions.â
âQuestions?â
âAbout the tile-making process.â He took a notebook from his pocket. âHow do you actually make them?â
She glanced at him long enough to tell that he wasnât here to talk about tiles. He wanted to know more about her motherâs disappearance. Fine. If he wasnât going to come clean, sheâd make him pay the price. She launched into a detailed explanation of paint pigments, moved on to glazes and anything else she could think of to throw into her monologue. When she saw his eyes start to glass over, she began a dissertation on firing techniques.
âThatâs the short, simplistic answer,â she said twenty minutes later.
âInteresting,â he said.
âYou stopped taking notes about fifteen minutes ago,â Ava said. âAnd interesting is one of those words people use when they canât think of anything else to say.â
He looked at her for a full five seconds. âInteresting.â
Dear Reader,
Iâm sure most of you have felt that tug of nostaglia when you return to places you knew as a child. I know I have. For me, itâs a wistful feeling, a yearning to recapture something that seems as elusive as smoke. Iâve found that itâs equally impossible to explain. No one but me really understands exactly how magical the lights along the seafront in Ramsgate, Kent, seemed when I was fifteen and in loveâor imagined I was. Or, except for my sister, the specific taste of ice cream from Stonelees, a dairy that opened only during the summer. A few years ago, I went back to England and took that same walkâthe ice cream parlor had long gone. Some things had changed, others were as I remembered them, but the magic wasnât there. I couldnâtâno matter how hard I triedâfeel the way I had at fifteen.
For Ava, the heroine of Suspicion, the childhood that she and her twin sister, Ingrid, spent on the island of Santa Catalina, twenty-two miles off the Southern California coast (didnât the Beachboys say it was twenty-six?âthey were wrong) was an enchanted time full of wonder and promise. After her husband dies early in their marriage, and a few years later her mother mysteriously drowns, Ava begins to wonder how much of her past was truly as idyllic as she recalls, and to what extent her memories have been colored by what she wants to believeâ¦.
I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site at janicemacdonald.net and let me know how you enjoyed this book.
Janice Macdonald
P.S. If you ever visit Southern California, take the Catalina Express over to Avalon. It truly is a magical place, no matter how old you are.
To Carolyn, who always lets me sing âPineapple Princess.â
Iâd like to thank Deanna Shiew of C & S Ceramics & Crafts in Muskogee, Oklahoma, for all the details she provided on the tile-making process. If there are any errors in description, they are mine alone. Deanna was truly a tireless and invaluable source of information.
Thanks also to www.cataromance.com. The e-mail loop and the willingness of its members to offer their expertise on an absolutely amazing range of topics is truly a writerâs boon.
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 SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
âI KEEP HAVING this dream. Iâm looking down into the water and I can see my motherâs face staring up at meâ¦.â Ava Lynsky held the fingertips of her left hand in the palm of her right and squeezed hard. Her skin felt numb and icy-cold, her chest hurt. âAnd then it isnât her. Itâs me or my sister, and every time we come up to the surface, something pushes us down again.â
âSomething?â the therapist asked.
âA hand.â
âDo you know whose hand it is?â
Ava didnât answer. Through the tinted windows she could see the small square structure of Avalon Municipal Hospital through a clearing of eucalyptus trees. Her father was one of two Catalina Island physicians on staff there. She imagined him looking through the windows to see her sitting in a psychologistâs office. Could imagine the mixture of incredulity and contempt on his face. Neurotic, he would say. Canât stand neurotic women.
âAva.â
She looked at the therapist. âHmm?â
âWhose hand is it?â
Ava shook her head. âI donât know.â
âWhen did you start having these dreams?â
âThey started after my motherâ¦â She couldnât seem to finish.
âAfter your mother died,â the therapist said.
The word reverberated in Avaâs head, clanged like a bell, louder and louder. She hugged herself, hands tucked under her arms, pressing down hard. Her heart felt swollen in her chest. âItâs been three months now. I stay up most of the night because I dread going to sleep. I canât work. Iâve started a dozen different things and theyâre all awful and Iâve got this new commission and Iâm scared to death.â