âDo you ever think of our baby?â
âAddie.â
âDo you, Skip?â
He looked away, sighed, turned back. âIâm so glad you asked. So glad. Thereâs something I need to tell you.â He lifted his eyes and a chill skimmed her spine.
âDo you know something? Do you know where she is? Is she all right?â
âAddieâ¦Oh, God, how to say thisâ¦Addie, sheâs here inââ
âHere?â She tore her hand away, grabbed his arm. âWhat do you mean here? Where?â Her fingers clutched his T-shirt. âWhoâ?â
âItâs Becky, Addie.â
âNo, I mean our baby. The one Iâ¦weâ¦â
His eyes didnât waver. Those honey-gold eyes she had loved when she was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
Until heâd deserted her.
Dear Reader,
Two summers ago, I traveled to Bowen Island for a weekend writing retreat. A twenty-minute ferry ride from the mainland, the island harbors a small village with eclectic shops, restaurants and bed-and-breakfasts, while its rural interior hosts small farms of livestock, fruits and vegetables. In contrast, million-dollar homes dot the western shores. But what struck me most was the serenity the island offered.
And so an idea evolved about a fictitious island, which became my new miniseries HOME TO FIREWOOD ISLAND, in which three sistersâAddie, Lee and Katâmake peace with their pasts by finding happiness on their little island home.
Their Secret Child is Addieâs story, and first in the series. I hope you enjoy her journey as she reunites with her high school sweetheart.
Mary
PSâFor upcoming details about Leeâs story, next in the series, check my Web site at www.maryjforbes.com.
Today she would see him againâthe first time in thirteen years.
Thirteen years. And sheâd counted every one.
Not because of him. Never because of Skip Dalton.
If sheâd thought of him at all in that span of time, it was because someone mentioned his name in passing or because Dempsey Malloy had loved to watch football.
But she was no longer married to Dempsey and football hadnât crossed her TV screen in over a year.
Truth be known, little crossed her TV screen these days. Any leisure time she had, she utilized by sewing, baking or caring for her beesâwhen she wasnât teaching or tutoring. And then there was her mother, whoâd decided last spring to cut back her hours at the hair salon, which meant this summer Charmaine called her every âfreeâ day and asked, âWhatcha doing?â
No, the thirteen years Addie had counted had been for another reasonâa logical decision her father termed it.
Logical.
Forget emotion. Forget tears. Forget the hole in her soul that some nights threatened to kill her.
Decisions didnât cater to the weak-minded. Decisions meant logicâand Addie Malloy lived logic.
For a fleeting moment, her work-scarred fingers trembled at her left earlobe and she nearly dropped the tiny golden sunflower dangling on its fine chain.
God, why had she listened to her parents all those years ago?
Because you were a coward, Addie. Just as you are now, shaking in your boots, knowing youâll see him again. Shaking like a little scaredy-cat.
Clamping her bottom lip, she pushed the earring post firmly into place and uttered a sigh of relief when it was done. Should she add a bit of mascara to her stubby lashes? Her sisters, Lee and Kat, always demanded she should wear makeup, that mascara would augment her eyes, make them fab-u-lous.
But this wasnât a date and she wasnât going for Skip Dalton.
Stepping back from the bathroom mirror, she checked her face, her strong tanned arms, the yellow sundress that was a hand-me-down from Kat. It would have to do. She would have to do. Money wasnât a commodity on the island, especially Firewood Island with its two thousand souls, the majority of whose heritage heralded from the hippie sixties.
And as keeper of 480,000 bees she fit right in with the islandâs agriculturalists and minifarms, or âhobby farmsâ as some had the audacity to call them. Maintaining and nurturing twelve hives year-round wasnât a hobby. It was damned hard work.
She pulled her unruly hairâdirty blond hair, sheâd always thoughtâinto a thick knot on her head, shoved in four long pins to hold the mass in place and ignored the flyaway strands creeping free around her face. Not her best attribute, her hair. No, that would be her mouth. Her downfall at sixteenâand again at twenty-two.
Closer to the mirror, she scrutinized the absence of lines, creases or thinning. Thank God. Thirty-one and holding. Her lips remained full and feminine and youthful andâ¦a little wanton. Maybe even sexy if she applied a trace of pink. She would not let him think sheâd been kitchen-bound these past years with a passel of kids clamoring around her ankles.