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“Do you ever think of our baby?”
“Addie.”
“Do you, Skip?”
He looked away, sighed, turned back. “I’m so glad you asked. So glad. There’s something I need to tell you.” He lifted his eyes and a chill skimmed her spine.
“Do you know something? Do you know where she is? Is she all right?”
“Addie…Oh, God, how to say this…Addie, she’s here in—”
“Here?” She tore her hand away, grabbed his arm. “What do you mean here? Where?” Her fingers clutched his T-shirt. “Who—?”
“It’s Becky, Addie.”
“No, I mean our baby. The one I…we…”
His eyes didn’t waver. Those honey-gold eyes she had loved when she was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.
Until he’d 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 sisters—Addie, Lee and Kat—make peace with their pasts by finding happiness on their little island home.
Their Secret Child is Addie’s story, and first in the series. I hope you enjoy her journey as she reunites with her high school sweetheart.
Mary
PS—For upcoming details about Lee’s story, next in the series, check my Web site at www.maryjforbes.com.
Their Secret Child
Mary J. Forbes
MARY J. FORBES
grew up on a prairie ranch where the skies were broad and blue, the hay fragrant, and the winters cold and snowy. Today, she lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest where she teaches school, writes her stories, nurtures her garden, and walks or jogs in any weather.
For R, V, K & J—
Love you all!
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
Today she would see him again—the first time in thirteen years.
Thirteen years. And she’d counted every one.
Not because of him. Never because of Skip Dalton.
If she’d 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 hadn’t 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 bees—when she wasn’t teaching or tutoring. And then there was her mother, who’d decided last spring to cut back her hours at the hair salon, which meant this summer Charmaine called her every “free” day and asked, “Whatcha doing?”
No, the thirteen years Addie had counted had been for another reason—a 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 didn’t cater to the weak-minded. Decisions meant logic—and 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 you’ll 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 wasn’t a date and she wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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 island’s agriculturalists and minifarms, or “hobby farms” as some had the audacity to call them. Maintaining and nurturing twelve hives year-round wasn’t a hobby. It was damned hard work.
She pulled her unruly hair—dirty blond hair, she’d always thought—into 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 sixteen—and 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
