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“You and I were friends, and you are back, and it’s high time we opened those closet doors, don’t you think? So. Dinner,” Ryder repeated. “Just you and me.”
“And if I say no?”
“I’m not above kidnapping you.”
“I don’t know, Ry. Could I at least think about it?”
“Of course.”
And that should have been his cue to haul his sorry ass through the door and out to his car. If he’d been inclined, that is, to listen to his head and not whatever made him instead lift one hand to brush his thumb across her rapidly cooling cheek, a move that sent his stomach into a freefall.
Mel sucked in a breath, her eyes going even bigger. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Seriously thinking about things I’ve got no right to think about.”
Dear Reader,
It always amazes me how often the tiniest seed of inspiration can grow into a whole story. Or, as with SUMMER SISTERS, an entire series. In this case I’m talking memories of childhood vacations spent in North Carolina with my two close-in-age cousins, when my father would take me to visit my grandmother nearly every summer.
I still remember long, jostling rides in the back of somebody’s Country Squire station wagon, cannonballing into assorted swimming pools and jamming out to the Beach Boys (guess that decade!).
Of course, this is fiction, and my cousins and I aren’t anything like Mel, April and Blythe. High Point, North Carolina, turned into make-believe St Mary’s Cove on Maryland’s eastern shore, and heaven knows none of us went on to lead lives anywhere near as tangled in secrets as those three. But the love and camaraderie, the shared silliness and laughter—those, the six of us had in common. Like all three of my heroines, I, too, was an only child, who cherished those weeks every summer when I had “sisters.” And writing these stories has allowed me to pay tribute to those gals … and those wonderful memories.
Enjoy!
Karen Templeton
About the Author
Since 1998, two-time RITA® Award winner and Waldenbooks bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.
The Doctor’s Do-Over
Karen Templeton
MILLS & BOON
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To Amy and Lainey
Here’s to memories of hot summers,
frigid swimming pools,
sighing over boys
and more good times than I can count.
Miss you guys.
Chapter One
Her nostrils twitching at the putrid mix of mildew, ancient grease and whatever it was that had died in her grandmother’s Nixon-era refrigerator, Melanie Duncan could only gawk in horrified amazement. Holy cannoli—Amelia Rinehart had apparently kept every glass jar and plastic container she’d ever touched.
Along with—shuddering, Mel thunked shut the grimy, mustard-yellow cabinet door—decades’ worth of magazines, newspapers and junk mail stacked in teetering piles throughout the eight-freaking-bedroom house. And just think, she thought sourly, shoving up the nasty water faucet with her wrist and waiting for-ev-er for the hot water to meander up from the basement, it was all hers. Hers and April’s and Blythe’s, that is.
With that, her gaze also meandered, out the dirt-fogged window and beyond the weed-infested backyard sloping down to the inlet beyond, to the slate blue water glittering in the late September sunshine … and she could almost see those three girls sunbathing on the pier, stretched out on Walmart-issue beach towels as Green Day blared from somebody’s old boom box. Blythe’s, most likely.
The water suddenly went blistering hot, making Mel yelp. Cursing, she adjusted the handle, thinking maybe she was still in shock. Not so much about her grandmother’s passing—she had been nearly ninety, after all, even if Death probably had to hog-tie her and drag her away kicking and screaming. But, yeah, inheriting the Eastern Shore property, especially since her grandmother and she hadn’t spoken in more than ten years? That was strange. Far more strange than that, however, was finding herself in the last place she’d ever expected to set foot again.
Or wanted to.
Anxiety prickling her chilled skin—the thermostat didn’t appear to be working—Mel scrubbed her hands with the dish soap still sitting on the back of the pock-marked sink and turned, only to grimace at the M. C. Escher-like towers of long-since-expired bottles of herbal supplements smothering the chipped Formica counters … the jungle of dead plants at the base of the patio doors leading to the disintegrating back porch … what appeared to be hundreds of paper bags, undoubtedly loaded with mouse droppings, wadded between the fridge and the cabinets. Disgusting, as her daughter would say. Thank God the washing machine was working—go, Maytag—because no way in hell was she letting her child sleep on any of the musty sheets she’d found all jumbled up in the linen closet.
Had her grandmother always been that much of a pack-rat? Or had the three of them turned blind eyes to the clutter during those long, lazy summers when the world as they all knew it simply didn’t
