Aunt Ivy's Cottage

by Kristin Harper

Genres: Family Life; Holiday books; Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Clearing out the attic, Zoey opens the carved trunk and smiles as she picks up the small, leather-bound diary hiding inside. Curious, she leafs through the pages, and realises this will change everything… All Zoey ’s happiest childhood memories are of her great-aunt Ivy ’s rickety cottage on Dune Island, snuggling up with hot chocolate and hearing Ivy’s stories about being married to a sea captain. Now, heartbroken from a breakup, Zoey escapes back to the island, but is shocked to find her elderly aunt’s spark fading. Worse, her cousin—next in line to inherit the house—is pushing Ivy to move into a nursing home. With the family clashing over what’s best for Ivy, Zoey is surprised when Nick, a local carpenter and Ivy’s neighbor, takes her side. As Zoey finds comfort in his sea-blue eyes and warm laugh, the two grow close. Together, they make a discovery in the attic that links the family to the mysterious and reclusive local lighthouse keeper… Now Zoey has a heartbreaking choice to make. Nick’s urging her to share the discovery, which could keep Ivy in the house she’s loved her whole life… but when Zoey learns that Nick and her cousin go way back, she questions if the man she‘s starting to have feelings for really has Ivy’s best interests at heart. Will dredging up this old secret destroy the peace and happiness of Ivy’s final years—and tear this family apart for good? A stunning and emotional read about old secrets, new love and never forgetting the importance of family. Perfect for fans of Mary Ellen Taylor, Robyn Carr and Mary Alice Monroe. Read what everyone’s saying about Aunt Ivy’s Cottage : “It was like a Hallmark movie in book form… heart-warming and satisfying ending… I loved this book and it made my heart super happy! It was just what I needed and I cannot wait to read the other book by this talented storyteller!!! ” Mrs Mommy Booknerd's Book Reviews, 5 stars “This book was such a fantastic read, I read it within a day as I just couldn’t put it down… so many heightened emotions… very relatable… I would highly recommend this book! ” Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars “I enjoyed this story so much and cannot wait for something else by this author! I was so emotionally drawn to this book that I can't even tell you. The characters were fabulous… will grip you until the very last page.” Crossroad Reviews, 4 stars “ Aunt Ivy's Cottage really is an emotional page-turner!... you don't expect the twist… very moving novel.” Karen Loves Reading, 5 stars “ Loved this book… had a hard time putting it down once I started reading it! I can't wait to read more books by this author.” Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars “I really loved this book… so heart-warming… it felt like I was there smelling the sea. I can't wait to read more from this author.” Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars “Once I opened the pages, I became captivated by the beautifully written story rich with family, love, and nostalgia… Aunt Ivy's Cottage will make you want to hug your loved ones. ” Tessa Talks Books “I really enjoyed this book… captured my attention from the beginning… delightful… I loved it.’ @fiction_book_reviews, 5 stars “ This was gold! I loved everything this book was about!... truly heart-warming.” Oh Happy Reading “Kristin Harper tells a wonderful story… a roller-coaster of emotions that kept this reader turning the pages.” Goodreads Reviewer, 5 stars

Release date: December 7, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

The daffodils that were meant to brighten the room were already going limp in their vase and Zoey Jansen felt as if she were wilting, too. It was a sunny afternoon in mid-April, but the thermostat was set at seventy-four. Zoey’s sweater stuck to the small of her back and she wiped perspiration from her upper lip. Yet her great-aunt Sylvia, who was covered to her chest with a quilt, kept saying she was cold.

Zoey lifted the blankets only enough to gently place a freshly filled hot-water bottle into her aunt’s hands. “This should help warm you up.”

“Mmm,” Sylvia murmured drowsily, her eyes closed. “You’ve always been so good to me, Ivy. More like a sister than my own sisters.”

She thinks I’m my great-aunt Ivy. Zoey didn’t correct her mistake. Sylvia had been so restless the past several days that she didn’t want to rouse her if she was finally sleepy. As she started to withdraw her hand from beneath the blankets, Sylvia feebly grasped her fingers.

“Don’t go. I need—” her voice crackled. Assuming what Sylvia needed was a cool drink, Zoey reached for the water glass on the nightstand but her aunt tugged her hand again, pulling her closer. “I need to tell you something important.”

Zoey touched her shoulder to reassure her that she had her full attention. “What is it?”

“Mark doesn’t deserve this,” Sylvia uttered. “It’s not fair. I can’t let it happen.”

Mark—whose given name was Marcus—was Sylvia’s grandson. Ivy’s great-nephew. And Zoey’s cousin. His second wife had recently divorced him and Zoey figured that was what Sylvia meant was unfair. The old woman had always doted on her only grandchild, so Zoey understood it must have been upsetting for her to realize not every woman thought the sun rose and set on Marcus Winslow III. Struggling to say something that was honest yet kind, Zoey resorted to one of the platitudes she’d often heard Sylvia use.

“Sometimes, these things have a way of working out for the best for everyone.” Especially for his wife.

“No, no. That boy can only take so much.” Sylvia wiggled her head back and forth against the pillow, clearly agitated. “Enough is enough.”

Zoey gently pulled her hand free to smooth down her aunt’s flyaway hair, vaguely aware of how self-conscious Sylvia was about her appearance, even now, at eighty-four. “He can take it. He’s a lot stronger than you think.” Some might even say he’s a bully.

“What about Zoey? She’s such a dear girl. I’m concerned about her.”

“She’ll be fine. She’ll find another job soon.”

“What if she doesn’t? She’s lost all of her savings and she can’t pay her mortgage. Where will she live?”

Zoey’s breath caught. She had told her great-aunts she’d been laid off from her job as a librarian when the city closed the branch where she worked, but how had Sylvia found out that she’d lost her savings and was on the brink of losing her townhome? Zoey hadn’t wanted to burden her aunts by telling them that the guy she’d been seeing for the past year, a financial planner, had risked—and blown—all of her savings in a series of investments that turned out to be just shy of illegal. And she was too ashamed to admit she hadn’t even realized what he’d done until she tried to withdraw money from her depleted retirement funds to pay her mortgage.

Guessing that her aunt must have overheard her ranting about it on the phone to her friend, Lauren, she pleaded, “I know you’re worried about me, Aunt Sylvia, but Aunt Ivy can’t find out about that yet. She’ll get upset and stress is bad for her heart. When the time is right, I’ll talk to her about it. Meanwhile, please promise you won’t tell her.”

Upon hearing Zoey call her aunt, Sylvia opened her eyes and blinked in apparent surprise. Then she knitted her brows together, agreeing, “You’re right. It’ll be our secret.”

“Thank you.” As her aunt’s eyelids fell shut again, Zoey stood to leave.

But Sylvia added in a raspy voice, “For now, it’s best to let the past stay buried in the past… beneath the roses.”

What does that mean? Although her aunt’s health had been improving, Zoey wondered if she was feverish again. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. No, no fever…Yesterday, right before dozing off, she’d rambled on and on about dancing in the stars. When she woke, she had no recollection of having said anything and they concluded she’d been dreaming. Maybe she was only semi-awake now, too.

Zoey waited. When Sylvia didn’t say anything else, she straightened her posture and tiptoed across the room toward the heavy old door, slightly ajar. Aware it would creak if she opened it any farther, Zoey turned sideways to ease across the threshold. Before she left, she impulsively stopped to glance back at the bed and whisper, “I love you, Auntie. Sleep well.”

After escorting an elderly funeral guest to her car, Zoey Jansen paused on the sidewalk to appreciate the contrast of vibrant red, yellow and orange tulips against the white picket fence. Her aunt Sylvia had been an accomplished gardener and tulips were always her favorite spring flower. She had planted them around the perimeter of the yard and in abundant bunches in front of the stately sea-captain’s home her sister-in-law Ivy owned and where she herself had lived for most of her adult life.

It’s too bad she didn’t get to see them bloom this year, Zoey thought. She quickly dabbed the corner of her eye. She couldn’t start crying. Not yet. Maybe after all the mourners had left and the food had been put away and she’d made a kettle of tea and consoled her great-aunt Ivy. And after Zoey had persuaded her to go to bed early and then had sat beside her in the dark, chatting about nothing in particular until she drifted off to sleep, the way she’d done every night for the past week so her elderly relative wouldn’t feel so lonely. Maybe then Zoey would creep down the hall to her own room and allow herself to have a good cry. But not now.

As she unlatched the gate to follow the walkway to the front door, a burst of raucous laughter rose from the side of the house. What could possibly be so hilarious at a funeral reception? Worried that someone who’d had too much to drink might be about to drive home, Zoey changed course and continued down the sidewalk toward the brick driveway.

Scanning the area in front of the detached garage, which was once a carriage house, she saw four or five men, drinks in hand. Zoey had met a couple of them at the church; they were islanders who went to high school with Mark the year he stayed with Sylvia and Ivy after his father died. Apparently, when his buddies learned about the funeral, they took advantage of the opportunity to reunite with him. She’d overheard two of them planning a golf tournament for the next day while they worked their way down the buffet table, piling their plates high with shrimp and cocktail quiches and cheesecake. Now, they clustered around her square-jawed, golden-haired cousin, paying rapt attention as he dominated the conversation. That would explain the ruckus.

A sweetly pungent odor tickled her nose and she noticed Mr. Witherell, the town’s notorious eccentric, leaning on his cane and smoking a pipe in the back yard. Zoey hoped her great-aunt Ivy didn’t smell it; pipe tobacco reminded her of her long-departed father, and she was distraught enough already.

“Now that Sylvia’s deceased, it won’t be long before Ivy goes. She’s not going to be able to handle the loneliness.”

Mark was talking so loudly that Zoey could hear his appalling remark clear at the other end of the driveway. She set her jaw and made a beeline for him. Or as straight a beeline as she could make, given that her heels were blistered from her new shoes and the brick terrain was slightly uneven in spots.

“Who will get the house?” a redhead with his back to Zoey asked. He was the one who’d been talking about going to the golf club earlier.

“You’re looking at him.” As Ivy’s oldest blood relative, her great-nephew Mark was next in line to inherit the estate, in accordance with the will Ivy’s father had drawn up years ago that ensured the house would always stay within the family.

“You going to sell it or move here and live in it yourself?”

“Unfortunately, it has to remain in the family, otherwise I’d sell it in a heartbeat and retire tomorrow,” Mark answered, rubbing his thumb and fingers together to indicate how wealthy he’d be.

Although Ivy’s house wasn’t nearly as grand as the other homes—some were mansions, really—overlooking the harbor, the land it was situated on was worth a mint. Last in a row of residences built on the southern end of the village’s one-sided Main Street, Ivy’s was the highest on the hill and it afforded the best vantage points. From the front was a panoramic view of the harbor and bay. From the back, it looked out over a shallow valley of modest cottages interspersed among sprawling summer residences, and four miles beyond that, the glittering open ocean.

But it was the widow’s walk on top of the house that offered an unparalleled perspective. Accessed through a trapdoor in the attic, the balustraded, open-air platform provided a three hundred and sixty degree vista of awe-inspiring beauty; the whole of Dune Island and its surrounding waters. So Mark was right; he could have earned a bundle one day if he were permitted to sell his inheritance. Fortunately, he wasn’t.

“There’s no way I’m relocating from Boston to Benjamin’s Manor,” he continued, referring to the quaint, historic fishing village, one of the five towns on Dune Island that collectively comprised Hope Haven. “I plan to lease this place out to corporations for executive retreats. Obviously, I’ll have to make major renovations first, but the investment will pay for itself in no time. Especially if Ivy goes before summer begins.”

Zoey couldn’t quite believe how openly callous Mark was being about their great-aunt’s future death. Just as she got close enough to ask him to kindly lower his voice, a tall, dark-haired man facing in her direction greeted her with a cordial hello. The other men immediately whipped their heads around to see who had come up behind them. The tall guy nudged his way through them until he stood directly in front of her, blocking everyone else from her range of view.

“We haven’t met… I’m Nick.”

Momentarily sidetracked from her mission, Zoey reflexively shook his hand. Nick who, from where? she wondered as she peered into his hooded, deep-blue eyes. She noticed that his heavy brows, like his hair, were flecked with gray and she guessed he was about the same age as her cousin. Another pal from high school? Mark liked to be considered the best-looking person in the room, and this guy was a lot more attractive than he was. Which meant if they were friends, there must have been something about him that was useful to Mark. That was just the way he operated.

Zoey was about to let go of his hand when he leaned forward, bringing his mouth nearly level with her left ear, and softly said, “Your aunt Sylvia spoke very fondly of you. It was clear how special you were to her. I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Thank you. Two words. She had been saying those two words all afternoon. All week. It was all she needed to say now, too. But as Nick’s cool, strong hand enveloped her sweaty one and his condolence resonated deep within her heart, Zoey was tongue-tied. Aunt Sylvia was very special to me, too, she replied silently. She could feel herself faltering, emotionally and physically. Dipping her chin, she inadvertently pressed her forehead against his chest. Nick must have thought she wanted a hug because he lifted his other hand and patted her back. To Zoey’s dismay, his unexpected gesture caused a smattering of tears to bounce down her cheeks. Oh, please, not now, she thought, panicking. Not here. Not in front of them.

She jerked her head upright and pulled her hand from his to whisk her face dry with her fingertips. Nick quickly dropped his arms to his sides and she noticed several wet circles darkening his gray tie. Embarrassed, she stepped around him and addressed her cousin as neutrally as she could manage through more tears that were still threatening to fall.

“Could you please lower your voice so Aunt Ivy doesn’t hear you talking about that?”

The redhead who had been questioning Mark about the house kicked at a pebble and the other two guys studied the labels on their beer bottles. At least they had the good sense to act chagrined. Unlike Mark, who took a long, slow pull from his drink and then crudely smacked his lips.

“So Ivy doesn’t hear us talking about what?”

The year he turned sixteen, Mark started referring to and addressing their great-aunt by her first name, as if they were peers, instead of calling her Aunt Ivy. Now that he was forty-one, it didn’t seem quite as disrespectful, but it still grated on Zoey’s nerves whenever he said it—an annoyance which probably had more to do with his superiority complex than with whether or not he used the title, aunt.

“About her…” Even though they were at a funeral reception, it seemed strangely inappropriate to use the word “death,” so Zoey repeated Mark’s euphemism. “About her going. What if one of the windows had been open?”

The rest of the men were furtively dispersing, but Mark stood his ground, wearing an amused expression. “If one of the windows had been open, I wouldn’t have had to come outside in eighty-five-degree weather to cool off.”

Eight months of the year, Sylvia or Ivy complained about how cold they were. They didn’t turn the heat down until the end of April and didn’t put window screens in until late May. So even though today was unseasonably warm, the windows remained shut. But that wasn’t Zoey’s point and Mark knew it.

“Someone could have opened the back door and Aunt Ivy could have heard you.”

“So what? I’ve already spoken to her about it.”

Zoey struggled to keep her volume low. “You talked to Aunt Ivy about her dying?”

“Dying?” Mark guffawed. “Who mentioned anything about her dying? I said she would probably be going soon.” Mark looked at Zoey as if she were the one who had zero sensitivity. She felt foolish for misinterpreting his comments but his response begged another question.

“Going where soon?”

“To an assisted living facility. I think it would be advantageous for her.”

Zoey was taken aback; her aunt had never mentioned anything about moving anywhere, especially not to an assisted living facility. “How would it be advantageous? She loves this house and she’s managing fine on her own. When I’m not here, Carla comes twice a week to clean and Aunt Ivy still enjoys cooking for herself. And the cardiologist said her heart condition is treatable with medication.”

Now it was Mark’s turn to look puzzled. “Ivy has a heart condition?”

Me and my big mouth. “Yeah, she has occasional chest pain. It’s called angina. But Dr. Laurent said she’s in good health for someone who’s eighty-seven, especially considering her medical history.”

Ivy had had non-Hodgkin lymphoma when she was in her early sixties. It recurred twice, but she’d been cancer-free since she turned seventy. And until she was eighty, she routinely walked two miles a day. She also watched her weight, never smoked and rarely drank. It was only during the past five or six years that she’d slowed down a little—but she was nowhere near stopping.

“Her physical health might be okay. But up here…?” Mark tapped his temple.

“What are you talking about? She has all her mental faculties.”

“Then why didn’t she turn the gas burner off a couple weeks ago?”

She was surprised Ivy had told him about her recent oversight, considering how vexed she’d been by it. Zoey hadn’t been there when it happened; she’d gone back to Rhode Island for a few days to collect documents to file her taxes. But according to her aunt, if the carpenter who was tightening the staircase banister hadn’t happened to smell gas, Ivy, Sylvia, and Moby —their gray, seventeen-pound, thirteen-year-old tabby cat—all would have perished. Since the gas had only been on for a few minutes and Ivy would have smelled it eventually, Zoey was reasonably sure that was an exaggeration, but her aunt had bemoaned her error for days.

“How did you hear about that?”

“I do check in from time to time to see how they’re doing, you know. You’re not the only one who cares about them.” Mark scowled and averted his eyes.

That was as close as Zoey had ever heard him come to expressing… well, not love, but at least concern about Ivy and Sylvia. She realized she ought to go a little easier on him. If she’d heard her aunts say it once, she’d heard them say it a hundred times, Mark isn’t good at demonstrating affection, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.

“I appreciate that you’re concerned about her,” she acknowledged. “But Aunt Ivy didn’t leave the gas on because she’s experiencing symptoms of dementia. She just didn’t click the knob into place all the way—probably because of her arthritis.”

Actually, it was probably because the knob was difficult to twist. The major appliances in her home—and a couple of the downstairs rooms—could have done with some updating but Zoey wasn’t going to admit that to Mark. From what she’d just overheard, he already wanted to overhaul the entire house and she knew how traumatic that would be for their aunt. “Besides, I always check the burners when she’s done using the stove.”

“Exactly. So what’s going to happen once you leave?”

“I-I’m planning to stay a while longer.”

“How can you do that? What about your job?”

Zoey was relieved but not surprised her aunts hadn’t told Mark that she’d been laid off; Sylvia and Ivy had always been tight-lipped about anything that Zoey or Mark mentioned to them in confidence. So he must have thought she’d been taking family medical leave to care for Sylvia, and Zoey was fine with letting him believe that. Losing her job wasn’t her fault, but that wouldn’t stop Mark from gloating. The fact that he’d only been in his current role as a pharmaceutical sales rep for a year and would probably quit or get fired within another six months, the way he usually did, was irrelevant. He’d make wisecracks if he found out she’d been unemployed for five months and she wasn’t in the mood to hear them.

“It’s not a problem,” she hedged. “I can stay as long as Aunt Ivy needs me.”

“You’re just postponing the inevitable, you know. She’s going to have to move eventually.”

You want to bet on it? Zoey thought, but she let his remark slide. She’d challenge him again later if it came to that, but right now she didn’t have it in her to keep sparring with him. When Mark tipped his head back to down the last of his beer, she took advantage of the silence to tell him she was going back inside. But as she turned toward the door, she noticed Mr. Witherell out of the corner of her eye. Apparently he’d finished smoking his pipe and he shuffled toward them, bent at the waist so that his torso and head were angled nearly parallel with the ground as he tapped his cane on the brick driveway.

The old man had been the village’s lighthouse keeper until all the lighthouses on Dune Island became automated in the seventies and he was forced into an early retirement. He now lived in a rundown shack of a dwelling on a little patch of land in the lowest-lying area in Benjamin’s Manor. His house was considered such an eyesore by the village’s summer elite that several of them united and offered to pay to relocate him so they could raze the building. When he refused, they counter-offered to rehabilitate his home, inside and out. Again, no deal. He did, however, allow them to build and maintain a white, eight-foot wooden privacy fence with a lattice topper and lockable gate. Anyone driving by the property wouldn’t have guessed his house on the other side was any different from the rest of the houses in the neighborhood; exactly the desired effect.

“Hello, Mr. Witherell. Thank you for coming,” Zoey said, although she knew better than to expect a response.

As a rule, Mr. Witherell didn’t talk any more. He grunted on occasion, or shook his head, but that was it. According to island lore that the school kids had been passing down for years, his jaw rusted shut during the hurricane of 1967. Although some of the adults believed he’d gone deaf, most of them generally assumed that he’d spent so much time alone keeping the lighthouse, he’d lost his social skills, and they tried to accommodate his communication style as best as they could. There were a few less tolerant people who theorized he was so cantankerous it was actually a good thing he didn’t express himself verbally.

Yet Zoey’s aunt said he always showed up for funerals whenever one of the old-time islanders passed away. Regardless of the season, he wore the same wool single-breasted suit, a relic from the fifties that was so faded it appeared charcoal instead of black. But beneath the cuffs of his short-cut, pleated trousers, his toe-cap shoes were polished to a shine. To Zoey, that small detail demonstrated a world of respect for the deceased. She tried to reciprocate her regard for Mr. Witherell by speaking to him as she would have spoken to any other guest, whether or not he heard or answered her.

Mark, on the other hand, fanned his nose and scoffed as the old man passed by, “If you want to keep your title as Dune Island’s oldest year-round resident, you might consider giving up that pipe.”

“Mark!” Zoey hissed, “That’s rude.”

Mark sneered, “The old salt is deaf.”

As if on cue, Mr. Witherell stopped short and spat on the grass. Staring at the ground, he asked Mark, “Who do you think you are?”

Zoey was absolutely dumbfounded to hear his voice, which sounded as if he was gurgling pebbles in the back of his throat. But his tone wasn’t one of indignation, the way people usually sounded when they asked that question. It was more like a straightforward inquiry. And he appeared to be waiting for a response, which meant he certainly wasn’t deaf. She glanced over at Mark to see what he’d do next.

At first, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. But when Mr. Witherell didn’t leave, he snickered before announcing slowly and loudly, “I’m. Marcus. Winslow. The. Third.”

Mr. Witherell pulled out a handkerchief and swiped it across his mouth. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said. Then he shoved the kerchief back into his pocket and continued down the driveway.

Red-faced, Mark immediately cursed him out, while Zoey stood there wondering, What was that all about? Mr. Witherell had undoubtedly been the object of far ruder remarks over the years, but as far as she knew, no one ever reported hearing him say anything in response. Why today? Was he finally fed up? Or was there something about Mark in particular that made him lash out? It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had been offended by her cousin’s boorishness, but casting doubt on his identity was more of a slam against his mother than against Mark. Or it would been, if it weren’t utterly ridiculous.

Oh—I get it, Zoey suddenly realized. Mark is such a snob about being a Winslow that Mr. Witherell was deliberately attacking his point of pride to get a reaction.

It worked: his taunt had made Mark fuming mad and he ended his tirade by saying, “Somebody should have had that guy committed half a century ago.”

“I admit that was odd. But I wonder why—”

Just then, the back door opened and Helen, one of Ivy and Sylvia’s acquaintances from the church they’d attended when they were in better health, tottered down the back steps hugging a large vase of white lilies. “I’m not absconding with these,” she said, peering around the blooms. “Ivy insisted I take them because they make her sneeze. She wrapped goodies for me to bring home, too, but my car is parked down the street so I’ll have to come back for them.”

“I can help you,” Zoey offered, taking the vase. While Helen was inside retrieving the goodies, Mark told Zoey he was going to say goodbye to Ivy and then he intended to take off.

“Already?” she questioned, since he had just arrived on the island that morning. She assumed he was going to spend at least one night there.

“Yeah. Check-in is at four.”

“You’re not staying at the house?”

“Nah. I’d suffocate in there. I booked a room at The Harborview.”

Of course. Only the best resort for Mark Winslow III. Knowing him, he was charging his lodging to his company’s account and claiming it was a business expense. “Are you coming back here at all tomorrow?” Or will that interfere with your golf schedule?

“Yeah. I’ll be on the island for a few days.”

“Okay. See you later.”

As Zoey and Helen inched halfway down the hill in the direction of the harbor, Helen apologized for walking so slowly, explaining, “I’ve put on quite a few pounds over the winter.”

“That’s okay—I’m wearing new. . .