Boardwalk Summer

by Kimberly Fisk

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

In the town of Tranquility Bay, summer is the season of second chances...

Single mother Hope Thompson has built a happy life for herself and her twins in beautiful Tranquility Bay, Washington. She doesn’t dwell on her painful past—especially not on the man who broke her heart all those years ago. But when Hope’s beloved son needs help, she takes a desperate chance and reaches out to her children’s father.

Nick Fortune lives life in the spotlight as a champion race car driver. He’s shocked to hear from Hope and even more surprised to learn that he’s a father. He immediately heads to the Pacific Northwest to confront the past—and the woman he once loved.

There, on the quiet lakeshore, Nick and Hope must work together to save their son—even if it means facing their complicated past—for a second chance as a family.

Release date: June 27, 2017

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2017 Kimberly Fisk

Chapter One

The phone felt heavy in Hope Thompson’s hand. She traced the buttons, unconsciously pausing at the numbers that would soon connect her to a voice she hadn’t heard in nearly sixteen years.

She thought about shutting herself away in a closet. Maybe then, if she was hidden with only darkness surrounding her, this call wouldn’t be so hard to make. But Hope knew that darkness did not shut out memories—if anything, it enhanced them, becoming a large ebony canvas that allowed them to play over and over in her mind until sleep was impossible.

She reached for her cup of tea on the end table next to the sofa and took a sip. It was cold. She was halfway off the couch to reheat it before she stopped. Stalling. That was what she was doing. She sat back down, grabbed the phone, and dialed quickly before she lost her nerve.

“Hello?”

Hope’s grip tightened. Sixteen years. It had been sixteen years since she’d heard her mother’s voice, but it felt as if it were yesterday. “Hello, Mo—Claire.”

There was a long pause and then, “Charlotte, is that you?”

A pain settled in Hope’s chest. Why had she believed her mother would recognize her? “No. It’s me. Hope.”

A faint crinkling drifted across the phone line, and Hope knew it was her mother shifting positions on the sofa’s plastic protector. “Hope?”

“I know, Claire. It’s been a long time.”

After so many years, there should have been a thousand things they had to say to each other. A million tiny details that had filled their lives and the lives of the two grandchildren her mother had never wanted to meet. Instead, Hope didn’t know where to begin—what to say. Should she start with: Your grandchildren’s names are Joshua and Susan, and they are bright and beautiful and make me so proud every day. Or: They will be sixteen in a few months, and they can’t wait to get their drivers’ licenses. Joshua loves football, music, and cars. He has his first steady girlfriend, and I don’t know if that makes me happy or scared. And Susan. She’s everything I wish I could be. She’s confident and smart and funny. She was elected class president, and captain of her soccer team for the second year in a row.

But Hope knew what she should tell her mom was the complete truth: My whole life is about to fall apart for the second time and this time I need you. We need you. Please don’t send us away again.

She was thirty-two years old and still she hesitated, not wanting to face the rejection she knew she’d hear in her mother’s voice. So instead, she heard herself asking, “How have you been?”

“Been good. Been real good except for my garden. With this terrible heat spell we’ve been going through, I should have mulched, that’s what I should’ve done. Sue Ellen down at the Piggly Wiggly told me she was going to mulch but I thought for sure I wouldn’t need to. I got an air conditioner last week. You got one?”

An air conditioner. After all these years, her mother wanted to know if she owned an air conditioner. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, don’t suppose you’d have much use for one up there in the Pacific Northwest. Not with all that rain. Never could understand why anyone would choose to live in a place that rained nine months out of the year.”

“I didn’t choose.”

Claire ignored Hope’s comment, as she had with anything she found unpleasant. “Well now.”

Why had she even bothered to hope that her mother had changed? That small crack in her heart—the old hurt that would never completely heal—wedged open a fraction more. “Aren’t you going to ask about your grandchildren?”

There was a long pause. “My show just got over, Hope. I need to go. If I don’t leave right after the third hymn, I’ll be late to the committee meeting. I made my special pineapple rum cake, though I didn’t add the rum because Pastor Gilbert may stop by. I don’t believe he’d take kindly to us ladies consuming outside of the sacramental wine.”

“Their names are Joshua and Susan.”

“I have to go, Hope.”

“Wait.” Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Please, Mama, I need your help.”

A soft whoosh of air filled the earpiece. “My help?” Another pause. “Well, Hope Marie, you’re a big girl now. I don’t see how I can be of any help. I thought you were doing just fine up there in Washington.”

“We’re not fine.” Hope could feel her entire life crumbling away like a dry sand castle. “My son has leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. The doctors told us our best hope for a match is with a family member.”

Silence filled the phone lines. “Leukemia? I always knew something like this would happen. Didn’t I tell you?”

You keep that baby, Hope Marie, and something bad will happen. You just wait and see. Should have named you Hopeless because that’s what you are—hopeless.

Hope wasn’t seventeen anymore; this time she wasn’t going to let her mother refuse to help.

“What about your other one?” her mother asked. “His sister? Being twins and all, wouldn’t she do?”

Hope swallowed, praying the bitter taste in the back of her throat would go away. “Susan and I aren’t a match.” Did her mother really think Hope wouldn’t have explored every other option before contacting her?

“Well, I just don’t see how I can be of any help. I’m not much for doctors. I couldn’t even go and see Pastor Gilbert’s wife before she passed away, God rest her soul. All those smells and sick people. Really, Hope, you know how they affect me. Besides, don’t they have radiation or something for this? When Hester Pritchett’s second cousin down in Alabama got the cancer, they did something that fixed her right up. I do believe Hester said she lost all her hair but really, Hope, she didn’t go asking her relatives for help. No, I don’t see how I can be of any help.”

Hope gripped the phone so tight she was surprised it didn’t shatter. She kept her voice deadly calm, knowing it was the only way to deal with Claire Montgomery. “Joshua has had chemotherapy, Mother. It didn’t work.”

“Maybe you aren’t taking that boy to the right doctors.”

“My son’s name is Joshua and I have taken him to the very best doctors.”

“There’s no need for that tone with me. All I was saying, maybe you should take him to one of those specialists.”

“We’ve seen the specialists. And they agree that what my son needs is a bone marrow transplant.”

Her mother could ignore Hope all she wanted. She could continue to pretend to her church friends that her only child hadn’t gotten pregnant at seventeen but instead had graduated early and received a full scholarship to some college far, far away. She could go on living that lie, but if she thought for one moment Hope would let her refuse to help her grandson, she was mistaken.

“I still don’t know why you’re calling me when you should be calling that man.”

“What man, Mom?”

An impatient grunt came across the line. “Their father, that’s who. Call him.”

Their father.

For just a moment Hope’s heart ached. “I need all of Joshua’s relatives to be tested. The initial test to see if you are a match is simple. All you have to do is go to your doctor and explain what you need done. I can call him, or I can have Joshua’s doctor call and explain if that would be easier.”

“This is not a problem that concerns Dr. Brown.”

Hope sighed tiredly. “I thought you might feel that way. Joshua’s doctor gave me the name and number of a colleague in St. Paul. Call him, please, and set up an appointment as soon as you can. I will arrange for a taxi to take you.” Hope gave her mother the doctor’s name and telephone number.

“How much will this cost?”

“Don’t worry about the money. If your insurance doesn’t cover it or even if you don’t want to submit the claim, I’ll pay for it. It won’t cost you a cent to see if you can save your grandson.”

Hope had no idea where she’d come up with the money, but she’d find it somehow.

“You know I live on a fixed income. My question isn’t a bit out of line.”

“I know, Mama. I know.”

A heartbeat of silence filled the air. And then another. Enough time to say I’ve missed you or I love you.

When it became apparent her mother wasn’t going to say anything else, Hope said, “Call the doctor—”

The other end of the phone disconnected before Hope could finish.

Wearily, she hung up and leaned back on the sofa. A familiar, queasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and she grabbed the afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her as silence descended once again.

She hated this new reality. A too-quiet house that used to be a home full of teenagers—full of laughter and music and noise. Where the fridge and cupboards were frequently raided and either Susan or Joshua or one of their many friends were asking if she was making her famous enchiladas for dinner again tonight and were there more of those homemade ice cream sandwiches in the freezer?

Now, the house was silent and filled with a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature and where too many days were filled with nothing but Hope’s own thoughts.

Call their father.

Hope pulled the afghan tighter and stared at the phone in her lap. Even before she’d called Claire, she’d known she had one more phone call to make, but she also knew this call would be even harder than the first.

But for her children, she could do anything. She reached for the well-worn magazine and pulled it into her lap. As if by habit, the slick pages slid open to the exact spot she’d been seeking.

A flashy racecar filled the center pages, its black body covered in bright decals. She skimmed the text, not having to read a word, already knowing everything it said. Her eyes continued down the page, across the lengthy column of awards the driver had won and the records he’d broken. It wasn’t until she hit upon a picture of the driver that she stopped.

Nick Fortune.

Sometimes she could go weeks . . . months . . . without thinking of him, but then she’d see him on TV or on the cover of a magazine and her heart would remember what her mind refused to let her forget.

Before she could stop herself, her gaze drifted to the side table where a tabloid magazine’s headline read: Fortune’s Trophies. In the center of the cover was a picture of Nick. Surrounding him were no less than ten beautiful, highly recognizable women. A somewhat smaller caption underneath summarized: Fortune Conquers All.

The magazine and its article were nothing new. Hope had seen such stories about Nick for years. A month or two couldn’t go by before another story about him was plastered all over the Internet or the front pages of the tabloids by the checkout stand. She remembered the first article she’d ever seen about him. It had been just after the twins’ fourth birthday. NASCAR’s’ New Bad Boy. Hope hadn’t had to read very far to get the gist. Nick Fortune was playing fast and loose. And not just on the track.

Her gaze refocused on the article in her lap. In the side margin, written in black ink, was the number she’d researched and found online. She drew in a deep breath and quickly dialed.

After what seemed like an eternity, a woman’s soft, elegant voice answered. “Fortune Enterprises.”

Hope was surprised to hear an actual person on the other end. “Hello. I’m trying to reach Nick Fortune.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fortune is unavailable. Would you care to leave a message?”

Before becoming a teacher, Hope had worked as a secretary to put herself through school. She could spot an automatic “the boss is unavailable” reply in an instant. “I understand you probably receive at least a dozen calls a day from people trying to speak directly with Nick.”

The receptionist laughed softly. “Try fifty.”

Hope shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. “I’m an old . . . friend.” She stumbled, wondered what word would accurately describe their past. “It’s urgent I speak to him. Could you put me on hold and check to see if he’ll take my call?”

“I am sorry.” The receptionist sounded sincere. “But Mr. Fortune is out of the office until next week. If you want to leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

Hope sighed. “Could you please tell him that Hope Thompson—” She stopped, realizing he wouldn’t recognize her by that last name. “Could you please tell him Hope Montgomery called and it’s urgent I speak to him?” She gave the receptionist her home and cell number.

“I’ll make sure Mr. Fortune gets your message when he returns.”

“Thank you. And please. I can’t stress enough how important it is that he return my call.”

Long after she’d hung up the phone, Hope couldn’t help wondering. What made her think this time would be any different? What made her think that now, after sixteen years, Nick would return her call, when he never had all those years ago?

Rockingham wasn’t his favorite racetrack, but it was a hell of a thrill.

Nick Fortune’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel as a fresh surge of adrenaline rushed through his body. His arms burned as he pulled the car down into the corner, laid his foot heavy on the gas, and kept her low on the bank of the turn. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that over a dozen cars stuck to his spoiler, fighting him for the lead.

Right. Left. Right. Left. The steering wheel seesawed. He kept the accelerator floored and eased up only at the last minute—when nothing but pure instinct told him to. He hugged the corner low . . . lower . . . lower still until—BAM! He jumped back on the gas and flew down the straightaway.

“Five laps,” his crew chief, Dale Penshaw, said over the headset.

Nick nodded automatically. He headed hard into turn two. Gravity and a set of tires that were wearing thin pulled him to the outside. He fought to keep the car close to the inside line.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of blue and orange. Number twenty-four, Rick Jarrett, broke away from the pack and tucked in behind.

Nick smiled. The young kid was good—but not good enough. Nick eased down on the accelerator and started to pull away. Jarrett followed him.

They rounded turn four. Nick went high, then wove back down on the track to ward off Jarrett.

A hot wind whipped through the mesh-covered side windows. Grit coated his mouth. Sweat drenched the inside of his helmet and his throat was as dry as chalk.

“Four laps.” Penshaw came across the headset again.

Nick squinted through his dirty visor into the bright rays of the sun. He came off the turn and looked down the backstretch. He knew the fans would be on their feet, their deafening cheers blending with the roar of eight-hundred-horsepower engines.

He kept one eye on the track and one eye on the mirror. The cars blared over the heat-warmed ribbon of gray.

Jarrett began to weave behind Nick. Nick grinned. The kid was looking for his spot. Nick knew he was going to try to use the draft to slingshot past.

They roared by the white flag. One lap left.

With movements so perfectly executed they seemed rehearsed, Nick and Jarrett sped around an oval of pavement. They headed into turn three. Gravity pulled Nick up. He fought to keep the car low and prayed like hell the tires would stick. When Jarrett made his move, he’d have to do it on the outside. The lower line was a fraction faster. There was no way Nick was going to hand over that advantage.

They headed down the final stretch. Jarrett faked to the right. Nick wondered if the young hotshot really thought he’d fall for that old trick. For just a second, he let Jarrett believe he’d fooled him. At the last second, he swerved back down to the inside line and hung on for all she was worth.

Ahead, the checkered flag snapped back and forth.

“Nick. Nick,” Penshaw yelled into the headset. “Twenty-four! Twenty-four is making his move!”

Seconds. It all came down to seconds.

The home stretch was upon them. He shifted out of the turn, kept her low, and hit the gas. The car shot out.

“You got ’em,” Penshaw yelled. “YOU GOT ’EM!” As Nick took the checkered flag.

Life didn’t get any better than this.

Shouts of excitement from Penshaw and the rest of his pit crew filled his headset.

A few minutes later, he spun into the winner’s circle, his tires smoking. A crowd surged forward, hands reaching through the window and clapping him on the back. A black baseball cap with his sponsor’s logo landed in his lap. He took off his hot helmet and put it on.

He eased himself out of the car window to shouts of congratulations and a roar of approval from the stands. The minute his feet hit the ground, it rained champagne.

A loud, distinctively southern whoop of satisfaction rang out. Dale Penshaw fought his way to the front of the crowd, carrying another bottle of champagne. “You did it!” he yelled above the crowd.

Nick grinned as he grabbed his crew chief and slapped him on the back. “You all did it. The car ran like a champ.”

“Thought Jarrett might get the better of you on that last lap.”

“Not even close.”

They laughed as the crowd kept pushing in.

“Number eight, here we come.”

“Don’t jinx us,” Nick said good-naturedly, wiping champagne from his eyes.

“Jinx? Boy, haven’t you heard—you’ve got the Midas touch. Nothing’s gonna stop you. In just a few months, you’re gonna make racin’ history. The only man to win eight NASCAR championships. You’ll be a legend. The best of the best.”

As Nick made his way up the stairs to the winner’s stand, his crew chief’s words echoed in his mind.

The best of the best.

A legend.

As he stood there, surrounded by his friends and fans, he waited for that old feeling of exuberance to overtake him.

But it never came. Not even when they placed the trophy in his hands and the cheers from the crowd grew even more deafening. But it would. Nick was sure of that. Once he clinched the eighth championship he knew that feeling would never leave him again.

Nick looked up from the report he’d been reading to see his secretary, Evelyn Summerfelt, at his office door. Her short gray hair and conservative business suit were in stark contrast to the bright interior of Fortune Enterprises.

“Congratulations,” she said. “Great race yesterday.”

“Thanks.”

Evelyn took off her coat and draped it over her arm. “I didn’t think I’d see you in here today. Monday’s supposed to be a day off for you drivers.”

Nick grinned and tossed his pen onto the desk. “When have I ever done what I was supposed to?”

“Never.” Her smile faded and was replaced with a look of genuine concern. “You really should take some time off. You can’t keep up this pace.”

“I’ll have plenty of spare time in December.”

She gave a soft huff of disbelief. “I’ve worked for you for eight years and not once have I seen you slow down during the off-season.”

“You slack off, you lose.” He leaned forward and grabbed a file from the edge of his desk, ending a discussion he didn’t want to have. Racing was his life, his whole life. Take time off for what?

“I’m expecting a fax on the new restrictor plate requirements,” Nick said after a moment’s pause. “Let me know when it comes in, okay?”

“Restrictor plates? Is that Greek?”

Nick smiled. “After all these years of working for me, you’ve had to have learned something about cars by now.”

“I’ve learned two things. If they don’t start when I turn the key, it’s time to trade them in, and you like your coffee black. It’ll take me just a minute to brew some.”

She was halfway out of the room when Nick’s voice stopped her. “I already made a pot.”

“You know, one of these days you’re going to have to stop being so self-reliant and let me do what you pay me for.”

“You do plenty,” Nick said, and he meant it. “Besides, if I didn’t have you, who’d answer that damn phone that never stops ringing?”

As if on cue, the phone rang. Evelyn laughed as she went to answer it. A few moments later she was back. “That was Dale. When he couldn’t reach you at home, he knew you’d be here. He told me to tell you that since you’re working today, he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“Call him back and tell him to take the day off. God knows he works too hard and doesn’t see his family enough.”

Evelyn gave him a look that didn’t take a mind reader to interpret.

“Just call him,” Nick said.

“Fine. By the way, here are your messages.” She handed him a thick pink stack.

Nick took the stack from her and quickly thumbed through them. “These are all mine? You’d think I’d been gone a year, not a couple of days.”

Evelyn turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, the message on top is from some woman. She called Friday afternoon and said it was urgent you call her back.”

Nick tossed the pile into the corner of his desk. Both he and Evelyn knew what urgent meant. Urgent was some reporter wanting some interview for their next publication or broadcast. There had been hundreds of urgent messages before this one and there would be many more to follow. Ignoring the slips, Nick picked up the report he’d been studying and got back to work.

A half hour later, Evelyn returned. “Here’s the fax you wanted.” She set in on his desk.

“Thanks.” Nick didn’t bother to look up.

It wasn’t until later, when he went to reach for the fax, that he noticed the phone message and the name on top.

Hope Montgomery.

His hand paused midreach.

He read the name again.

Disbelief flooded him. How many years had it been? Fourteen? Fifteen?

No. Sixteen.

It had been sixteen years since he’d last seen her.

He raked a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the windowsill. Hope. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been standing at the bus depot waving good-bye to him as the bus pulled away from the curb. Her face had been swollen and wet with tears.

Once, she’d meant everything to him. He had thought she’d be the one person who’d never lose faith in him. But she had. Just like everyone else, she thought he’d never be more than the son of Jake Fortune, the town drunk. Now, with the distance of time and wisdom of years, he understood what he hadn’t then. She’d been so young. And her mother strong enough to convince Hope she’d end up living in some dirt-water town, married to a bitter drunk with only dreams in his pocket—as Nick’s father had been.

He looked at the note again. At the word urgent. For just a second he toyed with the idea of not returning her call. What was the point in revisiting a past that would never be more than that?

But even as his mind told him one thing, his hand grabbed the cell off the desk and punched in the first number. As he waited for the call to go through, he thought about hitting End, but before the thought could fully formulate, the phone rang.

And rang. And rang. And rang.

At the fifth ring, voice mail clicked on and a woman’s voice came on the line.

Hi. You’ve got the machine, you know what to do.

Hope’s voice? It sounded like her but then it didn’t. It sounded younger, lighter, than he remembered. But then what did he know? Too many years had passed for him to remember clearly. Hadn’t they?

Beeeeep.

He hit End without leaving a message, tossed the note aside, and got back to work. But no matter how hard he concentrated, his eyes and mind kept straying to his phone.

Shortly before noon, Evelyn walked in. “In case you’re gone when I get back from lunch, here’s your week’s itinerary. There’s a separate sheet detailing your endorsement shoot tomorrow.” She put the folder on his desk. “Do you need anything before I head out?”

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, there is something. This message.” He held it up. “The one from the woman who called saying it was urgent. Did she happen to say anything else?”

“No. Only that she was an old friend of yours and it was urgent you contact her. Why? Problems?”

“No.”

He stared down at the note in his hand.

Hope sat back on the heels of her tennis shoes and pushed the damp hair off her forehead. The grit and dirt from her garden gloves felt rough against her skin. Once her garden had been her sanctuary, her place of solace, but not any longer. Now there was no solace to be found. Not when her son was sick. Not when she constantly felt torn, needing to be in several places at once. At work, at home with Susan, and especially at the hospital with Joshua. But this morning, with a bright July sun gilding the yard in a golden glow, Joshua had asked Hope to chill and not rush into the hospital first thing, as was her norm. A group of his friends were going to visit and he wanted space. And with Susan having spent the night at her best friend’s and not due back until later this afternoon, when she and Hope would head to the hospital together, Hope found herself in the unusual position of having time on her hands.

All morning she’d been on edge. She’d stared at her phone until her eyes had blurred, willing it to ring. Just as she’d been willing it to ring all weekend. When it had, the caller had not been one of the two people she was desperate to hear from. She’d tried cleaning to keep busy, but her house was already spotless from too many restless hours. Plus, the silence was unbearable. Even cranking up music hadn’t helped. So she’d escaped to the garden. But as with everything she’d tried, it was an effort in futility.

Last night she’d lain awake, remembering a past she’d tried so hard to forget. Now, all these hours later, she still couldn’t outrun the memories.

She stared at the rose bushes in front of her. A slight breeze brushed against their petals, which had begun to turn brown and curl from lack of water.

The last time she’d been home the roses had been in full bloom and she was seventeen, scared, and standing in her mother’s yard.

You can’t stay here, Hope Marie . . . what would people say . . . you have to go . . . you have to go. . . .

Hope felt an ache in her heart and wondered how after all these years her mother’s rejection could still hurt. But that pain paled in comparison to the heartache caused by Nick’s abandonment.

Hope shivered, suddenly cold. It was almost as if she were seventeen again and in her mother’s living room, racing for the phone every time it rang, praying it would be Nick.

In three months, Hopeful, I’ll be back. I promise. Three months to the date. Wait for me at the courthouse. I’ll be the guy wearing the smile and holding the rings.

For a year after Joshua and Susan’s birth, Hope hadn’t been able to think about Nick without falling apart. But as the years passed, she understood it was easier to walk away from a small-town girl when you were someone like Nick—a man wi