Hope Creek

Book 6: New Americana Series

by Janet Dailey

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Old rivalries, new ventures, and long-lost loves converge in the latest novel in New York Times bestselling author Janet Dailey’s New Americana series, as the daughter who once walked away from the dark chaos of her childhood returns to her Lowcountry hometown, hoping to put the past to rest …
For Kit Teague, the island of Hope Creek, South Carolina, is filled with joyful memories of being out on the water with her beloved father. But her small hometown is also the place where her mother battled mental illness—and lost.
Returning home to put her mother to final rest, Kit discovers a family divided by grief—and wounds so deep her twin sister has turned against their father—and Kit. Not only has Viv moved up the creek to join a rival fishing business, she’s barricaded herself behind Beau Sutton, the boy
Kit once loved from afar. The man who stirs something deep within Kit even now …
Amid old-fashioned oyster roasts, starlit outings on the creek and sun-drenched fishing expeditions, Kit finds hope for a new life and renewed love. Neither the whispered scandals of the past nor the rift between their families will keep her from discovering the joy she and Beau can share …

Release date: November 29, 2022

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Kit Teague preferred the company of strangers. Impersonal greetings and casual farewells kept smiles rising easily to her lips during the day and lulled her racing thoughts at night. Working in a mountain town, amid the cheerful buoyancy of tourists and high panoramic views, had loosened the cold fear that had gripped her heart for the past fifteen years.

But there were no strangers or mountains on the island of Hope Creek, South Carolina. Just the prying eyes of locals, flat ground steeped in salt water, and the pungent scent of decay.

“Can’t take it with you.”

Kit glanced down at the older woman who slumped on the edge of the Hope Creek Water Taxi dock. One of her scrawny legs dangled over a wood plank, her turquoise-polished toenails skimming the water’s surface. A small boat was tied up nearby.

Lou Ann Cragg . . . midfifties by now, with a penchant for bar fights, if Kit recalled correctly.

“That car o’ yours,” Lou Ann clarified, looking up at her. She pointed a crooked finger at Kit’s white sedan, sitting sedately beneath a palmetto tree on the cracked asphalt of the small parking lot. “Can’t take it to the island.” She shook her head. “No, ma’am. No bridge, no causeway. Only way to that island from here this late in the day is on my boat, and it ain’t gonna haul no car.”

Kit slid her hand in her pocket and gripped her keys. Squeezed them tight until the sharp teeth bit into the soft flesh of her palm. “I know.”

And it was a shame, really. Her car had always been the best place to cry.

“Wait, you one of them Teague girls, ain’t you?” Lou Ann lifted a cigarette, burned almost to the butt, took a slow drag, then released a curl of smoke, which escaped on the humid late afternoon wind. “One of them twins, right?”

Kit’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

Lou Ann narrowed her puffy eyes, studied Kit’s face, shiny hair, unwrinkled dress suit with a two-button jacket and high-heeled shoes—then smirked. “Fancy.” She took another drag. “Well, you ain’t the sorry one, that’s for sure. Must be the one that took off.” She tipped her chin. “Where’d you land?”

Kit bit her tongue and focused on her white sedan. She didn’t remember much about Lou Ann, but she did know Lou Ann had lived a harder life than anyone should have to endure, her only luxuries cold beer and recycled jokes. “Highlands.”

“The who?”

“Highlands. It’s a town in North Carolina, in the southern Appalachians.”

Lou Ann grinned, glee dripping from her stained teeth. “So you done gone from up high right back down to low, huh?”

Mud caked the sedan’s bumper. No surprise, Kit thought, considering the five-hour drive she’d undertaken down the interstate and pot-holed back roads this morning from Highlands to Beaufort County. She’d have the car ferried to the island next week and wash it dow—

“You drag yourself back to bury your mama?”

Stiffening, Kit pinned her gaze to Lou Ann’s hazel eyes. Deep crow’s-feet were carved at the edges, and Lou Ann’s cheeks—once high and full—had sunken in, the ruddy skin drooping toward her angled jaw. “That’s none of your business. Though I will say, I didn’t drive all the way back down here just to listen to you denigrate my family. My sister is a better person than most people will ever be. So was my mother.”

Lou Ann’s lip curled. She touched her tongue to her eyetooth, a flash of admiration momentarily brightening her dull eyes. “Put your back down, girl. I didn’t mean nothing by it. What’re you now? Thirty-eight? I remember you and your sister running around in diapers, and I knew your mama well even then.” She sighed, the heavy exhalation sinking beneath the waves lapping against the dock. “Nobody ought to die like Sylvie did—nobody. But at least you got out, even if you had to leave that high place of yours in order to swoop back down to the Lowcountry for her.” She flicked the cigarette butt onto the dock, scattering a spray of red ash, and her gaze roved outward, over the tidal creeks, which snaked a winding trail through tall cordgrass, toward the horizon as she whispered, “Yes, ma’am. Least you got out the Low, baby girl.”

Waves lapped at the dock pilings, and a blue heron, broad wings flapping against the wind, perched on top of a dock piling several feet away. The lanky bird presented its profile, one wide eye trained on Kit, and craned its neck, taking her in.

“Who found her?” Kit asked.

Lou Ann lifted a brow, expression lit with surprise. “Your people didn’t tell you?”

Other than the phone call she’d received from her dad two days ago? The one lasting all of thirty seconds? Royal Teague’s words, delivered in a clipped monotone, had been the only details: She did it. Out in the creek. You can come home now.

Eyes burning, Kit returned the heron’s stare. “No.”

“Your sister. She took a boat out, found your mama floating facedown—hung up on one of them cages—and hauled her in, from what I hear.”

Kit flinched. The heron squawked, sprang up, and flapped its wings toward the sun lowering in the distance.

Bile rising, she swallowed hard before speaking. “A cage?”

Lou Ann frowned and looked away. She lifted one hip, dug around in her back pocket, and withdrew a crumpled cigarette pack. “You mind? Only got one left, and it tastes better out here. Last ride on a Friday—ain’t no one else coming. And we got time to make it there ’fore dark.” She tilted the pack toward Kit and issued a small smile. “I’ll share.”

Coming from Lou Ann, the offer was a fourteen-karat gold-plated truce. Her best—and only—kindness.

Kit bent, retrieved the lone cigarette, and sat beside Lou Ann. She used Lou Ann’s lighter, sparking a flame with shaky, out-of-practice fingers, then closed her eyes and drew deeply, filling her nose and lungs with warm smoke, clouding her habit-free heart.

The memories came slowly. In pieces.

Her mother’s hand in her hair, braiding each strand. Knuckles brushing her nape and a salty night breeze tickling her bare knees. Chirps of crickets and a chorus of tree frogs. Her mother’s loose embrace, a deluge of stale smoke, the sharp scent of whiskey, and a slurred refrain: Tomorrow I’ll be better. I’m still in here. I’m still in here....

Kit passed the cigarette to Lou Ann. “My mama loved these,” she whispered after releasing her smoky breath in slow degrees.

“Been awhile, huh?”

“Fifteen years.” And she’d left behind so much more....

They sat silently, staring as the setting sun painted the sky and sea gold, listening to the rustle of cordgrass and the rhythmic lap of the sea against the bobbing boat and still dock, the tide dragging the same waters out, then shoving them back in, constantly moving but never going anywhere.

Kit closed her eyes. A low roaring sound filled her ears, and the dock seemed to shift beneath her. She leaned forward and braced her elbows on her knees. “I loved my mother.”

Lou Ann’s callused fingers brushed her arm. “I never said you didn’t.”

The words were low and comforting, but the heavy silence that followed spoke louder. Kit opened her eyes and focused on the water rippling below, her sister’s voice—along with so many others—returning, as it often had over the years: If you loved her, you would’ve stayed. You got no family now.

Lou Ann offered up the cigarette again. When Kit shook her head, Lou Ann shrugged and proceeded to finish it off, the bright golden light of the sun flooding the harsh, world-weary angles of her familiar face.

She cocked her head to the side and squinted. “You sure you wanna go back?”

“Yes.” She’d thought of little else over the past fifteen years. Throat closing, Kit bit her lip. “Have you seen my sister?”

“Since it happened?”

Kit nodded.

“Nah. But me and Viv never got on too well.” Lou Ann blew out a cloud of smoke, then stubbed the cigarette butt on a wood plank. “She’s around, though. Usually hanging on to Beau pretty tight.”

“Beau?” Kit curled her hands tight around the edge of the dock, the sun-warmed boards hot to the touch. “Beau Sutton?”

Blond, handsome heir to the Sutton family’s abundant wealth and upstanding reputation. A captivating boy, two years Kit’s senior, whom she and Viv had admired from their neighboring deepwater dock in Hope Creek. The few exchanges Kit had had with him over the years had been brief and stilted—their fathers’ rivalry unconducive to the formation of anything more.

Last time she’d seen Beau, he’d been standing arm in arm with his new wife on the end of the Suttons’ dock, their faces tipped toward the night sky, each colorful burst of fireworks highlighting their wide smiles and elegant wedding attire, as the small crowd filling the dock behind them cheered. The next morning the pair had left the island on a boat decorated with yellow jessamine.

Six months later, Kit had packed her bags and left, as well.

“Yep.” Lou Ann stood and untied the dock line of her small boat from a piling. “Beau moved back into his dad’s place two years ago, and your sister’s been staying at that Sutton mansion for over a year now.”

Kit stiffened. Viv? Living with the Suttons? Hanging on to married Beau? “But—”

“Look.” Lou Ann held up a hand. “Lot’s changed since you left. Get on the boat. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Kit clenched her fists around her overnight bag and lifted her face into the swift pound of wind as Lou Ann’s boat sped across the water. Though years had passed since she’d last traveled these waters, the sight and feel of them remained the same: the rhythmic lift and lowering of the boat over soft waves, the pungent scent of pluff mud on the salty breeze, and the golden kiss of the setting sun against the rippling Atlantic in the distance.

Heart momentarily lightening, Kit sat up straighter and craned her neck, seeking out the familiar shape of Hope Creek Island as it emerged into view. Soft lights, each one illuminating a dock leading to a dense thicket of trees, glowed in the dusk amid tall cordgrass and sprawling live oaks hung with Spanish moss.

A bittersweet tenderness pulsed in Kit’s biceps with the remembered fatigue of long, sun-soaked days of shrimping and harvesting wild oysters with Royal. The satisfaction of a hard day’s work mixed with the energetic buzz of pride at having increased the profit of the family business had provided a welcome escape from troubles that plagued both of their hearts most days back then.

For a moment, she wished she could roll back time to her lithe teenage years, board Royal’s shrimp trawler, return her dad’s wide smile, and reclaim that faint trace of hope in the clean sea air. Hope that Sylvie would find her way back.

“Money’s floating down the Ditch pretty regular now,” Lou Ann called over her shoulder, her brown hair whipping in the wind. “That’s what brung ’em out.”

Kit frowned at Lou Ann. Money floating down the Ditch was nothing new—the Intracoastal Waterway had always been popular with wealthy home buyers seeking the enviable waterfront views and pristine beaches along the untarnished coast of Hope Creek Island. And the frequent arrival of wealthy guests vacationing at the high-priced Hope Creek Resort on the opposite end of the island was nothing new, but . . .

“Brought what out?” she asked.

Lou Ann steered the boat to the left, pointed its nose toward the mouth of Hope Creek, and slowed to a crawl through the deep water. “Them.”

Them consisted of twenty or so trawl lines stretched along the deepest recess of Hope Creek, with floating cages strung at even intervals. Seagulls, perched on each buoy, cocked their heads and eyed the boat warily as it approached.

Kit leaned to the side, her stomach dipping, as water rippled around the wire frames half-submerged along the creek’s surface. Dark outlines of mesh bags were just visible. “An oyster farm?”

Lou Ann nodded. “Singles. A buck each, and them oysters get eaten faster than they can grow ’em.”

“Who’s they?” Kit asked. As the sun lowered behind live oaks, the solid lines of the cages blurred, morphing into soggy shadows lurking in the dusk, littering the natural beauty of the tidal creek.

Lou Ann gestured toward the left side of the creek, about seventy-five feet away, where festive lights strung along the metal railings of a deepwater dock emerged, twinkling amid soft music and distant laughter. “Suttons. Beau and his dad, in particular.” Lou Ann glanced over her shoulder again and cocked an eyebrow. “Your sister, too.”

Kit bristled, struggling to imagine it. To even conceive of it. “Viv’s been working for the Suttons? And living with them?”

Viv should be at home, working with Dad for the family business. Lord knew, Kit had sent enough money each month over the past fifteen years to keep Teague’s Seafood afloat, and Viv had cashed every one of the checks. Viv’s signature—scrawled in angry spikes on the endorsement line—had always been accompanied by varied phrases marked with an asterisk: *Guilt money. *Shame. *Selfish.

What had Beau said to draw Viv away? What state of mind had she been in to even contemplate going? And Mackey . . . Who was taking care of him?

“Pearl Tide Oyster Company’s what they call it,” Lou Ann said. “Beau’s dad spearheaded it, but Beau and Viv are the muscle behind it. Viv’s been helping them Suttons siphon away your daddy’s business for two years now.” She hesitated, glancing at the last trawl of floating cages as they passed. “That’s how Viv found your mama. She was out here the other morning, tending to those cages. Your mama had killed h—” She waved a hand in the air, her cheeks reddening. “Had passed away hours earlier by your dad’s dock, then had drifted, from what I hear. Her sleeve caught on one of them cages. Kept her from floating off any farther.”

Stomach heaving with each roll of water beneath the boat, Kit spun away from the trawl line. She tossed her bag on the seat, shoved herself to her feet, and wrapped a shaky hand around the guardrail. Glancing up from beneath her lashes, she focused on the dark, weather-worn dock located several feet beyond the Suttons’ brightly lit one. Royal’s shrimp trawler and oyster boat looked forlorn.

“How much do I owe you?” Her lips felt numb. Barely moved.

“Nothing.” Lou Ann’s tone had turned hard. She stopped the boat, its side bumping the wooden dock.

Kit hefted her overnight bag in one hand, grabbed one of the dock pilings, and sprang out of the boat and onto the dock, breath bursting from her lips at the satisfying clack of her high heels on the wood planks.

“Baby girl,” Lou Ann called.

Kit stilled.

Dusk shrouded Lou Ann’s features, a spectral glint in her eyes the only clearly visible detail. “Don’t lower your eyes for no one but God. It’s what your mama would’ve wanted.”

Kit watched Lou Ann leave, listened to the slosh of water against the boat until it morphed into a dark blot in the distance, melding with the black sprawl of oak limbs and thick brush along the bank, water rippling in its wake.

The dark depths of the creek seemed to reach out, and the tang of salty air hit her tongue. A throbbing in her temple intensified. She unclenched her teeth and flexed her jaw, then walked up the long dock as night fell. Hope Creek’s evening chorus rose from the murky depths below the dock, the rhythmic pulse of crickets and frogs emerging from the sticky mud and thick cordgrass, echoing against the trees, mingling with the music drifting from the Suttons’ expansive property.

She barely recognized the backyard of her family home, Teague Cottage, when she reached it. Dense grass, tall enough to cling to her knees, had swallowed the stone firepit and Adirondack chairs she remembered, had choked the shrubs she’d planted, and had ensnared the picket fence she’d driven into the ground along the back deck years ago. Only a speck of yellow jessamine, her mother’s favorite, managed to peek through the tangled overgrowth.

Kit gritted her teeth, flinched as the edge of a molar cut into her tongue, and trudged through the tangle of wild grass until she reached the screened-in front porch.

The outer door was locked. She pulled her keys from her pocket, sifted through them, and tried the house key she’d carried for fifteen years, but it no longer fit.

“Dad!” She pounded on the screen door with her fist, and the weak screen mesh dented beneath her assault. The inner hardwood door remained closed. “I’m home. Open up.”

She glanced around. The dim front porch light struggled to illuminate the even more overgrown front yard. A rusty truck slumped in the dirt driveway, and a metal bat had been abandoned beside a battered mailbox that barely lifted its head above the weeds, the wood post supporting it almost broken in half, graffiti emblazoned on the mailbox’s metal side: wild cat.

Cheeks blazing, Kit pounded on the screen door again.

A soft creak broke through the vicious buzz in her ears. Her fist froze inches from the screen as the inner door swept open and a man, large spoon in one hand, wearing a collared shirt and tie, khaki shorts, and no shoes, emerged.

Kit dropped her bag on the front steps and sagged against the screen door. “Mackey.”

Her brother squinted and stepped closer, a broad smile flashing across his face. It died almost instantly, and his hand, having lifted toward the screen door, dropped back to his side. “You don’t live here no more.”

Kit sucked in a slow breath. “I know. I haven’t . . .”

She pressed her lips together and studied his face, searching for any hint of neglect but finding—thankfully—only telltale creases of age beside his mouth and below his eyes. He hadn’t changed much. She’d mailed a birthday card five months ago. He’d turned thirty.

A deep ache spread through her as she pressed her palms and forehead to the screen. “It’s good to see you, Mackey. I missed you.”

A blush bloomed along his neck. “Missed you, too.”

Kit smiled, the tight coil of her muscles easing slightly. “Are you . . . are you doing okay?”

He nodded, his gaze drifting over her hair, clothes, and shoes, then settling on the overnight bag on the step below her.

“Dad called me,” she said. “So I packed a bag and came home. Where is he?”

Mackey jabbed the spoon in the air, pointing toward the left side of the house. “Napping. He was very, very tired.” He looked away, moisture glistening along his lashes. “That’s what he said—very, very tired. I’m making him dog cheese. For when he gets up. He’ll be hungry.”

Kit’s smile faded. “How long has he been sleeping?”

Mackey frowned. Rubbed his forehead. “Since last night.”

“I need to talk to him. And I need to see Viv. Will you please let me in, Mackey?”

He shook his head, his expression contorting, as he stepped toward, then away from the screen door. “Viv said no. She said you don’t live here no more. I’m not supposed to let you in.”

Kit closed her eyes briefly. “How is Viv? Is she here?”

“No.” He jabbed the spoon to the right, toward the music and laughter echoing in the distance. “She at Beau’s.”

“It’s okay to let me in, Mackey. Will you please open the door?”

“I don’t want to.” Accusation entered his eyes. “You left us. You left Mama.”

Kit rattled the locked doorknob once more, then sighed. “Okay. Did Dad—did Dad talk to you? Or Viv? Have they told you anything about Ma—”

A cry burst from Mackey’s lips, and the spoon clattered to the porch floor. “No!” He clapped his palms to his ears and paced. “Don’t say it. Don’t say it!”

Kit pressed closer to the screen, and the tang of metal hit her lips as she whispered, “Okay. I’m sorry, Mackey. I’m so sorry.” Chest burning, she forced herself to pull away from the screen and go back down the steps. “It’s okay,” she said softly, blinking hard. “You go back to what you were doing, all right?”

He stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression crumpling. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Kit forced a smile. “I’m not crying. You didn’t do anything wrong. Mackey, I’m just gonna go for a walk, okay? It’s good of you to take care of Dad,” she said. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. You go back to making him something to eat, . . .