Never Say Never

Book 3: Havenport Romance

by Ruth A. Casie

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Small-town Romance

Synopsis

They both must learn to… never say never.

Pam Dawes has always done what was expected by her high-society parents and friends. Look where that got her. Husband number two is quickly becoming a bad memory. She’s through with men. Never again.

Mikhail Ivanovich Stephanov, doesn’t care what happens to himself—revenge for his family is all that matters.

When a freak storm brings down communications, Pam’s the only one who can help the mysterious Russian who washes up on her dock. Sparks reignite when they realize they’d met years ago. Mik’s more than willing to put his vendetta aside, until Pam becomes the target of the Russian thugs that have infiltrated Havenport’s coast. He’d die to keep her safe.

They’d both sworn to never love again. Will they learn to never say never?

Release date: February 14, 2018

Publisher: Timeless Scribes Publishing

Print pages: 145

Sample

Chapter One

 

“Another great cup of tea. I love spending time and catching up, but I can’t stay for a tea-leaf reading. I spent more time at the gym than I planned doing squats and exercising with fifty-pound weights. With this snow, I want to get home before the roads get bad,” Pam said.

Pam Dawes sat with Marta Aleksandra Valentinovna, the proprietor of the Russian Bear, Havenport’s exotic tea room. Pam swore by Marta’s honey-lavender tea, not the free tea-leaf reading that came with it. Why examine her future? Marta would only confirm what she knew. Bleak. Bland. Empty.

“Oh, no, you don’t. The last time I read your leaves was a year ago, which is much too long. You can spare five minutes for a reading.” Marta drew her black pashmina wrap close. The twinkle in her silver-gray eyes morphed into a solemn expression. For all the jokes about tea-leaf reading, Marta took her work very seriously.

“We have plenty of time. It’s only snow flurries. Humor me. Pick up the cup with your left hand and silently ask your question.”

“I don’t have a question,” Pam said, taking up the cup as instructed.

Marta raised her chin and flashed an icy glare.

“All right.” Don’t offend her. The quicker Marta got the reading over, the quicker she could leave. Was she really a nonbeliever or was she afraid to hear what Marta would find hidden in the tea leaves?

Sitting with Marta, Pam, who worked hard to outwardly give the impression she feared nothing, squirmed in her seat. The reading last year was eerily close to the truth. A lucky guess. That’s all it was. A coincidence, or perhaps the reader had inside information. How else would Marta know the Havenport Historical Society board’s closely held decision? Marta showed no surprise when the board nominated Pam as their next president. The woman had a cat-ate-the-canary smile when Pam told her she’d accepted.

That coincidence could never happen twice.

Pam sighed. A few more minutes with Marta wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps a diversion would get her out of her mood. Her marriage to Merle, husband number two, was over years ago. The legalities lingered, but with the finality only weeks old, she looked back on her marriage and wondered how she’d got into this situation again.

Love wasn’t part of the equation. If anything, it was all calculation. Her rebellious days were tamed, and in the end she did everything according to her social position—married the right man who had the right business acumen and belonged to the right family. As a result, she’d expanded her already extensive bank account and became a prominent personality in Havenport, if not Rhode Island, society.

Her mother said love found people over time. It found Merle…with someone else. Good for him. He was a bastard, but he found his love. As for her? She accepted that love had lost its way where she was concerned.

Just once she wanted to be the object of someone’s attention, not her money or social standing, and have a relationship like her best friend. In love at least, Rachel followed her heart rather than her head.

Heart. Did she have one? It didn’t beat with excitement or anticipation. These days, she raised her heart rate training at the gym for the Tough Mudder challenge. She’d been the weakest person on the team when she started six months ago, and now trained four days a week for the May event. She worked her way out of the training basement and became one of the top two women on the team. Great benefits came with her improved upper-body strength. Made carrying shopping bags so much easier. She coughed over a chuckle.

Pam stared at the small pool of liquid and twigs in the bottom of her tea cup. Her question? Coward. She didn’t have the nerve to ask, and didn’t really want to hear the answer sitting in her heart. She didn’t need a third strike. No. Never again. Her life was fine. She was fine. No longer would she assume the part of the victim. Heroine. That’s the role she wanted.

Bring on the reading. She’d figure out the question later.

With a counterclockwise motion, she swirled her cup three times, then inverted it over her saucer. After a minute, Pam turned the cup upright and handed it to Marta who studied the pattern made by the leaves.

“Notice how the tea leaves scatter in the bowl. There is meaning to where they land on the cup. The rim is the present, the side shows events close at hand, and the bottom the distant future.”

Pam studied the leaves along with Marta, but gave up. Where Marta perceived prophecy, she observed sludge.

“The tea leaves form pictures. Overall, your leaves reveal good fortune. The anchor, palm tree, and triangles.” Marta pointed to the dregs in her cup. “The anchor means success in business or in love.”

“Yes. My attorney congratulated me. My divorce settlement from number two is final. It was a fantastic success. I walked away with my bank account intact,” Pam said.

“Don’t be so sarcastic,” Marta snapped, although a smile smudged her lips. “Palm trees are a positive omen, also success—in anything you do. For single people it means marriage.”

Pam examined the inside of the cup. “Hmm. Triangles. Is there a ménage in my future?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Triangles indicate a boon of some kind.” Marta tilted the cup. “Ah, heart shapes—a lover, and much success. I’ve never seen a grouping of leaves like this. They keep pointing to marriage.”

“Oh, no. Not again. I couldn’t take another marriage. I’m not putting my attorney’s kids through college. This last divorce probably bought him a new Lamborghini.”

Marta ignored her and kept studying the delicate china cup. “I’m not sure if this is the letter M or W,” Marta said.

“Is the M for man and the W for woman? Does that mean my lover could be…”

Marta didn’t rise to Pam’s bait. Instead, she pulled her shawl closer and focused on the contents in the small cup. “No, it represents the first letter of his name, whichever letter it is. The image of the letter sits near the rim. You’ll find out soon.” Marta tipped the cup in another direction. “There also appears to be an aura of crisis closing in on you. Perhaps these small axes hold the answer.”

Pam peered into the cup. All she made out were twigs, lines of them. “Axes? Too late. I divorced Merle, although I contemplated axing off his more manly parts when I found him in a compromising position on the sofa in the boathouse with his secretary.”

The scandal was in black and white in the Havenport Herald, thanks to Candy Apples. Pam took a deep breath and faced the gossip in the newspaper full-on. She had nothing to hide, except Merle’s rejection and deception. They cut deep along with the humiliation. She shrugged away the thoughts and again looked inside the cup.

“What about these lines? Do they mean anything?” Pam asked.

“They signify a journey. These seem to be straight and reach toward the handle.” Marta straightened in her chair quickly, so quickly she almost head-bumped Pam. “You need to go home. Now.”

“I didn’t need the reading to tell me that.” Pam stood and pointed toward the cup. “Before I leave, take one more look. I’m sure you can see a best-selling book with a hot cup of honey-lavender tea in front of the fireplace in my future.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” A broad smile lit Marta’s face. She handed Pam a package of tea and glanced out the window. Marta crunched her brows together and bit the side of her cheek. “Snow is in your future; lots of snow. Are you going to the lodge?”

“Yes, tomorrow. Why?”

“Nothing. Be careful. Now go.” The woman shoed her out of the shop.

Pam drove out of town along Constitution Boulevard and turned onto Manor Road past the entrance to Havencroft Manor. Edythe Emerson and her husband had donated the estate to the Historical Society last year and provided a trust to help fund its renovation.

The capital campaign Pam launched for the Historical Society to raise the rest of the needed funds exceeded the Board of Trustee’s expectations. The success of the campaign catapulted her to board president, and while the fund created a solid financial foundation, Pam’s goal was for Havencroft Manor to be self-sustaining.

When a couple asked to have their wedding at Havencroft, Pam knew the grand Victorian manor would be the perfect setting and lead to financial success.

That must be the wedding Marta saw in the tea leaves. Pam’s cell phone rang through the car’s system. She glanced at the incoming number and let out a slow breath. An able manager, her assistant, Ina, had called twice: once while she was in the gym and again before she reached the tea room.

“Hi. Has the florist arrived? And the heaters? I still can’t believe they want part of the ceremony outside in this weather. Oh, and have someone clear the snow off the patio.” The bride’s mother was crazy, but with the light snowfall and the garden lights, the patio atmosphere would be magical.

The bride’s mother insisted the fireplace was the perfect spot for the ceremony. Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked the oversize stone fireplace and looked out on the patio. The blushing bride and the gallant groom would be surrounded by the snowy wonderland dressed with small twinkling LED lights. Even she thought the spot was romantic.

“Pam, stop worrying. The florist got here a half hour ago. The snow is wreaking havoc on the incoming flights and forced her to wait at the Providence Airport for the flowers to arrive. All the flowers and heaters are in place. You won’t believe how terrific the room looks. I had the groundskeeper clear the patio. He’ll shovel again before the ceremony. With the huge windows, we don’t want the wedding guests distracted by the snow-shoveling brigade. We want the guests’ eyes glued on the happy couple. Are you stopping by to check everything?”

“Me? I admit I love planning weddings as long as they aren’t my own. No, I’ll wait to see the picture in the Herald. I’ll catch up with you later. Call if you need me.”

Pam ended the call and drove along Manor Road past other estate entrances. Some of these grand homes were set far back from the road; others behind man-made knolls. Either way, the stately houses were hidden from probing eyes. Some of the most influential, privileged people in Rhode Island had a Manor Road address.

As one of the founding dynasties, the Dawes family was included in those privileged few. The position came with a burden of keeping up with her peers on all levels.

She’d had enough. Under the guise of saving her marriage, she’d invested two years into finding out what made her tick. In the end, she didn’t like what she found or whom she married. It was easier than she’d imagined, breaking away from the constant parties, aimless travel, and shallow relationships, including Merle. Pam stepped out of the limelight, took back her maiden name, and ran as fast as she could into obscurity, determined to move on, this time in the right direction.

Pam turned onto the Dawes Manor drive. It was six o’clock. The snow had been falling all afternoon and didn’t show any signs of stopping, which was fine with her. The garage door opened, and she parked her Land Rover, put the car keys on a peg, grabbed her tea, and hurried through the colonnade that attached the house to the garage. It was a godsend in bad weather.

The house stood on a knoll and from its perch above the tree tops had a majestic view of the water. Her mother hated getting caught in the wind that swept up from the water and roared unchecked through the courtyard. She insisted on an enclosed breezeway between the garage and the house. Mom, who was a stickler concerning outward appearances, didn’t care that a breezeway would be an architectural eyesore with an old Victorian manor. Instead, her father built an enclosed colonnade from the garage to his game room that protected the courtyard and made it useable.

Pam entered the game room. Nervous energy, like electric sparks, raced along her nerves at the sight of her ski equipment ready to load into the Land Rover for her trek to the lodge in the morning. With any luck, this weather would provide enough snow for her to enjoy her first ski of the season.

Husband number two’s all-white ski gear hung on its peg like an empty astronaut suit waiting to be filled. He’d left it behind with other things, and established his new house with his new wife in Key West. No need for ski clothes there. She’d packed all his ski clothes and was ready to donate them to the pro shop at the ski lodge.

Over the past year, she’d looked at his things and couldn’t bring herself to toss them. It wasn’t because she loved him or wanted him back. She was stuck in this place of nothingness and couldn’t go in one direction or another. One day, she’d broken out of the haze and began reorganizing her life. She worked with the Historical Society, the town library, and weeded out the things Merle left behind.

Once through the game room, Pam entered the house. Usually her housekeeper, Helen, greeted her. Today the house was empty. Helen was visiting her friend in Providence and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

After putting her coat in the closet and tea in the kitchen, she made her way to the family room. The soothing view looked down on the private cove with its boathouse, dock, breakers, and ocean beyond. As a child, she’d rested her elbows on the windowsill and stared at the clouds and made up stories about their shapes. As a young adult, she’d stared at the water and dreamed of the places she would travel. Now, as a grown woman, the view comforted her as she sat by the fireplace and read.

Merle’s telescope was by the window. To watch the stars, he told her. Except the lens focused on a bungalow on the outcrop of land by the cove. The bungalow his secretary lived in after her divorce. To help her out, Merle said.

Pam turned on the fireplace, thankful she had insisted on installing a remote-controlled gas unit. She grabbed the throw and curled up on the reclining wingback chair with a book. She let out a deep sigh. Life didn’t get much better than this.