Secrets on Cedar Key

Book 5: Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

Genres: Family Life; Sagas; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

You'll fall instantly in love with Cedar Key and this homespun knitting community.  --Lori Wilde "A Southern Debbie Macomber, but with a flair all her own." --Karin Gillespie New York Times bestselling author Terri DuLong's heartwarming new novel invites you to Cedar Key, Florida--a close-knit community that offers an easy pace, gorgeous scenery--and a whole new perspective on family and forgiveness. . . In the wake of her husband Andrew's sudden passing, there's nowhere Marin Kane would rather be than back on Cedar Key. Marin plans to run the needlepoint store next to her mother Dora's yarn shop, and settle once more into her tranquil hometown. Then a bombshell arrives: a secret daughter Andrew never revealed to anyone. Now nineteen, Fiona was the product of a summer affair Andrew had when he was out of town teaching--while Marin was home with their two small sons. All Fiona wants is a chance to meet her half-brothers and Marin--and through them get some sense of the father she barely knew. Marin isn't sure she can ever overcome her sense of betrayal. But buoyed by old friends--and a new love--the answers may unfold, guiding both Marin and Fiona to a true refuge at last. "An intriguing premise, a cozy, small-town backdrop, and even the hint of some magic. . . A sweet story, set in a friendly community." -- Kirkus on Postcards from Cedar Key "Tender and poignant, perfect for those who love knitting as well as the bonds between women." – RT Book Reviews (4 Stars) on Sunrise on Cedar Key "A delightful addition to that genre of needlecraft-inspired books." -- Library Journal on Casting About

Release date: November 26, 2013

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 320

Sample

I stood there, arms folded across my chest, staring at the gaping hole that separated Yarning Together from our new business venture. After the events of the previous day, I now wondered if perhaps my mother’s plan to expand the yarn shop to include needlepoint might be foolhardy.

“Oh, Marin. I’m so sorry about what happened. Are you okay?”

I turned around as Chloe walked into the shop and scooped me into her arms for a hug.

“Wouldn’t you know I’d be in Gainesville yesterday when all the commotion was going on here?”

I patted her back, trying to pass on what little reassurance I had.

“I’m okay, and Ned’s wife called me this morning. It was a heart attack but he’s going to be fine. They’ll keep him for a few days at Shands and then he’ll be discharged home.”

Chloe blew out a breath. “Oh, that is good news. Thank goodness. But . . . and I almost feel guilty asking . . . how long before he can resume work?”

My guilty thoughts matched hers. “According to Eileen, the doctors have said six to eight weeks.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. Here I was hoping that I’d be able to open the needlepoint shop by Christmas, and we’re not even sure Ned will be back to work in two months.”

Chloe headed to the coffeemaker and began spooning Maxwell House into the paper filter. “Hmm, true,” she said before going to the back room and returning with the carafe, filled with water.

“How’s Dora dealing with the news?”

“Fine,” I said, settling myself on the sofa. “You know my mother. She always seems to do well in a crisis. Unlike me.” The phone call from the university in Gainesville seven months before, telling me that my husband had collapsed in his classroom and had been taken by ambulance to Shands Hospital, had proved this to me.

We both turned as the wind chimes on the door tinkled and my mother walked in. “Good morning, girls,” she chirped in her usual cheery voice.

Not for the first time I hoped that her health and longevity genes ran strong in me. At seventy-eight, she showed no signs of osteoporosis, her striking white hair had recently been cut into an attractive bob, and most days her energy level surpassed mine. But it was her optimism that enhanced her youthful vitality and appearance.

“You think?” I mumbled. Having our contractor out of work with a heart attack didn’t amount to a good morning for me.

“Oh, Marin,” she said, placing a kiss on the top of my head. “Cheer up. We just might have a replacement to finish the work.”

“Really?” I sat up straighter on the sofa.

“Possibly,” she replied, settling down beside me. “Well, I had a call from Worth Slater this morning, and it seems he’s willing to take over for Ned.”

“The Worth Slater?” Chloe’s excitement caused me to sit up even straighter.

“Who’s that?” I had relocated from Gainesville after my husband died to move in with my mother on Cedar Key, but I still didn’t know everyone in town.

“Worthington Slater,” Chloe explained. “Rumored to be one of the richest guys in Marion County. His family owned horse farms in Ocala. Not to mention he’s pretty darn good-looking and quite the eligible bachelor.”

I laughed and looked at my mother. “You’re joking, right? Why on earth would somebody like him even want to get his hands dirty?”

My mother shook a finger in my direction. “Marin, how many times have I told you not to be such a quick judge of character. It just so happens that Worth owned his own architecture business, and that included refurbishing a lot of older homes and apartments. He knows we’re in a bind and has offered his services.”

“Oh. Well, good. So when can Mr. Rich Guy start?”

“I’m not sure. He’s coming by later today to look at the work we need done. He said he’ll honor the estimate that Ned has given me, which is very nice of him.”

“That’s encouraging,” I said, getting up to walk toward what was supposed to be the new archway separating the shops. Instead, what greeted me was an uneven hole in the wall that led into a dark and dusty room.

“God! It’s such a mess. We’ll never have that turned into anything decent.”

I wasn’t sure if the tears I felt stinging my eyes were more from the residual grief about the loss of Andrew or from the fact that something positive in my life was on hold.

“Of course we will,” my mother said as her arm went around my shoulder.

“Right. It’s just a little setback,” Chloe said. “What we all need is a cup of this freshly brewed coffee.” She held the pot in the air and then proceeded to fill three mugs.

I fished a tissue from my pocket, blew my nose, and settled back on the sofa. “I feel so selfish. Poor Ned could have died in this very shop yesterday, and I’m worried about opening the needlepoint section.”

My mother patted my hand. “He’s going to be just fine. Might be a while before he’ll be back to work, but it was a mild heart attack, so he was lucky.”

“Unlike Andrew,” I said and heard the tinge of envy in my voice.

Chloe passed us the coffee before sitting down. “Gosh, he was lucky he wasn’t alone when it happened. You must have been frightened, though, Marin. There wasn’t anybody else in the shop, was there?”

I took a sip of the strong brew and shook my head. “No, I’d just come back from lunch. Mom had taken Oliver home for the afternoon, and I’m glad she did, what with the paramedics arriving and everything. Ned had already returned from his lunch when I got back, and he was working away. A few minutes later he came over here to sit on the sofa, and I knew something was wrong. He was white as a ghost, sweaty, and looked terrible. Said he was just having some mild pain in his upper left arm. Thought it was from the work he’d done earlier breaking through the wall. But I didn’t want to take a chance. It could have been a muscle pull and exertion, but he was also having classic signs of a heart attack, so I called 911 just to be on the safe side.”

“Thank goodness you did,” Chloe said.

I nodded. “I’m just glad he’s going to be okay.”

“Eileen said he’ll be home in a few days, and if all goes well, he can return to work in a couple months.”

I got up to go look at the wall again and shook my head. “Geez, we didn’t even really get started, and there’s so much to do in there. Putting in the bay window in the front wall, redoing all the walls and floor, wallpaper, painting . . . I sure hope this Worth Slater will be willing to take it over.”

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying.” Chloe joined me at the wall and peered into the dark room.

“So does the yarn shop have to live with that ugly hole in the wall until Worth or somebody can begin to work on it?” I heard the whiny tone to my voice, which made me sound more like a teenager than a fifty-six-year-old woman.

“I think we should be able to find a sheet or big piece of plastic to cover it. It’ll be fine,” my mother said in an attempt to reassure me.

“Are you still thinking of adding on a patio out back and taking over the old carriage house?” I knew my mother liked how Chloe was able to push a conversation toward a different subject rather than focusing on the negative. That was one of the reasons they worked so well as partners at the yarn shop. When my mother had purchased the shop from my cousin Monica a few years before, one of her best decisions had been asking Chloe to be her partner. She was a joy to work with. Not only had she gotten a degree in textile design many years before, acquiring an exceptional knowledge of fibers and colors, she was also a great asset for the shop, always ready to pitch in and do that little extra for customers, staying late if it was required, doing everything she could so that the shop would be a success. And now, due to my mother’s desire to expand the shop to include needlepoint, I would have the opportunity to work there as well.

“Yes,” she told Chloe. “I’ve been giving that a lot more thought, and I think we should do it. Having a screened patio built between the shop and the carriage house will give our knitters a wonderful place to sit outside during the nice weather. And I think we’ll be almost forced to remodel the carriage house. Once that archway is finished, we’re going to lose that entire corner over there,” she said, pointing to where the credenza held our coffee supplies and the old-fashioned desk that served as our checkout area. “Everything can be rearranged in here, and a lot of the stock can be put in the carriage house. We could get really creative with displaying the various yarns, rather than just in cubbyholes and cubicles.”

“Oh, I agree,” Chloe said. “Besides, I think knitters love to wander around, browsing, touching all the different yarns. If a shop is too small and cramped, I think that takes away from the experience. It’ll be a lot of fun getting it all put together.”

“And your needlepoint shop will become a reality, Marin.” She patted my hand again. “We just have to be patient.”

“I know. You’re right, Mom,” I told her. “Like you’ve always said, it’ll happen in its own time. I’m sorry for being so childish about all of this. I guess I was really counting on being a needlepoint shop manager by Christmas.” I blew out a breath and turned toward the boxes of yarn that UPS had delivered the day before. “Well, I need to get to work and get those unpacked. And you have the morning off, so go. Chloe and I can handle things here.”

“Lucas told me the book I ordered would be at the shop today, so I’m going to stop by and get it. Oh, and it’s my turn to do dinner, so you don’t need to rush home. Lasagna and salad. Is that okay?”

“It’s wonderful,” I told her before giving her a hug good-bye. Living with my mother these past seven months had been good for both of us. Although I was ashamed to admit it and it was probably unknown to others, Andrew and I had evolved over twenty-six years of marriage to a bland and stagnant relationship. I had been looking forward to his retirement this past summer, hoping to recapture some of the spark that had been missing. But his death had prevented that from happening. Despite the lack of passion, I missed him. I missed the day-to-day conversations and routine we had shared. So I welcomed the company and companionship of my mother. We also seemed to be in sync as far as housemates. She respected my quiet time, we shared chores around the house, and overall, I was happy that she had invited me to move in with her after Andrew died.

“I’ll see you at home about five,” she said before leaving.

Chloe gathered up the mugs to take into the back room to wash. “Moving in with your mother seems to be working well for you. I know Dora is thrilled to have you there.”

“Yeah,” I said as I cut open one of the boxes of yarn. “She’s always been easy to get along with. I’m fortunate.”

Chloe laughed. “You’ve got that right. Many adult daughters would cringe at the thought of moving back with their mothers. I’m sure I couldn’t have done it.”

I fingered the new sock yarn that had been made in Germany before I arranged each skein in a wooden cubbyhole. With the vibrant pinks, greens, blues, and lavenders, I knew we wouldn’t be keeping this yarn in the shop for long.

As I continued unpacking yarn, rearranging various skeins, and making a sign to place on the front table for yarn that would be discounted, I allowed my mind to wander and couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of my life had in store for me. Was this all there was? Married at age thirty, the mother of two grown sons, a retired professor of English . . . and now a widow at fifty-six, living with her mother and soon to run a needlepoint shop. I let out a sigh. It could be worse. Certainly, it could be much worse.

Chloe was still at lunch when he walked into the yarn shop. When I first looked toward the door and saw the good-looking older man enter, I assumed he was here on a knitting errand for his wife or to purchase a gift certificate.

“May I help you?” I asked, walking toward the front of the shop.

“Yes, I’m looking for Eudora Foster.”

It was then that it hit me that he was Worthington Slater, and in a heartbeat I realized Chloe hadn’t been exaggerating when she said he was pretty darn good-looking. At least six feet tall, he wore a casual short-sleeved shirt tucked into khaki trousers. A deep bronze tan and silver hair complemented his good looks. He appeared more likely to be sitting behind the desk of a successful company than swinging a hammer as a workman.

“Yes,” I said, clearing my throat and extending my hand. “I’m Dora’s daughter. Marin Kane. Nice to meet you. She’s at home this afternoon but told me you’d be stopping by to take a look at the project.”

I felt his hand grip mine as a friendly smile crossed his face.

“Nice to meet you.” His gaze moved to the hole in the wall. “I take it that’s the area to be remodeled?”

I nodded. “Yeah, it looks more like a bomb zone at the moment,” I said, walking toward the wall. “It’s hard for me to visualize what my mother keeps saying will be so nice.”

Worth laughed. “Oh, you don’t trust my abilities?”

“Oh, it’s not that,” I stammered. “I mean . . . it’s just a dark, dingy area right now. And so much needs to be done to transform it into a needlepoint shop.”

He produced a flashlight from his pocket before stepping into the adjoining room.

“Hmm,” he said, shining the light toward the ceiling, walls, and floor. “Well, yes, it does need extensive work, but like Ned told me, it’s certainly doable.”

“Really?” I could feel my excitement building. “You’re willing to do it for us?”

Worth nodded, and I followed him back into the yarn shop.

“I am,” he said. “I’ll get with your mother to confirm, but when do you think she’d like me to start?”

“Yesterday?”

He laughed again. “In a bit of a rush, are you?”

“Well, a little. I was hoping to be able to have it open by Christmas.”

“It’s early October. That gives me about ten weeks. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

In addition to his good looks, I liked this man’s enthusiasm.

“Oh, that would be great.”

“Okay, then,” he said, heading toward the door. “Tell your mother I’ll give her a call at home this evening, but I should be ready to begin on Friday.”

“Thanks so much.”

The moment Chloe returned from lunch, I shared the good news with her.

“Terrific. Then everything is back on track. Oh, and by the way . . . what was your opinion of Worth?”

I was surprised when I felt warmth creeping up my neck. Damn hot flashes. “Oh . . . he was nice. Very nice. And friendly. Very businesslike too.”

Chloe laughed. “In other words . . . I wasn’t lying, huh? Pretty hot?”

“Yeah . . . I guess so. I mean, I really didn’t notice. He wasn’t here very long.”

“Right,” she said, and I saw the grin that crossed her face. “You know, Marin, just because your husband passed away, it doesn’t mean your life is over. You can still appreciate a good-looking and pleasant guy.”

All of a sudden I felt flustered. “Yes, of course. I know that,” I said and was grateful when Berkley walked in the door, putting an end to further discussion.

I spied the basket of hand-dyed yarn she was carrying. “Oh, good,” I said. “You spun more yarn for us.”

“Yup, another ten skeins.”

Chloe reached over to touch the soft greens, yellows, blues, and lavenders. “Gorgeous. Jill did another great job with the dyeing.”

Berkley had relocated to Cedar Key the previous year from Salem, Massachusetts, opened up the chocolate shop on Second Street, and provided us with yarn from her alpacas, which were kept at her friend’s farm in North Yarmouth, Maine. She had also fallen in love with Saxton Tate III, a British mystery author who lived on the island.

“Thanks,” she said, and I saw her gaze take in the hole that dominated our wall. “Geez, I heard about all the excitement here yesterday with Ned. Is he okay?”

I brought her up to date on Ned’s condition while she walked over to take a peek into the room on the other side.

“I’m glad he’ll be all right. But what a shame about the delay in the work.”

“Not exactly,” I told her and explained about Worthington Slater taking over.

“Oh, that’s great. So maybe you’ll have the needlepoint shop up and running by Christmas after all.”

“Here’s hoping. Do you have time for coffee?”

“Yeah, a quick cup would be nice. Oh, I have some news. Saxton’s daughter, Resa, and her husband arrive here next week.”

“That’s great,” Chloe said. “Do you think they’ll really end up purchasing the bed-and-breakfast?”

“I think there’s a pretty good chance. Resa’s husband, Jake, has been doing a lot of research about opening a pediatric practice in Gainesville, and it seems he’s found another physician who’s interested in being his partner. So that will enable them to relocate here. They have an appointment with Alison next week to look at the B and B, so if they like it . . . who knows? They could end up making an offer on it.”

“I’m sure Saxton is thrilled that his daughter might be living in the same town.”

Berkley accepted a mug of coffee from Chloe. “Thanks. Oh, he is. I think he still feels guilty for not seeing her for thirty years, so it’s like he’s getting a second chance. I’m hoping it will all work out for the two of them.”

I nodded. “Resa was pretty understanding, wasn’t she? I mean, not all daughters would be so quick to forgive a father who made no attempt to see her since she was a child.”

“Yeah, I think Resa’s pretty special. She feels that her parents’ divorce was the cause of the estrangement with her dad, so she doesn’t blame him.”

“What time are you closing today?” I asked. “I wanted to stop by and get some chocolate.”

“I’ll be at the shop till five. I’m out of truffles, though. My shipment from Angell and Phelps is due in tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get some dark chocolate pieces.”

“Well, there you are.” All of us turned toward the door to see Grace Trudeau walk in holding her six-month-old daughter, Solange.

Chloe ran over to scoop the baby out of her sister’s arms. “And how’s my favorite niece?” she cooed, holding the baby up in the air, which produced giggles and a trail of drool on Solange’s chin.

“Oh, sorry,” Berkley said. “I closed the shop to run down here and drop off some yarn.”

Grace waved a hand in the air. “Not a problem. Just thought I’d pop in to replenish my chocolate supply.”

“That baby gets prettier every day,” I told her, and it was the truth. Grace, who was extremely attractive, and Lucas, with his French good looks, had produced a gorgeous daughter with olive skin and dark curly hair who was a combination of both her parents.

Grace laughed. “Thanks. We happen to think so. She tends to be a bit fussy lately, though. She’s teething.”

“Well, you just let Aunt Chloe take her when she’s fussy.” She placed a kiss on the baby’s cheek. “That’s right. Aunt Chloe doesn’t mind and will have her laughing in no time.”

As if to prove her aunt correct, Solange broke out in another round of giggles, causing all of us to laugh. Chloe was besotted with her niece, but I also felt that part of it was that she was grateful to be reunited with her sister. After ten years of a rocky relationship, their aunt Maude had paved the way for the sisters to put their differences aside, and I knew Chloe treasured the love they now shared.

“Time for me to reopen the shop,” Berkley said. “And thanks for the coffee.”

“I just want to pick up some yarn to make a sweater for Solange and I’ll be down to get my chocolate.”

“Another sweater?” I kidded her. “That child is going to have more sweaters than anybody in Levy County.”

Grace laughed. “Actually, I’m going to make this one in a size two. She has plenty to get her through this winter, so I may as well start working ahead.”

“Oh, look at this great mint green linen that came in the other day,” Chloe said. “Perfect for Florida, even in the winter.”

I returned to unpacking the new shipments while Chloe tended to Grace.

Shortly after four-thirty, I rang up another sale while Chloe worked away on a gorgeous teal cable sweater done with baby alpaca yarn that would be displayed in the shop.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll scoot along. I want to make the chocolate shop before Berkley closes.”

“No, not at all. I’m going to finish up this row and then I’ll be closing. I don’t think we’ll get any last-minute customers today.”

“Okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow. You have a good evening,” I said, gathering up my sweater and handbag.

I walked into the living room to be greeted by my mother’s dog, Oliver. A black standard poodle, Oliver had been rescued by my mother a few years before and was one of the great joys in her life.

“Oh, no, sorry,” I told him as he sniffed my bag of chocolate. “No chocolate for you, I’m afraid.” A pat on his head and a stroke beneath his chin made him happy as he followed me to the back of the house.

My mother was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a bowl of salad.

“Ah, you’re home. Lasagna’s in the oven. We’ll be eating in about an hour,” she said as my cell phone rang.

I answered to hear a male voice inquire, “Could I speak with Andrew Kane, please?”

Surprised by the request, I mumbled, “Who’s calling?”

“This is Rick at Mail Boxes in Gainesville.”

“Oh . . . well . . . Andrew was my husband. But he passed away in March.”

I heard the surprise in the caller’s voice. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Kane. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you. What’s this in relation to?”

“Well . . . Mr. Kane had a mailbox here with us, and . . . um . . . the payment for the box is overdue. So I needed to call and see if he . . . or somebody . . . wanted to bring the account up to date. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel the rental of the box. I tried to call the number he gave us, but that phone was disconnected. This is the number that he listed as an emergency backup.”

What on earth was he talking about? Andrew didn’t have a private box for mail. Our mail had always been delivered to our home. Or did he?

“Well, no. If my husband did have this mailbox, there’s no longer a need to keep it. If there’s a balance due, I’d be happy to pay it.”

“Oh, no. That’s fine. I’ll just discontinue the rental. However, there was one piece of correspondence in the box. Would you like me to forward that to you?”

“That would be nice. Thank you,” I told him and gave him my mailing address at the Cedar Key Post Office.

Disconnecting the call, I shook my head. “Well, that was odd.”

“You look bewildered,” my mother said. “Everything okay?”

I explained the call to her while still trying to sort out why Andrew would have this rental mailbox.

“Perhaps it had to do with the university,” my mother said. “Maybe he needed a post office number rather than a physical address for some particular reason.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Then why did I suddenly feel so uneasy?

I spent the next day wondering what the correspondence for Andrew could possibly be. In all honesty, I think I felt more left out than curious that Andrew had set up a means to receive mail privately and hadn’t bothered to inform me.

By that afternoon I had to discuss it with somebody other than my mother, so I shared the phone call with Chloe.

“It’s probably not all that unusual. Like your mother said, maybe it has to do with receiving school-related material.”

“Yeah, well, why couldn’t that be sent to our home address?”

Chloe looked up from her row of knitting. “Maybe he subscribed to porn?”

The thought of it made me laugh. Andrew was far from romantic or passionate. But I suppose that didn’t rule out a fondness for something kinky.

“Could be, but I doubt it. Besides, the fellow said it’s an envelope, not a magazine or anything. Plus, my cell number was listed by Andrew as an emergency backup.”

“Who was it from? What was the return address?”

Stupid me. “I didn’t think to ask,” I said with disappointment.

Chloe smiled. “Well, don’t let your imagination run away with you. You should have it by tomorrow.”

“Chloe’s right,” my mother said. “Come on, girls. Time to close so we can get back here at seven for the knitting group.”

I always enjoyed the Thursday evening gathering of women at the yarn shop, and tonight provided me with a diversion from thinking any further about the piece of mail being sent to me.

I settled myself on the sofa and was joined by Corabeth Williams. Corabeth had been a bit of a celebrity in town the year before when it was discovered that she was the number one best-selling author of erotica, writing under the pen name Lacey Weston. Just shy of her seventieth birthday, Corabeth resembled a cookie-baking grandmother more than somebody who penned sexual escapades. But once the surprise died down, Corabeth resumed her ordinary life on Cedar Key while continuing to write her novels.

“How’re you doing, Marin?” she said, reaching into her bag to remove a beautiful lavender sweater.

“I’m doing good. Oh, that’s gorgeous. Is that a Malabrigo yarn?”

“It is, and the shade is called periwinkle. I just love this hand-dyed merino wool. I’m hoping to have it finished to wear for Thanksgiving.”

I looked up to see my cousin, Sydney, and her daughter, Monica, enter the shop. Sydney Webster had relocated to the island four years ago, surprising the entire town when it was discovered that my mother’s sister, Sybile, had given birth years before to a daughter we knew nothing about.

They took a seat on the sofa opposite me and I smiled in greeting. I certainly loved my two sons, but seeing Sydney and Monica together always made me wish that I’d also had a daughter.

“How are those adorable triplets?” I asked Monica.

She la. . .