Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for M. Kate Quinn

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Letters and Lace

  by

  M. Kate Quinn

  The Ronan’s Harbor Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Letters and Lace

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by M. Kate Quinn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Last Rose of Summer Edition, 2013

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-862-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-863-9

  The Ronan’s Harbor Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for M. Kate Quinn

  “LETTERS AND LACE is an excellent romance with excitement, tension, and most of all undying love. From the very beginning I was glued!”

  ~C.Braswell, Preliminary Reader

  ~*~

  “A mother’s love, an uncle’s fortunes, a tangled web of deception all lead to love in M. Kate Quinn’s BROOKSIDE DAISY. A delicious cast of characters! Scrumptious!”

  ~Shirley Hailstock, award winning author, past president Romance Writers of America

  ~*~

  “MOONLIGHT AND VIOLET has strong character development, an appealing storyline, and amusing dialogue. A rare treat”!

  ~Long and Short Reviews, Top 500 Reviews

  ~*~

  SUMMER IRIS: “…a remarkable talent for creating realistic characters. M. Kate Quinn is definitely an author to keep your eye on!”

  ~Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews

  Dedication

  To my girlfriends,

  my tried and true soulmates and anchors in any storm.

  I love you all.

  To my six kids,

  Joe, Rob, Melanie, Steven, Michael and Keith.

  The Brady’s have nothing on my bunch.

  And to the dearest man who shares my life,

  who is my life,

  my husband, Harvey.

  My cup runneth over…

  Chapter One

  The air inside the cavernous space was stale, the exact opposite of Sarah Grayson’s vision for it.

  She surveyed the sunroom of her Jersey shore bed-and-breakfast where scattered square tables supported upturned chairs with brown wooden legs pointing to the ceiling like barren saplings. It was a far cry from the sumptuous scene it would become on June first—a spectacular setting for Hannah, her only child, on her wedding day.

  In the quiet of preseason solitude, Sarah was enwrapped in the anticipation of the task ahead. The determination fueling her soul was heady.

  Reaching into her pants pocket, she crossed to the back wall. She withdrew the old, tarnished storage room key, inserted it into the lock, and turned the glass knob. With the door open, she was momentarily startled by the assaulting smell of must. She squinted into the dank space that for years had been her bone of contention.

  Finally she’d saved enough money to do the conversion. With carpenters due to start work this week, her mind reeled with ideas for the sunroom’s added expanse. She eyed the cracked flagstone floor—quaint although too damaged to salvage—and pictured the mess lifting it would create. But, no matter, the result would be worth the distress.

  She closed the door behind her, stepping back into the sunroom. The bank of windows along the front wall offered a testament to the gray, drizzly April morning, though she was not dismayed by the cloudy scene. She relished the awaiting transformation to both inside and out of her Cornelia Inn.

  There’d be no guests for weeks, giving her time to ready the inn for the season. But the wedding preparations would steal her time. The new sunroom would need window treatments, there was wall art to find. Eagerness tingled over her skin.

  The sound of the doorbell jarred her reverie. She went through to the small, square entry hall and opened the front door.

  “Norman, hello,” she greeted. She was surprised to see the town letter carrier at her door rather than offering his usual quick wave from the sidewalk as he stuffed mailboxes along the roadway.

  “Morning, Sarah,” he said shyly. His nose was a distinct pink from the chilly early April air. “I, uh, brought you your mail. This one here requires your signature.”

  She accepted the bundle of envelopes into her hand, sensing trepidation in her long-time acquaintance. “Thank you,” she said. “Kind of cold today, huh? Do you have time for a cup of tea, Norman?”

  He extended a ballpoint pen to her with a quick jerk of his hand “‘Fraid not today, Sarah,” he said, his tone contrite.

  She signed the receipt. Norman knew something. That was one thing about life in Ronan’s Harbor. Everybody got wind of everyone else’s news, especially those that hand-delivered it to your doorstep.

  After a momentary hesitation, Norman nodded goodbye and turned to leave. His heel caught on the upturned edge of the welcome mat and he stumbled, doing a fancy tap-dance kind of trot to stay upright. His brown leather mail satchel swayed away from his body, slapping back against his side and adding to his precariousness.

  Sarah grabbed his arm to assist, but he was heavy and rather than stop his wobbling, she inadvertently joined his footwork, trotting in step—a drunken Ginger Rogers led by a freaky Fred Astaire. She couldn’t help but laugh.

  Finally, thanks to his grab of the weathered wicker chair near the house’s entrance, the dance was over.

  “I’m okay,” he said swiftly. Now his entire face was as pink as his nose.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, sorry that she’d let the giggles get the best of her. “Can I get you something?”

  “No,” he said, lifting a reassuring hand. “But, you might want to tack that down.”

  “I certainly will.”

  One more thing to add to her to-do list.

  Sarah closed the door and studied the envelope. The heavy stock was similar to the wedding invitations that they’d just put in the mail. She ran a finger over the raised glossy lettering accompanied by an official-looking stamp of t
he town municipal authority. What now?

  She carried the stack into the sunroom where she’d left her tea. Sitting at a little table she slit the logoed envelope with the nail of her index finger and carefully withdrew the page.

  Her eyes scanned and rescanned the jargon, her gaze riveting again to a series of stunning snippets: Official complaint, halt renovation, required limited use permit for parties on premises of bed-and-breakfasts.

  Her heart pounded in her chest. Why would someone in Ronan’s Harbor file a complaint against her plans? Since when was it illegal to host your own child’s wedding? What the hell was a “conditional use permit?”

  Her face flushed hot. Hadn’t her carpenter told her there’d been no need to obtain a building permit?

  Out of nowhere, like a ghost from her past, an image of her ex-husband’s face popped into her head. She saw Gary’s scowl, and could almost hear his chortle at her ignorance.

  Hannah’s footfalls sounded on the stairs and Sarah quickly slipped the letter back into its envelope, her fingers fumbling in the simple task. She tucked it at the bottom of the stack of mail and for good measure, she plopped her tea cup on top of the bundle. She took a deep, steadying breath.

  “There you are,” Hannah called from the doorway.

  Sarah turned to her daughter, eying the china cup in the girl’s hands. “Good morning.”

  Hannah approached with careful, measured steps, holding her cup with two hands. “I poured some of your latest concoction. That okay?”

  Hannah continued across the room, her coltish legs exposed beneath the hem of the plaid boxer shorts she’d slept in.

  Sarah’s heart blipped with nostalgia. A quick flash of her daughter as a teenager came to mind, all legs and arms, softball uniform full of grass stains, hat visor askew, her yellow lab puppy, Parker, bounding at her heels.

  Hannah took a sip from her delicate cup before licking her tongue over her lip. “What do you call this one, Mom?”

  “The Wedding Tea,” Sarah said. She gave her daughter a sly grin. “You like?”

  “Seriously, Mom?” Hannah laughed. “All the things on that to-do list of yours and you went first for dreaming up a tea for the event?”

  “Divine, isn’t it? Citrus slices, apples, hibiscus, rosehips.” Sarah turned her gaze back to the sunroom, ignoring the doubt that laced her daughter’s words. She refused to turn her head in the direction of the mail that sat screaming at her from the corner of the table.

  “You’re sure about tackling all this, right, Mom?” Hannah’s voice continued to ring with undeniable uncertainty.

  Sarah snapped her head around to meet Hannah’s slate-blue gaze. She had her father’s eyes and she narrowed them just the way he did. Reflexively, Sarah bristled.

  “Your wedding tea is not the only item checked off that list of mine, my dear. Believe me; I’ve got it all under control.” She felt her insides twist. At least that’s what she’d thought before the damned mail delivery.

  Hannah shrugged, cocked her head as she perused the room. “Daddy said—”

  A warning surged in Sarah veins. “I’m really not concerned with what your father said.”

  She sat straight in her chair, her shoulders square. She could almost feel the walls of her Cornelia Inn reach to embrace her. She loved her inn.

  Little had she known when Gary had purchased the inn eighteen years ago—his sole idea to provide Sarah what he termed a “nice little hobby”—that it would become hers alone in the divorce settlement. Nor had she known that the inn would become her salvation.

  Now she wondered what it was that her ex had said to Hannah. But, she wouldn’t ask and knew she was better off not knowing.

  “It’s just that, well, you’re sure this won’t be too much for you, right, Mom? The wedding’s around the corner and the guy hasn’t even started working on the storage room. You sure it’ll be ready in time?”

  No. Sarah shook the thought. “Of course.” Her tone was convincingly emphatic. “He told me three weeks, tops. His crew will be here on Monday. Don’t worry. I’m not.”

  “Okay, but, I know it’s a lot with you just running The Cornelia. Planning my wedding and making sure all this gets done…” Hannah’s face scrunched with an effort to conceal her hesitancy, but it still clung to her words like sugar granules.

  Sarah waved a nonchalant hand. “The invites are in the mail, remember? It’s full steam ahead now. I have no concerns, nor should you. Trust your mother.” Sarah didn’t verbalize the other part of her thought. Trust your mother—the way your father never did—to do a good job.

  She could just imagine Gary’s reaction to this latest tidbit of news from the town. Oh, he’d love to point the salon-groomed tip of his finger right at her face while laughing his sardonic sound through his dentist-treated blinding, broad smile. How many times over the years had he done just that?

  Well, she’d give him no reason now to approach her with his red, distress-of-constipation-looking pinched face. Or worse, to use his mocking tone that always rang out with his signature put-down—calling her Sarah Doodle. No. Above all else, no.

  Thankfully, these days she was far from Gary’s scrutinizing radar, he being consumed with his new wife and their toddler, of all things. Why Gary had decided to become a father again at fifty still baffled her.

  Gary’s new little family kept him busy enough to leave Sarah alone these days, but somehow she sensed his persistent I-told-you-so hovering over her head like a canopy of thorns. She figured that certainly justified her delight when she’d learned Gary’s colicky bundle of joy was lactose intolerant and had mastered the art of projectile vomiting. Sarah smiled at the thought, then banished it.

  “You love this place,” Hannah said. Her tone was round, wrapped in appreciation.

  Sarah watched her daughter’s eyes scan the sunroom. She tried to view it through Hannah’s eyes and did her best to ignore the brief doubt that fluttered across her skin. Was it foolish to believe she could actually pull this off? Her gaze found Hannah’s. “You love The Cornelia, too. Almost as much as I do.”

  Hannah laughed. “Nobody could love the old girl as much as you do, Mom. Not after all you’ve put into it.”

  At the time of their all-too civilized severance it had taken all the courage she could muster to thumb her nose at Gary’s sympathy-laced offer of alimony. She’d looked him in his gray-blue eyes and said, “Keep it.”

  Afterward every cell in her body had rattled with fear. She had made sure he’d never known her utter terror at pulling off being a sole innkeeper, viewed it as a dare.

  He’d never learned of those early days when she’d dined on spaghetti and had stretched her food budget to its limit with peanut butter and jam on store-brand English muffins. She’d kept mum about all the sleepless nights, the wee hours of the morning spent at her little writing desk pouring over her books unsure of how she’d keep the lights on, and the furnace full of oil.

  Now, there was no way she would let that municipal authority letter intimidate her. And, she sure as hell wasn’t letting Gary in on it. Nor was there the need to bother Hannah with the complaint. She’d fix it. She had to.

  She sipped her tea, letting it warm its way through her, just like her determination that Hannah’s wedding would be perfect, a total success attributable to her capable hand.

  “Your wedding needs to be here. Right here in this room.”

  “If you’re not worried, then I’m not worried.” Hannah furnished a small grin.

  “Now, you’d better go on and get ready. Aren’t you meeting your fiancé in the City?”

  “Oh, my God—Ian.” Hannah bolted from the room, padding up the stairs in her fuzzy slippers.

  “Hmm…” Sarah said with a smirk. “And, you’re wondering how I can juggle everything?”

  As soon as Hannah had disappeared up the staircase to their small third floor apartment, Sarah grabbed the letter again and reread it. Damn whoever it was that was making a case out of th
is.

  Keeping this from Hannah and anyone else would be no easy feat in Ronan’s Harbor. Not with the way news—all kinds, but mostly bad—spread around the little shore town like honey on a hot scone.

  Hannah reappeared, dressed and ready for her trip into the City. She stood in the sunroom’s entrance, tall and lean, smart-looking in her pencil skirt and blouse.

  “I almost forgot about meeting Ian,” Hannah said, her tone rushed. She fiddled with the clasp of her wristwatch. “I’ve got to run.”

  “Don’t rush. Drive safely,” Sarah said, painting a smile on her face. She’d spare Hannah. She’d straighten it out with the town and her daughter wouldn’t even have to know. Just a technicality, after all. Easy peasy.

  “I’ll call you,” Hannah’s eyes fell to the cluster of envelopes on the table. “Was that the mailman at the door earlier, Mom?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, forcing disinterest into her tone. Her hand floated to rest onto the teacup atop the letters.

  “Was it Norman Wallace?” Hannah’s words were in sing-song and a wide grin broke out across her face. “Since when do we get door-to-door service, Mother?” Her voice filled with implication, her tone light and teasing. “Special delivery for a special lady?”

  “Oh, stop it.” Sarah waved her off. “Don’t you have an appointment to get to?”

  “Mr. Wallace has a crush on you, Mom.”

  Sarah stood from the chair and pulled the envelopes into her grasp. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I think you should invite him to be your guest at the wedding. He can catch the garter.” Hannah gave an exaggerated wink.

  The image of poor Norman cha-chaing on her front porch almost made Sarah laugh again. No. She would not be dating the mailman.

  “Come on, seriously, Mom. After all your work with the planning of it, wouldn’t it be nice to enjoy the festivities with a date?”