Secrets on Cedar Key

Also by Terri DuLong

 

 

 

“A Cedar Key Christmas” in
Holiday Magic

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

Secrets on Cedar Key

T
ERRI
D
U
L
ONG

KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

For this novel, I take my readers on a short trip to Paris, France, with my main character, Marin. The real-life apartment in the Latin Quarter that my husband and I rented earlier this year is what inspired the creation of the apartment where Marin stayed. So thank you to the owners, Amy and Oscar Schatcher, for the inspiration and especially for your kindness and understanding during my husband's unexpected health issues during our Paris visit.

A huge thank-you to Ellen Johnson, owner of the real Serendipity Needleworks, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, for the support and warm welcome I always receive at your shop for my book signings. Also to her patrons Dolores DelRio Tabor, Lois Kramer, and Mary Rhodes, who always show encouragement and love for my books.

My cup runs over with gratitude for other yarn shop owners who have supported the Cedar Key series since
Spinning Forward
. Thank you to mother-and-daughter team Pauline and Sandi, at the Ball of Yarn, in Ormond Beach, Florida; Rhonda Jones, at the Yarn Cottage, in Fairhope, Alabama; Elyse Anderson, at Only Ewe & Cotton Too, in Alpharetta, Georgia; Teri Gabric, at Northwoods Fiber Farm, in Inman, South Carolina; and Barbara Zory, at Yarn-works (my “home” yarn shop), in Gainesville, Florida.

And a huge thank-you to the more recent yarn shop owners who now support the Cedar Key series and host my book signings: Susan Post, at A Good Yarn, in Sarasota, Florida; Roz Moore, at Fiber Art, in Odessa, Florida; April Cordell, at Fleece, in Cumming, Georgia; and Diane Hardin, at the Yarn Lady, in Summerfield, Florida. I hope you know how much your support means to me.

Another huge thank-you goes to Sue Hootman, Jan Holman, and Linda White. You attended my knitting retreat and then you were instrumental in setting me up to sign books at your local yarn shops. I deeply appreciate your support!

I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to mother and daughter Barbara and Marjorie Competiello for your unfailing support of my work, for your loyalty, for your friendship, and most of all for proving that mother-daughter relationships do not have to be complex and difficult.

For Robbie Lee, my fan in Tasmania who made sure that her local bookshop carries the Cedar Key series, I can't thank you enough for your support! And a huge thank-you for coming from the other side of the world, literally, to actually visit Cedar Key. You're the best!

Over the past four years I've been very fortunate to build up a wonderful fan base on Facebook. Not only have you supported my work, but you've made me laugh when I really needed a smile, you've encouraged me during some difficult times, and you've shared the fun moments with me. For all this and so much more . . . thank you to: Mary Jane Hoffman, Janice Freedman, Denise Woods, Christine Murphy, Darlene Gibson, Bonnie Thomas, Fran Currier, Gayle Cooper, Angelique Carlson, Mary (Mar) Little, Linda Wilson, Karla Bradbury, Carolyn Biddle, Terry and Gloria Irvin, Leslie Ann Beaster, Becky Whitt, Agatha P. Townsend, Dirk Bauman, Joyce King Collins, Jackie Imhoff, Linda Thurmond DeCristofaro, Mary N. Connolly, and so many others that space prevents me from listing. A million thanks to all of you!

For my wonderful French friend, Nicole Coutand. Thank you for showing me many years ago, in your Le Bourget kitchen, how a blowtorch is used with crème brûlée. And I still say . . . your crème brûlée is the best I've ever tasted!
Merci beaucoup
for sharing the creation with me and for your friendship, which makes our visits to Paris even more special because of you and Jean-Jacques.

A multitude of thanks to the entire Kensington team for allowing me to share my work with readers, and especially to my editor, Audrey LaFehr; her assistant, Martin Biro; my publicist, Vida Engstrand; and the team in the Art Department, who always seem to outdo themselves with each new cover!

Special thanks to my first two readers, Alice Jordan and Bill Bonner. You've both been with me from the beginning, and I hope you know how much I appreciate your input, suggestions, and support!

As always, love and thanks to my daughter, Susan Hanlon, and my husband, Ray. After all these years . . . you know why.

And to my readers . . . I hope you know how much I appreciate that you allow me to take up some of your time with my stories. It truly means the world to me!

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.