Breakwater Beach Read online

  Table of Contents

  BREAKWATER BEACH

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  BREAKWATER BEACH

  Unfinished Business Series

  CAROLE ANN MOLETI

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  BREAKWATER BEACH

  Copyright©2016

  CAROLE ANN MOLETI

  Cover Design by Anna Lena-Spies

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-083-2

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated to

  the memory of my father, Frank Moleti,

  and my grandfather, Alexander Bruno,

  captains of The Sea Mist and The Sea Mist II,

  who inspired my love

  of sailing, the sea, and of Cape Cod.

  Acknowledgements

  This book would never have been published if it weren’t for insightful critiques by Barbara Gordon and Andrew Richardson. You will note their expertise on British English, geography, society, and dialect in the historical elements.

  Special thanks to Laurie Sanders for her expert editing, and to my husband John Virzi, who has read every draft and offered suggestions and unending support. The ladies at the Brewster Historical Society were always enthusiastic and helpful during the research process.

  I am indebted to Rayne Hall, members of the Professional Author’s Group, critters.org, and the Connecticut Romance Writers Chapter of Romance Writers of America for their help and advice while working on the Unfinished Business series. And to Deborah Gilbert for her commitment to the series and her polishing and publishing expertise.

  Disclaimer

  This book utilizes British spellings to enhance the historical and paranormal elements. Dialect is a key feature in characterization.

  Chapter 1

  January 2009

  Boston, Massachusetts

  A chill ran through her like she’d guzzled ice water. His muscular body drew close and drew her into an embrace.

  Liz’s heart hammered against her ribs as she sat up and shook herself awake, expecting the dream to end. But it didn’t.

  She blinked to clear the mist clouding her vision and struggled to reach the light. As she floundered, a notebook tucked next to the arm of the sofa fell to the floor. Papers rustled.

  Before a scream passed her lips, his hand covered her mouth. “Don’t be afraid, Elisabeth.” Fingertips massaged her neck, relaxing muscles taut from months of stress and worry.

  Hypnotized by the elegant British accent speaking her full name, Liz traced his amorphous face like she was reading Braille. His skin, stiff as a doll’s, smelled faintly of salt air.

  “I’ve missed you.” His beard caressed her neck as hungry hands traced down her back, slipped underneath her sweatshirt, and glided over bare skin. “Ah, my love.”

  It had been so long since someone had touched her, wanted her. “Who are you?” she asked, torn between wanting to yell for help and strip him naked.

  “Soon, soon you’ll remember.” He withdrew into the darkness and vanished.

  Shivering, gasping, Liz swathed herself in a Scottish woolen throw and clicked on a table lamp. Scattered papers lay on the floor. The drapes were still drawn and the door was still closed. Radiators tinkled.

  The experience of grief made everything more vivid, more real, and more surreal at the same time. At night, every shadow came alive, teasing her as she stood on the threshold between the living and the dead.

  Liz stepped over the pile of papers and went into the living room. The clock’s red numbers flashed 2:00. Four hours of sleep were better than none. She padded upstairs to be with Gerry, pushed open her bedroom door, and quickly flicked on the light. Spectral shadows lingered amongst reflections off lampshades, picture frames, and Gerry’s silver urn. This had once been a haven; a place to awaken every morning snuggled up next to each other and to fall asleep secure in each other’s arms. Now it was a mausoleum.

  The interloper bore no resemblance to the skeletal man who used to be her burly, passionate, and loving partner. Liz clamped her eyes shut to blank out the sight of the urn, to try and recapture the feeling of Gerry coming up behind her, kissing her neck, whispering in her ear. But all she could rekindle was how his withered arms had struggled to hold her close. The spark of life in his eyes had already vanished when Gerry looked into hers and smiled just before he took his last breath. The thud of his hand as it fell on the mattress had marked the end of his battle. Gerry was gone. Their life together was gone. It was all gone.

  The dam cracked, and emotion leaked out. Her chest heaved with every sob. Her heart pounded until it ached. He’d promised to always be there in her thoughts, in her heart, but not even a whisper of his presence revealed itself. Liz had taken for granted the nightly ritual of lying next to her healthy husband, turning out the light, enjoying the darkness, and the pleasures of making love. The presence of his absence closed around her.

  Gerry’s clothes hung in the closet like disembodied effigies. She couldn’t face giving away his things, getting rid of him. The specters no amo
unt of cleaning could banish: a whiff of urine and the stink of overflowing emesis basins haunted her more than the dream. And for that, she hated herself.

  Stifling the cries to avoid waking her son, Liz staggered down to the living room, holding onto the wall and the banister to avoid tumbling into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. She left the lamps lit and stretched out on the sofa. Exhaustion washed over her, and she allowed herself to sleep, hoping a bright, less private place would keep the dream lover away.

  Liz awoke to dishes rattling. It took a minute to realize where she was—and remember why. How would she explain this away?

  Cinnamon wafted through the room, normally a pleasant aroma, but grief tinged everything with its sour essence. She sat up and saw Jay, with his back to her, at the kitchen counter. The toaster bell chimed. He grabbed his breakfast and turned toward the dining room.

  “Good morning.” She dragged herself off the couch.

  He almost spilled raisin toast off the dish. “I didn’t realize you were there. You usually sleep in the den these days.” Jay’s emphasis on ‘these days’ smacked more of frustration than commiseration.

  Liz’s stomach lurched. “This sofa is more comfortable. Did you sleep well?” She forced a tight-lipped, motherly smile.

  “You didn’t.” Jay stared down from his nearly six feet with that why-don’t-you-follow-your-own-advice look.

  “No. But I don’t have exams to take.”

  Somewhere in the last few weeks they’d drifted apart, each lost in their own sea of grief. And the current was about to suck her under. Liz rummaged in the refrigerator for her own breakfast. Moving helped banish the anxiety rising inside her again.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Jay put his hand on her shoulder.

  Liz squeezed his hand and held back the sobs. “Nothing. Everything.” She flattened her palms against his temples. “Please, focus on what you need to do. I’ll be fine. It’ll just take time.”

  “No, Mom. You’re not fine! You’re wandering around the house in a trance. You barely eat and crash like a drunk and sleep it off on whatever couch you land on. How can I just do what I need to do?” He bit his lip and sniffed back tears.

  Too jittery to stand still, Liz turned back to her breakfast. Her hands shook so much the milk she was pouring into her cereal spilled onto the counter. She grabbed a sponge to mop it up.

  If he knew what was really going on inside her mind, in her dreams . . .

  “See what I mean? You’re shaky and can’t focus.” Jay dabbed what had dripped onto the floor with a wad of paper towels.

  “It’s only been a month. We both need time to recover and figure out what comes next. I go to work and do what I’ve always done. You have to finish senior year and choose a college.” Liz’s heart fluttered and she clenched her hands to stop the trembling. She couldn’t stay alone in this house but wouldn’t ruin her son’s dream of going away and starting his own life, even though hers was now at a dead end.

  Jay exhaled his frustration. “I promised Dad I would make sure you were all right. You’re not, and you won’t let me help!” Jay grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, uneaten cinnamon toast still on the plate.

  How long could she hide the turmoil inside her bubbling over into hallucinations? Would her confusion and guilt bleed into Jay’s grief, leaving an indelible stain on their relationship? The ticking of an old cuckoo clock provided no useful answer.

  A shower chilled rather than refreshed. The cashmere sweater itched, and the waistband of her skirt was too loose. What used to be comfortable shoes were too tight. Nothing seemed to fit. Liz fled to work, desperate to regain normalcy, respectability.

  Chapter 2

  Fall, 1872

  Surrey, England

  Elisabeth Baxter sat by the window doing needlework. Late afternoon light bathed the sitting room in a golden glow. Dust motes danced in the haze. A warm breeze ruffled lace curtains, but the linen dress weighed on her like a leaden cloak. This never-ending summer, and one more stifling day filled with more meaningless pursuits, was far from over.

  A spicy whiff of pipe tobacco floated through the open window and scratched the back of Elisabeth’s throat. Outside, her father leaned on the fieldstone wall bordering the terrace, conversing with Lord Thornlea, their broad backs toward her. Thornlea waved a hand and cooed like a pigeon. His warble prickled like a misplaced hatpin across her scalp.

  Mama swept into the room, corseted into a yellow dress, a huge green hat with flowers and stuffed birds perched on her coiffure. “Elisabeth, perhaps you’ll take a stroll with Lord Thornlea before tea.” Mama’s suggestions were always commands in disguise.

  Elisabeth pushed a needle through the fabric, tied a French knot, set her handiwork aside, and stood to look her mother in the eye. “They’re out there making plans. Papa hopes to convince me to marry him.”

  The countess vented her frustration with a loud exhale. “You’re making this a good deal harder than it needs to be, Elisabeth. You’ve garnered a reputation for being difficult, and you aren’t getting younger.”

  Mama had backed her into a corner, and Elisabeth was tiring of this fight. Tension hung in the air like the midsummer humidity.

  “I’d rather be alone.” Doing charity work amongst street urchins provided more pleasant company than yet another old man with lascivious eyes.

  “You have been difficult since the day you were born. I nearly died. Close your eyes and endure the pawing and discomfort for a short time. Once you’ve produced an heir or two he’ll leave you alone and amuse himself elsewhere. Then you’re free to carry on as before, with a lovely home and family.”

  Mama had accepted the misery. Elisabeth couldn’t imagine allowing any of the potential suitors to touch her, let alone anything more intimate.

  “Your father cared enough about me to understand I could never have another child and was deprived of a son. Her lips pursed. “Cooperate on this matter. Marriage to Lord Thornlea will secure your father’s status. And your own.”

  Mama wagged her head and swept toward the doorway. “Sara, where are you?” Mama went in search of the downstairs maid.

  “No. I will not,” Elisabeth retorted, but there was no response, no acknowledgment, as her mother turned into the hall.

  She paced across the room and stared out the open double doors onto the terrace. Thornlea and her father still stood by the stone wall. Snippets of their conversation drifted in.

  “Elisabeth will come around. After all these years of doing as she pleases my daughter needs to settle down.”

  “She has spirit, Baxter. That’s to be admired. She’ll no doubt produce fine children once tamed.”

  The two men chuckled.

  “Like a brood mare.” Tears welled in her eyes, and fear clutched in her throat.

  Elisabeth wandered back into the sitting room, sat, then tinkled the piano keys, settling on a dark, gloomy Bach piece. Each keystroke echoed the beat of impending doom pulsing inside her. Heavy footsteps moved closer, but she didn’t stop playing to acknowledge her father.

  “Why don’t you join us outside, Elisabeth?” He took one of her hands off the keyboard, cutting off the foreboding notes mid-stanza.

  “I know you are trying to persuade me to spend time with Lord Thornlea, hoping I will consent to marry.” Elisabeth stood to leave.

  “You’re already twenty-seven.” Lord Baxter caught her arm. “I have better things to do than try to convince these men there are no flaws in your character. He’s only a little older than you and not ill looking.”

  The smell of alcohol on Papa’s breath sickened her. “No, but he has the same flaws in his character as you.”

  Her father gritted his teeth. He raised a hand, and the air swooshed as his palm headed toward her face. She ducked, but not before it glance
d off her cheek.

  He slammed his glass down on the piano, sloshing whisky over the mahogany. The butler mopped up the mess, and left with a sideways glance at Elisabeth. She refused to react, to give dear Papa the pleasure of seeing her cry. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and turned her back.

  “I’ve had enough of your impertinence. You’ve amused yourself with your friends, traveling, and shopping. All that gadding about on missions of mercy to save every ragamuffin in the London slums has given you the strangest ideas. It’s time to get married.” He spun her around and brought his face within a few inches of hers. “Damn you, Elisabeth! Why do you have to be such a problem?”

  Mama rushed over and spoke in a hurried whisper. “My lord, please.”

  His heels thundered on the marble floor as Papa stormed inside.

  Her mother sniffed with typical disdain. “Go freshen yourself, Elisabeth.”

  She longed for a cool cloth to soothe her cheek. Blood trickled from her nose. Elisabeth slipped a handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed. Her soul stung more than her face. The man was desperate to have his way. He’d never hit her in public before.

  Thornlea sauntered into the room.

  Elisabeth stuffed the handkerchief back into her reticule and turned so he couldn’t see the mark still burning her face.

  The earl was tall and always well groomed, dressed in the latest fashions. His lean face, with an aquiline nose and deep-set eyes lent an air of distinction, but he smelled of whiskey and that reminded her too much of Papa.

  “So, you trust me with your beautiful daughter, Baxter?” Elisabeth noted his gaze sweep from her head to toes, like he was evaluating a piece of livestock.