A Summer Love Affair, page 1
Outstanding praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin!
THE SUMMER NANNY
“A satisfying and multifaceted story that keeps readers guessing. For fans of similar works by authors such as Shelley Noble and Nancy Thayer.”
—Library Journal
THE SEASON OF US
“A warm and witty tale. This heartfelt and emotional story will appeal to members of the Sandwich Generation or anyone who has had to set aside long-buried childhood resentments for the well-being of an aging parent. Fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Wendy Wax will adore this genuine exploration of family bonds, personal growth, and acceptance.”
—Booklist
THE BEACH QUILT
“Particularly compelling.”
—The Pilot
SUMMER FRIENDS
“A thoughtful novel.”
—Shelf Awareness
“A great summer read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A novel rich in drama and insights into what factors bring people together and, just as fatefully, tear them apart.”
—The Portland Press Herald
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
“Explores questions about the meaning of home, family dynamics and tolerance.”
—The Bangor Daily News
“An enjoyable summer read, but it’s more. It is a novel for all seasons that adds to the enduring excitement of Ogunquit.”
—The Maine Sunday Telegram
“It does the trick as a beach book and provides a touristy taste of Maine’s seasonal attractions.”
—Publishers Weekly
Books by Holly Chamberlin
LIVING SINGLE
THE SUMMER OF US
BABYLAND
BACK IN THE GAME
THE FRIENDS WE KEEP
TUSCAN HOLIDAY
ONE WEEK IN DECEMBER
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
SUMMER FRIENDS
LAST SUMMER
THE SUMMER EVERYTHING CHANGED
THE BEACH QUILT
SUMMER WITH MY SISTERS
SEASHELL SEASON
THE SEASON OF US
HOME FOR THE SUMMER
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMER NANNY
A WEDDING ON THE BEACH
ALL OUR SUMMERS
BAREFOOT IN THE SAND
A SUMMER LOVE AFFAIR
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
A SUMMER LOVE AFFAIR
HOLLY CHAMBERLIN
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Outstanding praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin!
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
A SUMMER LOVE AFFAIR
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Elise Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
The K with book logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1362-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1362-9
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2022
As always, for Stephen
And this time, also for Madi
Acknowledgments
As always, thanks to John Scognamiglio, editor supreme.
Thanks also to Hank, Harry, and Sylvester for being so insanely cute and for keeping me busy and amused.
Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Prologue
June 1982
Elizabeth saw him walking toward her across the green, and for a moment she had the strange impulse to flee, to get up from the bench on which she was seated and run, away from him and—
Just away.
But she remained where she was. She felt silly; the brief impulse had been ridiculous. Pre-wedding jitters or something like that. Christopher Ryan posed no threat.
None at all.
Chris was now close. He was tall and slim and fair-skinned. It wasn’t lost on Chris—or on Elizabeth—that they looked alike, almost as if they might be brother and sister, or something even closer, two halves of a . . .
“May I join you?” Chris asked. His manner was always a bit formal, but it was natural to him. Elizabeth had known him long enough by then to understand that.
She nodded. “On one condition. Don’t ask me if I’m ready for The Big Day. Honestly, if one more person asks me if I’m ready for The Big Day, I think I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Chris asked, sitting at the other end of the bench.
She turned to him and smiled briefly, almost apologetically. “Nothing. People are just excited. Everybody loves a wedding.”
“And you?” he asked quietly. “Are you excited?”
“I honestly don’t know.” Elizabeth looked away, off into the distance, and paused before going on. “That must mean that I’m not excited. If you’re excited you’re sure to know about it, aren’t you? I mean, at the very least you’d have butterflies in your stomach or your nerves would be tingling or you’d be smiling all the time.”
Chris nodded. “I suppose so,” he said carefully. “But sometimes. . . Sometimes before a big event, before something you know is going to be life changing actually happens, you slip into a state of calm. Anticipation fades away. You’re no longer looking forward or waiting impatiently. You just . . . are. At least, that’s been my experience.”
“Resigned?” Elizabeth asked. “You said ‘you just are.’ Do you mean that you’re resigned to what’s about to take place?” She was very aware of Chris sitting so close to her, close enough to touch if she . . .
“I . . . I suppose so,” Chris replied. “Or, maybe I mean that you’ve achieved a state of acceptance.”
“Isn’t that the same thing as a state of resignation?” Elizabeth wondered aloud. She still had not turned back to look at Chris. “Just that ‘acceptance’ has a more positive connotation. Either way, you don’t fight what’s going to happen.” Again, she paused before going on. “You decide, or you simply realize, that you’re not going to do anything to stop that life-changing thing from happening. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Chris’s voice was low.
Elizabeth swallowed hard. She felt suddenly terrified, tongue-tied. Unless someone steps in and takes action for her. Unless someone she loves saves her. How could she possibly speak those words aloud?
Her agony was suddenly both compounded and relieved by the appearance in the distance of Hugh Quirk. Tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, he came jogging toward them across the green.
“We’ve been found,” Chris said softly.
Now, finally, Elizabeth looked directly at Chris again and felt that Time had suddenly stood still. But Time would start up again very soon.
And it would go on.
And then, Hugh was standing a few feet from the bench. “I’ve been looking all over for you, sweetie,” he said; his breathing was slightly labored. “The minister needs us for one final rehearsal. And what are you doing out without a sweater? You don’t want to catch a cold and be sick for our honeymoon.”
Elizabeth stood. She didn’t look back at Chris, but neither did she take a step to join Hugh.
“Well, come on,” Hugh urged, reaching for her left hand, the one on which she wore the diamond ring he had worked so hard to afford.
“You two go ahead,” Chris said. “I need to make a quick phone call first from the hotel.”
Hugh shrugged. “Just don’t be long about it. You know how you tend to lose track of time.”
Hand-in-hand, Elizabeth and the man she was about to wed walked across the expanse of green, toward the small stone church. She did not turn back to wave to Chris, Hugh’s best friend, Hugh’s best man. She thought about resignation, and about acceptance. Were they really the same thing? Did it matter in the end?
By four o’clock the following day it would all be over.
Chapter 1
June 2022
Elizabeth Quirk was weeding. She enjoyed hunting for and pulling weeds; the task gave her a sense of satisfaction not to be found with many other gardening chores. Maybe it was because there wasn’t much at stake pulling weeds, whereas with planting and tending, well, so much could be done improperly, at the wrong time. Gardening had always been Hugh’s specialty. Her husband’s joy. Now, it was becoming hers, as well.
Yes, weeding was okay, Elizabeth thought, as she stood to her full, not inconsiderable height and put a slim hand to her lower back. Except when bending and crouching were no longer so easy to achieve without aches and pains. She looked down at the pile of weeds she had collected. Enough, she decided. At least for today.
Elizabeth was in the backyard of her home on Lavender Lane in Eliot’s Corner, Maine. A pretty expanse of green grass. Two large beds of flowers and three round pots of herbs. In one corner, close to the house, a marble-topped table surrounded by four wrought iron chairs with rain-resistant cushions. There was a garage, too, at the far side of the yard, a structure large enough for two cars—though Elizabeth had sold Hugh’s car after his passing—two bicycles that hadn’t been taken for a ride in years, and an upright lawnmower. Once, long ago, Hugh had announced his intention of buying a riding mower; a few of his buddies at work had riding mowers, and Hugh was a competitive man, always needing to equal or one-up his friends. But for some reason it had been important to Elizabeth to put her foot down about the purchase. A marital power play? Later, she felt embarrassed about having made such a fuss. What harm would it have done for Hugh to ride around their lawn on what amounted to a toy car, earphones delivering music by the eighties bands he had never grown out of? No harm at all. It would have brought her husband pleasure.
It was a warm day. Elizabeth realized she was thirsty and headed toward the house, a large colonial style common throughout New England. The house was painted white; the shutters were dark green; the front door was bright red. There were four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a den, a living room, and a kitchen. There was also a large attic, used for storage, and a semi-finished basement where Hugh had enjoyed his pool table and big screen television.
Elizabeth stepped through the back door and into the kitchen. She was fond of the house, but it was far too big for one person, and she was growing tired of living there. For many years—all the years of her marriage and the ones after Hugh’s passing—it had been her home. The house had witnessed familial happiness as well as domestic strife; it had listened to the wailing of babies, the babbling of toddlers, the whining of adolescents; it had seen tears of sorrow and of joy; it had enjoyed the laughter of a family who genuinely cared about one another. Still, it might be good to start afresh all around, now that she was being forced to give up her career.
To retire. Definition: to withdraw. To fall back. To take out of circulation. To go to bed.
But Elizabeth didn’t want to fall back. She wasn’t ready to withdraw from an active role in the world, or, at least, her small part of the world. This forced retirement from her teaching career was almost as big a change in her life as Hugh’s death had been. Suddenly, at the age of sixty-two, she found herself poised at the threshold of a new phase of her life, and she was scared, not so much of what challenges the future might bring as of her ability to successfully meet those challenges.
Elizabeth went to the sink and poured herself a glass of cold water. A simple pleasure, an absolute necessity. She was not so far sunk in fear and self-pity that she didn’t realize just how lucky she was to have a home, fresh running water, heat in the winter, and, should she want it, that big screen television in the basement.
Still, a career . . . The trouble was that there just weren’t many teaching jobs around, and the ones that did exist went to the younger people, as they probably should. The old needed to step aside at some point so that the young might have a chance at making their mark. That was the nature of things. The parent became the child. The teacher became the pupil. But you didn’t have to like it.
Elizabeth knew she could probably get a pleasant part-time job at a shop in town, maybe even at Arden Forest now that Arden’s second-in-command in the bookshop had moved to Boston. Such a job wouldn’t fulfill her like teaching had, but it would pass the time. And time could weigh heavily upon a person.
Elizabeth poured another half glass of water and drank it before rinsing the glass and setting it in the rubber drainer. Now what? She had never been entirely comfortable with the idea of leisure. There must be a job that needed to be done....
Of course. Elizabeth headed upstairs. There was a bright spot on the horizon, if only a temporary one. Petra, her youngest child, was coming to stay for the summer; her companionship would be very welcome. Not that Elizabeth would burden her child with her personal worries or concerns. There were things, important things, none of her children needed to know. Elizabeth wanted them to feel that they could rely on her. Even after Hugh’s death she had made it a point not to depend too much on her daughters’ support, though it had been offered generously enough.
Elizabeth walked into the smallest of the four bedrooms. She had already cleaned it in anticipation of Petra’s arrival, but another check wouldn’t be amiss. If Elizabeth needed a reminder, a quick glance around the room would serve to illustrate Petra’s uniqueness in the Quirk family. A macramé wall hanging. A statue of the Buddha. Books on philosophy, art, world religions. Novels. Lots of novels. A crocheted blanket draped across a vintage beanbag seat. A print of William Blake’s The Ancient of Days. A bowl overflowing with stones and crystals.
Elizabeth’s other daughters had never had time for the esoteric or the artistic, let alone for philosophical tracts. They were practical, focused people, who by their mid-twenties had achieved their stated goals.
The oldest, Camilla, known as Cam, had always been a caretaker; it gave her real pleasure to be of help to people. She was also efficient, competent, and down-to-earth. Physically, she resembled her mother a little and her father a lot, and had never been terribly happy having Hugh Quirk’s slightly stocky build.
Jessica, Elizabeth’s middle child, better known as Jess, wasn’t the most empathetic of people. In that way, as in many others, she was a lot like her father, abrupt, unsentimental (or invested in appearing so; sometimes Elizabeth couldn’t tell), focused. Also like Hugh, Jess had a good heart. As far as her appearance went, she combined her mother’s height and slimness with her father’s coloring, his thick, dark hair, and his natural athletic ability.
