Destined for Doon
PRAISE FOR
Doon
“
Doon
, by Carey Corp and Lorie Langdon, is a YA retelling of
Brigadoon
that is fresh and enchanting.”
—
USA Today
’s Happily Ever After blog
“
Oz
meets
Once Upon a Time.
”
— City Book Review
“. . . An imaginative reboot of the classic
Brigadoon.
”
—
School Library Journal
“
Musical-theater fans will rejoice . . . Give this romance to fans who can’t get enough of ‘Will they? Won’t they?’ plot twists.”
—
Booklist
“The perfect mix of mystery, magic, and romance; be prepared to get lost in another world!”
— Maria V. Snyder, author of the
New York Times
bestselling Poison Study series
Other books in the Doon series:
Doon
BLINK
Destined for Doon
Copyright © 2014 by Carey Corp and Lorie Moeggenberg
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Blink,
3900 Sparks Drive SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
ePub ISBN: 978-0-310-74234-0 Copyright © July 2014
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
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, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
BLINK™ is a trademark of The Zondervan Corporation.
Thank you to the Alan Jay Lerner Estate and the Frederick Loewe Foundation for use of the
Brigadoon
premise.
Cover design and photography: Mike Heath/Magnus Creative
Cover direction: Cindy Davis
Interior design and composition: Greg Johnson/Textbook Perfect
Dedication
For the prodigals of the world, the lost and those who’ve found the courage to go home: You are so much more than your mistakes.
Contents
Chapter 1: Mackenna
Chapter 2: Mackenna
Chapter 3: Veronica
Chapter 4: Mackenna
Chapter 5: Mackenna
Chapter 6: Veronica
Chapter 7: Mackenna
Chapter 8: Mackenna
Chapter 9: Mackenna
Chapter 10: Veronica
Chapter 11: Mackenna
Chapter 12: Mackenna
Chapter 13: Mackenna
Chapter 14: Veronica
Chapter 15: Mackenna
Chapter 16: Mackenna
Chapter 17: Mackenna
Chapter 18: Veronica
Chapter 19: Mackenna
Chapter 20: Mackenna
Chapter 21: Mackenna
Chapter 22: Veronica
Chapter 23: Veronica
Chapter 24: Mackenna
Chapter 25: Veronica
Chapter 26: Mackenna
Chapter 27: Mackenna
Chapter 28: Veronica
Chapter 29: Mackenna
Chapter 30: Mackenna
Chapter 31: Mackenna
Epilogue: Veronica
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
I
glided down the backstage hallway with the sort of stealth that would’ve made my best friend proud. Unfortunately my ninja-like skills didn’t last for long, as I stumbled over my own feet and careened shoulder first against the wall. Before I could recover, Jeanie waved at me from the doorway of the adjacent green room.
“Outstanding show tonight, Kenna.”
“Thanks.” I flashed my fellow intern a dazzling smile meant to overshadow my clumsy moment. “I’m really grateful for your support.”
I gave her a quick hug before slipping into the sanctuary of my private dressing room. The familiar aroma of roasting greasepaint and lilies, so pungent I could actually taste it, greeted me. Rather than turn on the sizzling, artificial lights that would transform the windowless room into a life-size Easy-Bake Oven, I lit a candle.
Adrenaline Theatre interns didn’t usually get the royal treatment. But none had ever stepped into the leading role
hours before opening night and then been proclaimed “a fresh and stunning revelation” by the
Chicago Tribune
. After a six-week run and forty-eight performances, I was no longer just an intern. I was the actress who saved
Little Jimmy: The Margaret Mitchell Musical
, an up-and-coming talent with invitations to audition for a handful of Broadway shows and national tours.
Even Adrenaline’s artistic director, Weston Ballard, wanted a piece of me — in more ways than one. He’d announced a new musical for the following season, written exclusively with me in mind. In typical Wes fashion, he’d commissioned the work without even asking if I wanted the role. I guess since he felt like he “discovered” me, he assumed he owned me as well. I wasn’t doing his show, but I
was
avoiding the part where I informed him of my decision — at least until after closing night.
Just in case he decided to pay me a visit, I locked the door before kicking off my tap shoes and getting out of costume. As much as I’d wished for house elves to magically tidy up after me, my street clothes were still lying in a heap behind my folding screen. Padding over to the changing area, I shimmied out of my constricting 1940s dress and girdle, my hips sighing in relief as I eased on my favorite jeans.
Since the first time I heard “Hard Knock Life,” I’d dreamed of stage life in vivid detail, from the dressing room to the curtain call. But not once did I ever picture being on stage without my bestie applauding me from the first row. And now, thanks to my misadventures in Doon, other dear but improbable faces joined her in my ultimate theater fantasy. Some nights I caught myself scanning the audience as I dared to hope for the impossible — that I could celebrate my success with the people I loved.
“Hello, Mackenna.”
Holy Hammerstein!
The voice stopped me cold.
I hastily pulled on a sweater and then peeked around the
screen to see Duncan MacCrae leaning against the edge of my dressing table holding a duffel bag. But I knew from experience it wasn’t really him. It was a Calling delusion, a manifestation of my subconscious longing for my one true love — a boy who was literally a world away.
Like every other time he’d appeared in my visions, he was ridiculously gorgeous — even in faded jeans and a white button-down shirt. Which was odd . . . The many times I’d conjured him, he’d always worn Doonian clothes — breeches, tunics, the occasional kilt, and often a sword strapped to his side. I’d never pictured him in anything close to modern before.
Something about his unexpected attire caused my heart to wrench. He looked so natural, as if he belonged in this place — this life. Which was inconceivable! He was a Scottish prince, complete with a castle and kingdom.
Stepping out from the screen, I skirted a pile of discarded clothes to grab my bag. Similar occurrences had taught me that Duncan’s apparition could linger stubbornly for hours. But if I left, he wouldn’t follow.
“Mackenna.” His soft, deep brogue tempted me to reconsider. But I’d already played that role — talking back to his image, begging him to stay . . . He never did. He’d fade away and I’d be an emotional basket case for days.
“I’m too tired for this,” I pleaded. “Please go away.”
When I brushed past the imaginary Duncan, he grabbed my arm. Warm, solid fingers produced little electric tremors on my skin as the clean scent of sunshine and leather saddles enveloped me.
While I wouldn’t have ordinarily believed my eyes — or ears, or any other sense as far as Duncan was concerned, my soul stirred in recognition as a voice in my head cried out that the impossible had come true. “You’re real?”
“Aye.” His velvety brown eyes, with the golden flecks that reminded me of melting caramel, fastened to mine. “And so are you.”
Giddy with shock, I whispered, “What are you doing here?”
I waited for words of love, a confession that he couldn’t exist without me any more than I could live without him, reassurance that he realized my leaving him on the Brig o’ Doon had been at the expense of my own heart, and the promise that we would never be apart again.