September Canvas

by

Gun Brooke

Acknowledgments

I still can’t quite fathom that this is my seventh published novel. It never gets old to hold your author copies tightly squeezed to your chest and then peruse the cover, the layout, and read a snippet here and there.

More than four years ago, Radclyffe took a chance on a writer from Sweden whose English was good, but whose learning curve was steep.

Still is, sometimes, since writers are never fully trained. Radclyffe put me and my stories in Shelley Thrasher’s tender hands, and Shelley has been my editor ever since, something I’m very grateful for. The cover layout is done by Sheri, who makes beautiful covers. When Sheri thought I was getting good enough at my 3D artwork to make my own cover images, she let Rad know, and thus, this is my second cover. I want to thank my friend Pol for helping me with scenery research and for “beta reading” the image for me. I also want to acknowledge Cindy, Julia, Connie, Lori, Paula, Lee, and all the others at BSB who give of themselves and their time for us writers to shine. The finished product wouldn’t look half as professional if it weren’t for your hard work.

On a personal note, my beta readers and first readers, Ruth, Wendy, Trish, and Maggie, did a terrific job of helping me not lose face when submitting the manuscript to BSB. *smile* I wouldn’t be able to write the way I do without the strong support of my family. They never fail to say they’re proud of me, happy for me, and then they present their wish lists of stuff they want if I ever become super-famous. *groan*

Through ups and downs, I never doubt your love for your children. My brother and I are very lucky.

"She ought to be locked up!”

Deanna Moore froze, her hand on the spine of a book.

Obviously she wasn’t alone in the small bookstore. The woman on the other side of the shelf must have thought the same thing, because she didn’t bother to lower her voice.

“Legally she hasn’t committed a crime,” another female voice said. “It doesn’t matter. She’s immoral and obviously doesn’t hesitate to prey on innocent young people. If I had known how she’d betray our trust—”

“But you didn’t, Gloria. None of us did.” Deanna squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. She knew who Gloria was.

“And two years later, poor Savannah is still paying the price.” Gloria sounded cold. “My angel’s reputation is forever linked to
that
woman
. I can’t imagine how this will affect her. Long term, I mean.”

“There now, Gloria,” the other woman said. “Savannah’s strong. She’ll come to her senses and go to an Ivy League school before you know it. Meanwhile you just have to make sure she spends time with the right crowd. She might even get back together with Ned.”

“Oh, don’t get me started on poor Ned. He was totally humiliated, and I had to face his mother and try to explain how this monster dug her claws into my baby. You’ll never know how terrible that felt. They’re one of the Boston Fraziers.”

“I can just imagine. But you don’t have anything to worry about. You made sure that woman will never teach at this or any other Vermont school again. Everyone considers you a hero for standing up for your daughter like that.”

“I tried to do the right thing, but everybody gossiped about my sweet angel.”

Deanna grimaced at Gloria’s holier-than-thou tone. If she could only slip out of the store without facing the women…but she couldn’t show such weakness in front of Gloria Mueller, Grantville’s self-proclaimed first lady. Deanna pulled a book from the shelf and strode up to the counter where the store owner was glancing nervously at Gloria and her friend.

“I’ll take this one, please.” Deanna was happy that her voice held.“Oh. Right. That’s…that’ll be eighteen-eighty, please.” The store owner cleared her throat and placed the book in a bag.

Deanna paid, and as she turned to leave Gloria and her friend, the new mayor’s wife, stood only a few feet away. “Excuse me,” Deanna murmured and stepped toward them.

Gloria’s eyes were slits of disgust. “You have some nerve.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Deanna made sure she sounded completely indifferent. “Remember, though, that your voice carries a long way. Discussing personal topics in a public place is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Slander can be expensive.” Gloria gasped and clutched her purse. “Slander! If I had my way, you’d be run out of town, you—”

Deanna moved closer, her anger rising like bile. “Careful,
Gloria
.”

The woman next to Gloria tugged her friend aside and Deanna passed them, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

“Did you hear her? Did you
hear
how she threatened me?” Gloria’s voice followed Deanna out of the store.

She hurried to her car and slumped into the front seat, her knees buckling. It had taken all her strength not to show any sign of weakness.

In the rearview mirror her dark blue eyes looked stormy. No wonder the two women had seemed almost afraid of her.
How long will this go on?

And how long can I stand it?

"I have to let you go now, Mom. I need to focus on the traffic and make sure I don’t miss the sign to Grantville.” Faythe Hamilton listened to her mother’s concerns for what she called “Faythe’s moment of insanity” half a minute longer before she interrupted again. “I hear you, Mom, and I’ll think about it. Right now I need a vacation and I’ve made up my mind about taking this break.”

“Honestly, child—”

“I’m not a child. Tell Bruno hello for me.”

“Bruno? Oh, please, darling. Bruno left for Europe weeks ago. I’m seeing Chester again.”

Faythe tried not to groan. “All right. I’ll try to remember Chester. Ciao, Mom. End call.” Faythe sighed. Chester. Bruno. Who could keep track of her mother’s lovers? Two days after Faythe graduated from college, her mother had divorced Faythe’s father, and since then entertained one young lover after another. Her father followed his ex-wife’s example and traded one girlfriend for another at least once a year.
Like his cars.
Faythe frowned and accelerated past a dirty old Volvo. Faythe loved to drive, and living in Manhattan didn’t allow for much of that. She was her father’s daughter in that she adored her car, a silver-gray Chrysler Crossfire, but unlike her father, she didn’t trade for a newer model every year. She was happy with the one she had, which was far from worn out.

Faythe gripped the steering wheel and changed lanes. A sign farther up the road said Grantville, 5 miles, and she took in the beautiful scenery as she approached the exit to the local road. Maple trees on fire, from the brightest yellow to the darkest red, lined the road. Billowing fields of green, and quaint villages with houses dating back to the Civil War and earlier, created a unique atmosphere. She hadn’t been to Vermont since she was a teenager, but had longed to go back ever since.

The summer at her Aunt Nellie’s lakeside cabin was one of the happiest in Faythe’s life.

Nowadays, Nellie spent hardly any time in Vermont. Instead she lived in Florida all year and lent her Vermont cabin to Faythe for as long as she needed it. Usually, when Faythe took a rare few days off, she visited Nellie in Fort Lauderdale for a weekend, but this time, this long break when so much hung in the balance, Faythe needed to spend some time alone.

Her cell phone rang again, making her jump. She glanced at the display.
Mom
. “Ignore.” Faythe knew she ought to feel guilty for screening her parents’ calls, but she had explained to them why she needed this time by herself to figure things out. If they couldn’t understand and respect her decision, she couldn’t do much about it.

She approached a new sign. Grantville. Est. 1812. Population 8245. This number easily doubled in the summer. The lake was a popular place for water sports and fishing. Wealthy New Yorkers like Aunt Nellie kept houses here and employed one of the locals to care for them in the winter. Faythe intended to stay at least until Christmas, which would give her plenty of time to figure out her future and make plans.
I might just write something.

Seeing the familiar shops along Main Street, she was transported ten years into the past. After graduating from high school, she’d stayed at Aunt Nellie’s for three months before she went to college. So many things fell into place during that magical summer, and Faythe gave her aunt all the credit.

Whereas Faythe’s parents were calculating and materialistic, Nellie was down-to-earth and caring. Faythe often wished Nellie had brought her up. Instead she had to face the fact that she’d been marinaded in her parent’s shallowness since the day she was born. Her mother Cornelia’s mantra was “possessions and position.”

Faythe took a right and drove along the lake, spotting new houses where empty fields and trees used to be. When she reached the narrow gravel road that led down to her aunt’s property, she slowed.

The cabin looked unchanged. Faythe stepped out of the car and stood still for a moment, taking it all in. But this was no cabin. The one-story house boasted six bedrooms, four and a half baths, a living room, an entertainment room, an open-plan kitchen, and a library. Slowly, Faythe circled the house and walked down to the water. The lake was like a mirror, and the wind seemed to hold its breath as Faythe leaned against a tree, absorbing the calmness. The setting sun’s last rays made the water look transparent and poured gold on its surface before it dropped behind the treetops.

Most of the time she enjoyed everything the Big Apple had to offer, and she loved her neighborhood and her many friends, but this serenity, the fresh air…she couldn’t find this in New York.

Looking to her left, Faythe noticed a light in the neighboring cabin.

The dark shingled house resembled Nellie’s, but was much smaller, maybe two or three bedrooms. A young family rented it when Faythe visited ten years ago. Were they still around?

She was about to walk back up to the house when her neighbor’s porch door opened. Curious, Faythe remained half hidden behind the tree. A tall figure walked onto the porch and stood by the railing, gazing over the water. It was a woman, but her shoulder-length black hair hid her face. She held the railing with both hands and stood motionless for more than a minute. Faythe shivered in the evening air, which had become increasingly colder. She didn’t want the other woman to catch her spying, so she tried to ignore the goose bumps on her arms.

The woman suddenly banged both fists on the railing and shouted.

Faythe pressed closer against the tree, intrigued. The woman rubbed her face with both hands, then put her arms around herself in a tight squeeze. The gesture, which Faythe interpreted as loneliness, stirred an unwelcome memory of doing the same thing many times during her adolescence.

The slamming door made Faythe look up to find that the other woman had disappeared. Faythe eventually made her way up the path to her car, careful not to trip in the poor light.