Boardwalk Summer Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KIMBERLY FISK

  “[A] celebration of all the deepest things in life—family, friendship, and the healing power of love . . . An emotional roller coaster of a story.”

  —Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Lake Magic is pure magic. This is a stellar debut from a writer who is destined to become a reader favorite.”

  —Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “[A] good old-fashioned romance, with family, hometown details, ball games, and beach cottages. It’s a thoroughly satisfying treat.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Berkley Sensation titles by Kimberly Fisk

  LAKE MAGIC

  BOARDWALK SUMMER

  BERKLEY SENSATION

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Kimberly Fisk

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and BERKLEY SENSATION are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399584176

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2017

  Cover art by Anna Kmet

  Cover design by Alana Colucci

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Novels of Kimberly Fisk

  Berkley Sensation Titles by Kimberly Fisk

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  For Rachael

  Only because of you do I know the true meaning

  of strength and courage

  With deepest appreciation to Christina Hogrebe

  who supported and championed me not only during

  the bright days but especially through my darkest hours.

  And to Katherine Pelz who helped me find my voice once more.

  One

  THE phone felt heavy in Hope Thompson’s hand. She traced the buttons, unconsciously pausing at the numbers that would soon connect her to a voice she hadn’t heard in nearly sixteen years.

  She thought about shutting herself away in a closet. Maybe then, if she was hidden with only darkness surrounding her, this call wouldn’t be so hard to make. But Hope knew darkness did not shut out memories—if anything, it enhanced them, becoming a large ebony canvas that allowed them to play over and over in her mind until sleep was impossible.

  She reached for her cup of tea on the end table next to the sofa and took a sip. It was cold. She was halfway off the couch to reheat it before she stopped. Stalling. That was what she was doing. She sat back down, grabbed the phone, and dialed quickly before she lost her nerve.

  “Hello?”

  Hope’s grip tightened. Sixteen years. It had been sixteen years since she’d heard her mother’s voice, but it felt as if it were yesterday. “Hello, Mo—Claire.”

  There was a long pause and then, “Charlotte, is that you?”

  A pain settled in Hope’s chest. Why had she believed her mother would recognize her? “No. It’s me. Hope.”

  A faint crinkling drifted across the phone line, and Hope knew it was her mother shifting positions on the sofa’s plastic protector. “Hope?”

  “I know, Claire. It’s been a long time.”

  After so many years, there should have been a thousand things they had to say to each other. A million tiny details that had filled their lives and the lives of the two grandchildren her mother had never wanted to meet. Instead, Hope didn’t know where to begin—what to say. Should she start with: Your grandchildren’s names are Joshua and Susan, and they are bright and beautiful and make me so proud every day. Or: They will be sixteen in a few months, and they can’t wait to get their drivers’ licenses. Joshua loves football, music, and cars. He has his first steady girlfriend, and I don’t know if that makes me happy or scared. And Susan. She’s everything I wish I could be. She’s confident and smart and funny. She was elected class president, and captain of her soccer team for the second year in a row.

  But Hope knew what she should tell her mom was the complete truth: My whole life is about to fall apart for the second time and this time I need you. We need you. Please don’t send us away again.

  She was thirty-two years old and still she hesitated, not wanting to face the rejection she knew she’d hear in her mother’s voice. So instead, she heard herself asking, “How have you been?”

  “Been good. Been real good except for my garden. With this terrible heat spell we’ve been going through, I should have mulched, that’s what I should’ve done. Sue Ellen down at the Piggly Wiggly told me she was going to mulch but I thought for sure I wouldn’t need to. I got an air conditioner last week. You got one?”

  An air conditioner. After all these years, her mother wanted to know if she owned an air conditioner. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, don’t suppose you’d have much use for one up there in the Pacific Northwest. Not with all that rain. Never could understand why anyone would choose to live in a place that rained nine months out of the year.”

  “I didn’t choose.”

  Claire ignored Hope’s comment, as she had with anything she found unpleasant. “Well now.”

  Why had she even bothered to hope that her mother had changed? That small crack in her heart—the old hurt that would never completely heal—wedged open a fraction more. “Aren’t you going to ask about your grandchildren?”

  There was a long pause. “My show just got over, Hope. I need to go. If I don’t leave right after the third hymn, I’ll be late to the committee meeting. I made my special pineapple rum cake, though I didn’t add the rum because Pastor Gilbert may stop by. I don’t believe he’d take kindly to us ladies consuming outside of the sacramental wine.”

  “Their names are Joshua and Susan.”

  “I have to go, Hope.”

  “Wait.” Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Please, Mama, I need your help.”

  A soft whoosh of air filled the earpiece. “My help?” Another pause. “Well, Hope Marie, you’re a big girl now. I don’t see how I can be of any help. I thought you were doing just fine up there in Washington.”

&n
bsp; “We’re not fine.” Hope could feel her entire life crumbling away like a dry sand castle. “My son has leukemia and needs a bone marrow transplant. The doctors told us our best hope for a match is with a family member.”

  Silence filled the phone lines. “Leukemia? I always knew something like this would happen. Didn’t I tell you?”

  You keep that baby, Hope Marie, and something bad will happen. You just wait and see. Should have named you Hopeless because that’s what you are—hopeless.

  Hope wasn’t seventeen anymore; this time she wasn’t going to let her mother refuse to help.

  “What about your other one?” her mother asked. “His sister? Being twins and all, wouldn’t she do?”

  Hope swallowed, praying the bitter taste in the back of her throat would go away. “Susan and I aren’t a match.” Did her mother really think Hope wouldn’t have explored every other option before contacting her?

  “Well, I just don’t see how I can be of any help. I’m not much for doctors. I couldn’t even go and see Pastor Gilbert’s wife before she passed away, God rest her soul. All those smells and sick people. Really, Hope, you know how they affect me. Besides, don’t they have radiation or something for this? When Hester Pritchett’s second cousin down in Alabama got the cancer, they did something that fixed her right up. I do believe Hester said she lost all her hair but really, Hope, she didn’t go asking her relatives for help. No, I don’t see how I can be of any help.”

  Hope gripped the phone so tight she was surprised it didn’t shatter. She kept her voice deadly calm, knowing it was the only way to deal with Claire Montgomery. “Joshua has had chemotherapy, Mother. It didn’t work.”

  “Maybe you aren’t taking that boy to the right doctors.”

  “My son’s name is Joshua and I have taken him to the very best doctors.”

  “There’s no need for that tone with me. All I was saying, maybe you should take him to one of those specialists.”

  “We’ve seen the specialists. And they agree that what my son needs is a bone marrow transplant.”

  Her mother could ignore Hope all she wanted. She could continue to pretend to her church friends that her only child hadn’t gotten pregnant at seventeen but instead had graduated early and received a full scholarship to some college far, far away. She could go on living that lie, but if she thought for one moment Hope would let her refuse to help her grandson, she was mistaken.

  “I still don’t know why you’re calling me when you should be calling that man.”

  “What man, Mom?”

  An impatient grunt came across the line. “Their father, that’s who. Call him.”

  Their father.

  For just a moment Hope’s heart ached. “I need all of Joshua’s relatives to be tested. The initial test to see if you are a match is simple. All you have to do is go to your doctor and explain what you need done. I can call him, or I can have Joshua’s doctor call and explain if that would be easier.”

  “This is not a problem that concerns Dr. Brown.”

  Hope sighed tiredly. “I thought you might feel that way. Joshua’s doctor gave me the name and number of a colleague in St. Paul. Call him, please, and set up an appointment as soon as you can. I will arrange for a taxi to take you.” Hope gave her mother the doctor’s name and telephone number.

  “How much will this cost?”

  “Don’t worry about the money. If your insurance doesn’t cover it or even if you don’t want to submit the claim, I’ll pay for it. It won’t cost you a cent to see if you can save your grandson.”

  Hope had no idea where she’d come up with the money, but she’d find it somehow.

  “You know I live on a fixed income. My question isn’t a bit out of line.”

  “I know, Mama. I know.”

  A heartbeat of silence filled the air. And then another. Enough time to say I’ve missed you or I love you.

  When it became apparent her mother wasn’t going to say anything else, Hope said, “Call the doctor—”

  The other end of the phone disconnected before Hope could finish.

  Wearily, she hung up and leaned back on the sofa. A familiar, queasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and she grabbed the afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her as silence descended once again.

  She hated this new reality. A too-quiet house that used to be a home full of teenagers—full of laughter and music and noise. Where the fridge and cupboards were frequently raided and either Susan or Joshua or one of their many friends were asking if she was making her famous enchiladas for dinner again tonight and were there more of those homemade ice cream sandwiches in the freezer?

  Now, the house was silent and filled with a coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature and where too many days were filled with nothing but Hope’s own thoughts.

  Call their father.

  Hope pulled the afghan tighter and stared at the phone in her lap. Even before she’d called Claire, she’d known she had one more phone call to make, but she also knew this call would be even harder than the first.

  For her children, she could do anything. She reached for the well-worn magazine and pulled it into her lap. As if by habit, the slick pages slid open to the exact spot she’d been seeking.

  A flashy racecar filled the center pages, its black body covered in bright decals. She skimmed the text, not having to read a word, already knowing everything it said. Her eyes continued down the page, across the lengthy column of awards the driver had won and the records he’d broken. It wasn’t until she hit upon a picture of the driver that she stopped.

  Nick Fortune.

  Sometimes she could go weeks . . . months . . . without thinking of him, but then she’d see him on TV or on the cover of a magazine and her heart would remember what her mind refused to let her forget.

  Before she could stop herself, her gaze drifted to the side table where a tabloid magazine’s headline read: Fortune’s Trophies. In the center of the cover was a picture of Nick. Surrounding him were no less than ten beautiful, highly recognizable women. A somewhat smaller caption underneath summarized: Fortune Conquers All.

  The magazine and its article were nothing new. Hope had seen such stories about Nick for years. A month or two couldn’t go by before another story about him was plastered all over the Internet or the front pages of the tabloids by the checkout stand. She remembered the first article she’d ever seen about him. It had been just after the twins’ fourth birthday. NASCAR’s’ New Bad Boy. Hope hadn’t had to read very far to get the gist. Nick Fortune was playing fast and loose. And not just on the track.

  Her gaze refocused on the article in her lap. In the side margin, written in black ink, was the number she’d researched and found online. She drew in a deep breath and quickly dialed.

  After what seemed like an eternity, a woman’s soft, elegant voice answered. “Fortune Enterprises.”

  Hope was surprised to hear an actual person on the other end. “Hello. I’m trying to reach Nick Fortune.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fortune is unavailable. Would you care to leave a message?”

  Before becoming a teacher, Hope had worked as a secretary to put herself through school. She could spot an automatic “the boss is unavailable” reply in an instant. “I understand you probably receive at least a dozen calls a day from people trying to speak directly with Nick.”

  The receptionist laughed softly. “Try fifty.”

  Hope shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. “I’m an old . . . friend.” She stumbled, wondered what word would accurately describe their past. “It’s urgent I speak to him. Could you put me on hold and check to see if he’ll take my call?”

  “I am sorry.” The receptionist sounded sincere. “But Mr. Fortune is out of the office until next week. If you want to leave a message, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

 
; Hope sighed. “Could you please tell him that Hope Thompson—” She stopped, realizing he wouldn’t recognize her by that last name. “Could you please tell him Hope Montgomery called and it’s urgent I speak to him?” She gave the receptionist her home and cell number.

  “I’ll make sure Mr. Fortune gets your message when he returns.”

  “Thank you. And please. I can’t stress enough how important it is that he return my call.”

  Long after she’d hung up the phone, Hope couldn’t help wondering. What made her think this time would be any different? What made her think that now, after sixteen years, Nick would return her call, when he never had all those years ago?

  * * *

  ROCKINGHAM wasn’t his favorite racetrack, but it was a hell of a thrill.

  Nick Fortune’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel as a fresh surge of adrenaline rushed through his body. His arms burned as he pulled the car down into the corner, laid his foot heavy on the gas, and kept her low on the bank of the turn. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that over a dozen cars stuck to his spoiler, fighting him for the lead.

  Right. Left. Right. Left. The steering wheel seesawed. He kept the accelerator floored and eased up only at the last minute—when nothing but pure instinct told him to. He hugged the corner low . . . lower . . . lower still until—BAM! He jumped back on the gas and flew down the straightaway.

  “Five laps,” his crew chief, Dale Penshaw, said over the headset.

  Nick nodded automatically. He headed hard into turn two. Gravity and a set of tires that were wearing thin pulled him to the outside. He fought to keep the car close to the inside line.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of blue and orange. Number twenty-four, Rick Jarrett, broke away from the pack and tucked in behind.

  Nick smiled. The young kid was good—but not good enough. Nick eased down on the accelerator and started to pull away. Jarrett followed him.

  They rounded turn four. Nick went high, then wove back down on the track to ward off Jarrett.