One Season of Sunshine Read online

  “Does this hurt?” Asher asked, bending Jane’s foot back a little.

  It hurt like hell, but she was pleasantly distracted by his touch. “A little,” she said.

  He knew exactly how much pressure to apply as he moved her foot around. He moved his hand up her ankle again, probing it. “I don’t think anything is broken.” He lifted his gaze to hers and for one slender moment, Jane believed she felt a spark between them.

  Then again, it seemed that she—silly girl that she was—had imagined it, because Asher looked down and put her foot on the ground. “Let me help you up,” he said and stood, reaching his hand out to her. Jane slipped her hand into his; he closed his fingers tightly around hers, put his other hand around her waist, and helped her stand. “What do you think?” he asked as Jane tested her weight on the ankle.

  She thought her heart was going to jump right out of her chest. He held her so easily, so securely, and his body was hard against her. The sensation was intoxicating and maddening—what was she doing? “It’s okay,” she said. “I think I can walk.” She needed to step away from him, breathe some air, find her bearings again.

  “A heartbreaker of a romance. . . . London’s characters continue to be fully crafted and very real.”

  — Romantic Times on Summer of Two Wishes

  Also by Julia London

  The Summer of Two Wishes

  A Courtesan’s Scandal

  Highland Scandal

  Book of Scandal

  The Dangers of Deceiving a Viscount

  The Perils of Pursuing a Prince

  The Hazards of Hunting a Duke

  Guiding Light: Jonathan’s Story

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

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

  Copyright © 2010 by Dinah Dinwiddie

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition July 2010

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  Designed by Peng Olaguera / ISPN

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-4165-4709-9

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9729-5

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6891-2 (ebook)

  For Kathleen Givens. She knows why.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the insight and help of Carol Pierce-Davis, Ph.D. I don’t think she fully realized she was doing it at the time, but in allowing me to pepper her with questions and a lot of what-ifs, her wisdom and knowledge of psychology helped me to form these characters.

  ONE SEASON

  of SUNSHINE

  PROLOGUE

  Colors are exploding over Susanna’s head, shades of blue and pink and red, splashing around her, on her, in her. A man’s hand slides under the hem of her silk dress, the sensation of it warm and slippery, like a snake. “Come on, baby, let’s go.”

  His breath is hot and smells of beer. Who is he—Ash? No, not Ash. Ash is too plain, too dull, too staid. Boring. He can’t see color like Susanna sees it. He can’t see the radiance or the subtle nuances in the sheen of colors. He doesn’t know that capturing that on canvas is what makes a good painting really great. Susanna wants to paint these colors, the ones swirling around her and splashing inside her, lighting her up, making her glow.

  The man’s hand inches higher. Susanna pushes it away and slides off her stool, stumbling.

  “You’re drunk. Let me drive you home.”

  Stupid, he’s so stupid. “I’m not drunk! I’m alive! I want to paint this!”

  “Paint what?”

  “This,” she cries impatiently, flinging her arms to the ceiling, twirling around in a shaft of green and yellow and pink.

  “Okay, all right, we’ll paint,” the man says. He grabs her arm. “Just sit tight and let me see a man about a horse, huh? Then we’ll go paint whatever you want to paint, baby. I got a few ideas of my own.”

  He laughs low. She feels his hand again, sliding up the side of her breast. It sets Susanna on fire, makes her want to take her clothes off here and now and have him touch her everywhere.

  Not yet. First, she has to paint. She must paint before she forgets this. She picks up her beaded clutch, notices the colors above reflecting back at her in the little crystals of her bag. Paint now before she loses it. Susanna walks out of the Rawhide to her car, swaying a little.

  She heads toward Highway 16 and turns right, onto a long, two-lane stretch through the Hill Country, gaining speed. The night is clear and cold, but Susanna doesn’t feel it; she feels hot. She opens the moonroof of her Mercedes, looks up, and gasps with astonishment. The stars are burning bright over her head, a brilliance of diamond white exploding on velvet black. Just like the ideas in her head, brilliant thoughts and ideas exploding, crowding each other for breath.

  She can reach the stars. It is an old cliché, but Susanna believes she can really do it and puts one arm through the moonroof. No, no, not close enough. She kicks off one Christian Louboutin shoe and leans down, wedging it against the gas pedal. When she has it jammed in tight, she maneuvers herself out of the moonroof, steering with her knee while she reaches her arms up overhead.

  She cries out at the electrifying thrill star-catching gives her. Her silky black hair streams behind her, her diamond necklace twists around her neck.

  Susanna never sees the sports utility vehicle approaching from Black Cow Road. She never sees it turn onto the highway ahead of her. Susanna sees nothing but the stars, feels nothing but the hot thrill sluicing through her veins. She doesn’t realize she has quit steering with her knee and her car has drifted into the other lane until a kaleidoscope of fire in vivid color engulfs her.

  1

  HOUSTON

  When the final bell rang at Bruce Elementary School on a warm May afternoon, Jane Aaron’s best friend, Nicole—a teacher, like Jane—helped her carry her things to the car. “Wow,” Nicole said, as she wedged a box into Jane’s trunk. “This is kind of like the end of an era, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all,” Jane said unconvincingly. She shut the trunk. “It’s just a break, Nic. I’ll be back next fall.” She wrapped her arms around Nicole and gave her a hug. “Okay. Here I go, off to tell them.”

  Nicole smiled and tucked a curl behind Jane’s ear. “Hang in there.”

  Hang in there, as if Jane had been dangling from the end of a rope, twisting in the wind. Which, when she thought about it, wasn’t too far off the mark. “I’ll call you later and tell you how it went.”

  “You better!” Nico
le warned her. She looked at her car, parked next to Jane’s. “Don’t you dare leave without talking to me, Janey,” she added, and glanced sidelong at her friend.

  “Nic, it’s just one summer,” Jane assured her. “I’ll be talking to you a million times. I’ll call you in a little while, okay?”

  Nicole smiled again. She had a great smile, a Colgate smile, and with her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and her little Bruce Elementary Rocks badge on her shirt, she looked like the poster child for wholesome second-grade teachers everywhere. “Okay. Good luck with the fam,” she said, and with a cheery little wave, she walked to her car.

  Jane got in her car, too, and made it halfway down the street before she pulled over, put the car in park, and covered her face with her hands. “What am I doing?” she whispered. “Seriously—what am I doing?”

  Finding yourself, she answered silently and groaned. That sounded so clichéd, such new age crap. But in her case, it was true. She was literally, truly, finding herself—or rather, the woman who’d given her away.

  When Jane pulled into the back parking area outside The Garden restaurant that her family had owned and operated for years, she couldn’t make herself get out of the car.

  They were in there, her family, getting ready for the evening rush. Just imagining them working together, laughing, and playing that stupid game with the creamers gave Jane butterflies of anticipation and dread. She was going to walk into that happy little scene and tell them that after much thought, she’d decided to go and search for her birth family.

  She’d actually practiced her speech last night in front of the bathroom mirror. “My decision did not come lightly,” she’d said gravely to her mirror, as if she’d been some politician removing herself from office. But it was true: the decision had not been easy to make. Naturally, Jane had wondered who she really was for a long time, but she hadn’t realized just how much she’d wondered, how deeply that question had sunk into her marrow, until Jonathan, her boyfriend, had asked her to marry him.

  Jonathan’s proposal had not been unexpected. It had been the natural progression of their relationship. Jane had figured it was coming, and she’d figured she’d say yes. But the moment Jonathan had asked her, Jane had been stunned to discover that she hadn’t been ready to say yes. She hadn’t known why her epiphany had occurred at that inopportune moment; she’d just known that something had felt wrong and even a little raw and she’d not been able to commit fully to Jonathan. Not yet.

  Jane would be the first to admit that she could be a little obtuse about her feelings. She wasn’t very good at self-examination and preferred to go through life happy and cheerful and looking forward, always forward. But her reluctance to say yes to Jonathan had dredged up a whole lot of emotions she’d realized she’d been feeling for a while. Such as . . . was he really the one? And how could she know who was really the one when she didn’t really know who she was?

  The more she came to understand that knowing the who and why of herself had been questions in her for a long time, the emptier and more uncertain she began to feel. About everything. About marriage, and kids, and family. About her thesis, the one thing she needed to finish in order to get her graduate degree. She couldn’t move on with her life, not without answering a very basic and fundamental question about herself: Who was she?

  Of course Jonathan didn’t understand her sudden change of heart, but he was at least trying to. Neither did the people inside this restaurant—they loved Jonathan, and they didn’t get Jane’s sudden reluctance to make it permanent. It really wasn’t like her. She had a great family, a loving family, and she’d never felt anything but completely and totally loved.

  Yet she’d never felt like she was one hundred percent one of them, either.

  The need to know who she was had, in the last couple of years, begun to gnaw on her, eating away from the inside out, especially after she’d signed up for the national registry and no one had come looking for her. Why hadn’t her biological parents kept her? She felt alone, like she was straddling two realities. She felt a little unlovable.

  After much thought, I have decided to move to Cedar Springs.

  Cedar Springs was a small town west of Austin. She’d been born there, and that was all she knew about her beginnings. And now Jane was going to go into The Garden’s kitchen and tell the family who loved her beyond measure that she was moving to Cedar Springs to look for the family who didn’t love her quite as much.

  Wish me luck!

  She’d tried that in her mirror, too, a cheerful and carefree end to her little speech, but it hadn’t worked. Jane didn’t expect her family to like her decision, but she did expect them to accept it.

  God, she was nervous! Why was she so nervous? She checked her reflection in the mirror of the visor, running a hand over the top of her head. “At least one thing is going right,” she muttered. Her dark, unruly hair was still in the braid she’d managed this morning. Jane took a breath, closed the visor, and opened the car door.

  There was a faux brass monkey and coconut-shaped basket attached to the wall in the kitchen of The Garden, hanging right next to the time clock, where it collected receipts and bills of lading. It reminded Jane of home . . . perhaps because there was an identical monkey and coconut in the kitchen there, as well. When her mom found a bargain, she took advantage.

  The rest of the Aarons agreed with Jane: those baskets were hideous.

  “I refuse to touch that,” Jane’s cousin Vicki had vowed when Jane’s mother, Terri, had hammered it securely to the wall right next to the time card machine.

  Terri, swishing by in her rectangular glasses and colorful apron dotted with artichokes, gave Vicki a friendly little pat on her derriere. “That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it, sweetie?”

  While it was true that Vicki could be dramatic and a little too pointed in her comments at times, she’d had a point. But the Aarons had managed to adapt to the monstrosity by making it the centerpiece of a popular family game. Before the lunch and dinner rushes, before the staff started to trickle in, they liked to toss creamers at the thing from established two-point and three-point lines. Uncle Barry held the record for the most points ever earned in a single game, an astounding eighteen points.

  Terri always issued her standard warning when a game began: “If you break that, you better pack your bags for China, because that’s where you’re going to have to go to replace it!”

  Yes, the kitchen at The Garden was just like being at home. As several of the Aarons earned their living there, and one of them was always working, they tended to gather there more than they did anywhere else. This kitchen was a professional one, what with its large ovens, walk-in coolers and freezers, and spotless, stainless prep areas. But it also had the touches of family. The walls were livened up with pictures of the Aarons and some loyal staff through the years. There was a string of Christmas lights scattered through the overhead dome heating lights, which someone had hung one year and never removed.

  There was a small desk in the prep area that was stacked with bills and food orders and travel brochures addressed to Uncle Barry and Aunt Mona, both chefs at The Garden. They seemed always to be planning a trip they could never quite seem to make. Taped to the door of the walk-in freezer were the required Health Department certificates and a pair of crayon drawings that were really pretty good. Barry and Mona’s daughter, Vicki, had made them years ago, when the kids had had to troop to the restaurant after school and sit at the bar and do their homework under Uncle Greg’s watchful eye.

  Uncle Greg had since moved to Dallas, and Vicki was a sous-chef now, having left her art behind for the security of a job that actually paid the rent, but the crayon drawings reminded Jane of pleasant afternoons spent in front of the liquor bottles.

  Years ago, Jane’s parents, Terri and Jim Aaron, now the majority owners in the restaurant, had knocked out a wall that had separated their small office from the kitchen and turned the area into a general gathering place. Terri, the h
ead chef and bargain hunter, had found a pair of gold couches with big red oak leaves at a garage sale. Suffice it to say that Terri’s talent for cooking was vastly superior to her talent for shopping, but those couches, and the scarred, laminate coffee table between them, made a great place to gather before a shift, or to collapse with a glass of wine at the end of a long shift.

  That area was always cluttered with the family’s things. Jane couldn’t count how many times she had tripped over her brother Eric’s guitar case, dropped just inside the door. Eric was a floor manager, which gave him the freedom and the cash he needed to pursue music, his true love.

  The culinary academy books littering the coffee table belonged to Jane’s other brother, Matt. He was the heir apparent to Terri because of his own personal desires and the popular vote of the family. His talent was desserts, and the kitchen usually carried the scent of his latest creation. Apple tarts drenched in heavy cream, red velvet cakes with a rich cream cheese filling, and Jane’s personal favorite, Jane’s Chocolate Thunderdome, an enormous chocolate brownie from which warm chocolate oozed, developed especially for Jane’s sweet tooth.

  Jane had no talent for cooking herself, but she’d turned out to be a pretty good hostess, and she’d supplemented her paltry public school teacher salary by hostessing on the weekends.

  Over the years, the Aarons had made a habit of having an early dinner together every night before the dinner rush, which is where Jane intended to make her announcement today.

  As she walked into the kitchen, a creamer narrowly missed her head and bounced off the door frame. That near miss was met with a masculine chorus of “Oooh,” as if they’d just missed a three-point basket in the last second of the NBA play-offs. Jane scooped up the creamer, slid her gym bag under the coffee table, and asked, “What smells so good?”

  “Mom’s secret recipe eggplant parm,” Matt said. “Hey, we’re just starting a new round. Are you in?”