Riptide (Drifters, Book Four)

Susan Rodgers

Description

Healing is the hardest part...

Quaint patchwork Prince Edward Island, Canada, has turned out to be a great place to hide. In an attempt to reconnect after the tumultuous and terrifying events of the past few years, Jessie and Josh have squirreled themselves into a weathered grey farmhouse on the island’s north shore, on the Gulf of St. Lawrence, where they find themselves lost in a rip current of fear and bad memories they feel powerless to escape.

One day, an old Wheeler family friend shoves a mysterious white box under their noses. Afraid it will unleash more pain the couple feel they can’t handle as they try to heal past hurts, they leave it untouched. But its insidious contents beckon and taunt them as it sits in a corner gathering dust.

A film role offers Josh an escape from Jessie’s torment and apparent unwillingness to beat back her fearful past, but does he dare leave her alone? And how can they, as a couple, embrace a new beginning after so many endings?

A riptide can be merciless and unforgiving...especially after a storm.

Sujets

• Romance contemporaine
• Fiction
• Romance
• Contemporary

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 21 août 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780986950278
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 6 Mo

Extrait

Riptide Book Four!Drifters Series

Susan Rodgers Ebookit Edition Copyright 2014 by Susan Rodgers

*** Find out more about Susan Rodgers on Facebook under Susan A. Rodgers, Writer And atwww.susanrodgersauthor.com Twitter: srbluemountain www.bublish.com ***

Published in eBook format by Bluemountain Entertainment Converted byhttp://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN‐13: 978‐0‐9869‐5027‐8

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Alanna Munro. All rights reserved.

Edited by Kathy Gillis and Stephen Reaman.

*** For all of you who also now believe in hope. ***

A riptide is a strong current, especially flowing outwards from the shore, which presents a hazard to swimmers and boaters. Also known as a rip current. ***

Table of Contents

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty‐one

Chapter Twenty‐two

Chapter Twenty‐three

Chapter Twenty‐four

Chapter Twenty‐five

Chapter Twenty‐six

Prologue

“Trudy, I need a favor.” Huh. Frank wasn’t the kind of guy to beat around the bush. He always liked to get right to the point. Trudy dropped into a comfortable old wooden Windsor schoolteacher’s chair inherited from her father. She leaned back against the sturdy wood and settled two black high-heeled shoes on the desk. Popping a pink peppermint into her mouth, she prepared herself. Last time she heard from Frank was after their break-up when he called to ask her to ship his drum mics out to Vancouver, along with a pair of leather hiking boots he had left behind at their Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island home. Trudy wasn’t much in the mood to do him any niceties. She stiffened as her defenses ballooned to high alert. “Speak,” she said drily, ready to punch theendbutton on her iPhone at any moment. “Put it this way,” came the serious voice from the other side of the country. “Should you choose to help out, your life will suddenly become very interesting.” Rubbing a temple to help keep her temper in check, Trudy hesitated. Was her ex insinuating that her life wasn’t interesting? If nothing else, she was at least curious. Hearing from Frank out of the blue like this, on a Monday afternoon in midsummer, was a complete surprise. The drum mics were shipped out last fall. The spring prior, he had vacated their modern split- level home. Trudy had long since deleted his friendship from her life. All it took was a sturdy pounce of the mouse on her Facebook page. So what if her finger paused for about twenty seconds before she actually clicked? Now, she employed a tactic she often used with her more belligerent or traumatized patients, the ones who were in such pain they couldn’t find the words to express themselves. She sat silent and waited for Frank to fill in the blanks. It didn’t take long. True to his nature, Frank got right to the point. “Trudy, I’ve been asked by some friends to recommend a therapist in Prince Edward Island. There’s a high profile young couple heading your way for the remainder of the summer and into the fall who need some PTSD counseling. They plan to keep their visit to the island on the down low but they need some guidance and direction to help them find tools to navigate their way through anxiety and triggers. Are you in?”

“Whoa Frank, slow down. First of all, you know I’m not seeing a lot of patients anymore.” Trudy was working on a book, in fact. She was a good therapist, but after twenty-five years of counseling some of the Canadian east coast province’s more extreme cases of anorexia, bulimia, trauma survivors and cutters, she needed some time to heal herself. Some distance. Especially after…well, especially after her nasty divorce from Frank. The sudden break-up had thrown her for a loop, coming out of left field the way it did. “Second, what do you mean by high profile? I’m not sure I want to give up my all too brief P.E.I. summer to a couple of bickering celebrities with huge egos.” “Trudy,” he sighed in that exasperated way of his, as if she were a child and he the all-knowing parent. “They’re not bickering, just troubled. They’ve had a rough few years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple more in love. It’s inspiring. But – they’re hurting. Some quiet time on P.E.I. will do tremendous good on its own, but they need a little guidance to help them navigate the roadblocks, to develop a plan to manage the hard memories. You’ll love them.” “Humph. Why me?” “Because I trust you, Trudy. Because my friends trust me to find the right person, someone honest and truthful and caring and compassionate, who has a success record with deeply troubled individuals. Most importantly, someone who is discreet, who won’t be cowed by fame.” Intrigued, Trudy pondered Frank’s offer as she tossed the peppermint around on her tongue. It might be nice to have a little diversion from the research and writing of her book about patients who cut themselves in order to find a pain they can feel instead of a haunting psychological torment. Might be nice to see actual people occasionally during the week instead of just her dozy tabby cat, Oliver. Might be nice to break up the day with more than just a daily run or a trip to the local coffee shop. “So who is this young couple, Frank?” Trudy crunched purposefully in his ear as she chomped the last bit of the sugary peppermint. If her ex was annoyed, he managed to refrain from commenting on it, or chiding her, as she half-expected. “Are you sitting down?” “Uh…yes?” Sheesh. This is Canada. He was talking about people from Vancouver. How famous could you get? Maybe the potential clients were a hockey player and his wife? A Vancouver Canuck? “Remember the exclusive Shawna Coupland interview that aired last week? The one everybody was talking about on Facebook, that Jian Ghomeshi chatted about on CBC? Second highest forwarded tweet ever,

following Ellen Degeneres’ group selfie from the Oscars? The American newscasts were all over it.” Sarcasm edged Trudy’s voice. “Yes, I’m so into pop culture, Frank. There was no television in the house for you to steal last year, remember?” He cringed at the bitterness still edging his ex-wife’s voice. But Frank didn’t need to be reminded of Trudy’s lack of interest in pop culture or celebrity. He was well aware. That was one reason why, out of all the contemporaries he left behind in Charlottetown, the small province’s capital of 35 000 people, he knew instantly that Trudy was the best choice to help this young couple. She didn’t give a hoot about television or pop music. She rarely went to the movies, in fact mostly all she seemed interested in were her plants and flowers and, of course, tawny-striped Oliver who kept her company during the day while he dreamt the hours away on a wicker chair. Trudy’s office alone was a veritable jungle hideout. The woman was pretty much a recluse. Frank wasn’t. He believed in living his life to the fullest, in sucking the marrow out of life. Lack of interest in pop culture aside, he knew that Trudy did listen to the radio on occasion. She usually tuned into CBC, the Canadian public broadcaster, for the occasional insight into local, national and world news. In fact, as she rearranged her feet on the desk, startling Oliver out of his mousey visions, Trudy scrunched her eyebrows together and pondered who her new clients might be. She recalled some rumblings on the news one day about a couple of actors involved in a stabbing incident… something related to a stalking. Awareness crept up on her slowly, and then the proverbial light bulb switched on. Frank was talking about that woman, the singer and film star – she had a Prince Edward Island connection. What was her name? Frank provided further illumination. “Trudy, you’ve got to promise absolute discretion. My friend, the one who is pals with the big film and record producer here, Charles Keating, asked me to find someone this couple can trust implicitly. But I’m warning you, this is not going to be an easy gig. This girl has been hurting for a very long time, in silence, as many do. She’s not only finally admitted most of her troubles to her friends, but she’s also gone public to the world. Which one would think is a good sign but, as you and I both know, recovering from child sexual abuse and then serious tragedy has left her deeply scarred. She is a gem to the world. Her music heals and comforts millions. She deserves a chance at a productive safe life.” “It’s that singer, Jessie something or other.”

Frank paused. “Yes. And her fiancé, Josh Sawyer. He’s an actor in that popular Canadian western,Drifters. So was she, for the first few seasons. That’s where they met.” “I thought they met in a cluster of garbage bins.” Surprising her, Frank laughed. “Why Trudy, you scoundrel. Have you been readingPeoplemagazine? Is it stuffed under your mattress with your life savings?” Bristling, Trudy ignored the barb and responded sharply, “There was a write-up in the paper about them. They just got together again after a long absence or something.” A heavy sigh on the other end made Trudy regret the bitter edge that suffused her voice. She almost caved and pretended she cared a hoot for Frank’s feelings when the sincerity of his words reminded her that he was indeed a man who cared honestly for others. Most of the time. “Yes. Like I said Trudy, this is not bound to be a piece of cake for you.” “In other words,” she said quietly, “be cautious.” She filled in his thoughts for him. Echoing his lower voice, imitating him, she teased, “You’re bound to start to care about these people. Maybe get a little too wrapped up in their lives.” She knew she did that. She got too caught up in her patients’ lives time and again, to her detriment. Hence, time off to write the book. Hence…the excruciating divorce. Hence, life alone with living things that can’t hurt you, like calming plants and a bossy cat. “You’re the best bet to help these people, Trudes. They need you.” After all this time, Frank still had the capacity to stir her heart into motion. That gentle way he had of saying the old nickname, like warm honey sliding across his lips…she closed her eyes, eased her feet off the desk, and leaned into her palm, her elbow resting on the old teacher’s desk that reminded Trudy of her father. “What if I can’t, Frank? What if I can’t help them? Will the world blame me for it?” She was only half-joking. “No, Trudy,” he said definitively as if this was something he had considered long and hard on the lengthy commute to his shiny new downtown Vancouver clinic that morning. “No one will blame you. But the world will be a darker place without this girl’s music. Without her films. That I can guarantee.” Trudy softened. Frank was a man who appreciated music on a level she would never understand. Trudy was a scientist, someone who liked to solve problems and puzzles. She was mathematical, objective, smart. Frank, like her, was a man who lived to solve people problems, as he

called his work but, unlike her, he was a dreamer who lived a full life. He played drums for a number of bands, in different styles – rock, jazz, blues, even country on occasion. He was a man whofeltlife on a different level than many. He appreciated art, visually, on canvas and in film, in lyrics and melody. He was a Jessie Wheeler fan. He wanted the girl to survive, and thrive, so that her music would continue to float in and around his soul, buoying it, lifting it. “Okay,” Trudy said flatly, opening her eyes and fingering a decades old crack in the aged varnish between her neatly stacked metal meshedinand outShe traced the length of the crack – nearly six inches. How baskets. deep would this singer’s wounds go? Well. There was only one way to find out. “Frank?” she asked. “How soon until they arrive?” Ten feet away, Oliver stood on the wicker chair’s pink floral cushion and stretched first one paw and then the other, yawning at the same time, eyeing Trudy as if he sensed that his seat would soon be taken over by a human with all too real hurts. His paws landed with a gentle thud on a sunny spot on the wide pine floor before he looked up at his roommate expectantly. As Trudy frowned and hit theendon her cell, then button settled backwards into the chair once more as she pondered this strange twist to the rest of her sanguine summer plans, she told herself that she was glad her twelve pound cat was her only responsibility. She was glad that Frank was living across the country in some high-rise condo eating take-out sushi rolls and succulent Pad Thai instead of also staring at her with expectations of a five o’clock supper. As organized and detailed as Trudy generally was, tonight, almost in defiance of Frank, she would settle for light fare, just marmalade toast and tea. She flipped open her laptop and hauled her middle-aged body up to a standing position while she waited for the computer to warm up. Oliver needed to be fed before she immersed herself in research. Jessie Wheeler and her beau Josh Sawyer would be in her office in a few days. Trudy had work to do. The laptop would burn the midnight oil tonight. Frank had promised to email links to news articles and even some of Jessie’s videos on YouTube. The link that would captivate Trudy the most – which enthralled the world before her – was the candid interview with Shawna Coupland. The tale it told was harrowing, honest, real. Shocking. Surprising. At three a.m. Trudy finally yielded to a succession of yawns, pulled a pink cotton nightgown over her head and collapsed onto the right side of her lonely queen-sized bed. She grabbed Frank’s old pillow and held it to