Slow Moon Rising (The Cedar Key Series Book #3)

Marie Everson Eva

Description

Cedar Key has long been a place of rest, healing, and release in the Claybourne family. But it might also be the birthplace of a lie that is poisoning the family from within. Join the strong Claybourne women--Anise, Kimberly, Jayme-Leigh, Heather, and Ami--as they each confront the truth. Their unique paths will lead them through heartbreak, misunderstandings, and pain. But their journeys will also bring reconciliation with each other and renewed love in their own lives.In her lyrical, evocative fashion, Eva Marie Everson weaves a tapestry of complicated relationships that, when complete, reveals the most beautiful work of art there is--family.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781441241788
• Langue: English

Extrait

© 2013 by Eva Marie Everson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2013
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 for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4178-8
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
“Eva Marie Everson is a talented storyteller with a passion for relationship stories that will touch your heart.”
Tracie Peterson , bestselling and award-winning author of the Land of the Lone Star series and House of Secrets
Past Praise for Eva Marie Everson
“Everson’s work is neatly done and her fans will find value in her presentation of life’s lack of tidiness, which reads both realistically and convincingly.”
Publishers Weekly
“Everson’s evocative writing puts the reader in the midst of the gorgeous seaside setting.”
RT Book Reviews
“Written in an easy-to-read style, including chapters that convey scenarios from the past, Chasing Sunsets moves quickly and captures any romantic’s attention. Everson knows how to create a well-crafted tale.”
Alice Wisler , author of A Wedd ing Invitation
“Eva Marie Everson charms her readers with characters you’d love to have as friends. Then she places them in a setting where you’d love to be.”
Novel Reviews
“Eva Marie Everson’s latest story shows her versatility as a writer as she pens a contemporary romance with women’s fiction undertones.”
Relz Reviews
Dedicated to
Shellie Arnold
Loyd Boldman
Craig Duddles
Jessica R. Everson
Mark Hancock
Larry J. Leech, II
Edwina Perkins
Linda D. Schoonover
Dan Walsh
and to
Word Weavers International, Inc., Orlando Chapter
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Acknowledgments
For More Information . . .
About the Author
Other Books by Marie Everson
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Anise July 2000
Some memories come with distinction. Exactness. Moments I recall with precision as to what I was wearing. Where I was standing. The music playing on the radio.
What I was thinking.
The day I met Ross Claybourne is no exception.
I had put in a full day at the Calla Lily, my floral shop. Up until two years ago, when my mother died, the shop had been known as Kelly’s Floral Shop, appropriately named for the woman who’d opened it, Gertrude Kelly.
“Gertie” she’d been called by family and friends.
Not by my brother and me, of course. We called her “Mom.”
And Dad . . . well, in the beginning he’d also called her Gertie. But soon after my tenth birthday, he called her “plaintiff.” After that, simply “your mother.” For the life of me, I don’t believe I heard him call her by her name ever again.
But that’s another story. A sad one. And I tend to stay away from sad stories.
I was making floral arrangements for the Stockford wedding reception, ten to be exact. I’d filled the plastic glasses with wax crystals, covered the wide opening with a circular piece of cardboard, and then hot-glued a mat of duckweed to which I affixed golden-yellow preserved gardenias and freeze-dried orange rose petals.
I placed them in a carrying container, along with yards of white and peach netting, which would be used to form a cloud at their bases. I reached for the on/off knob of the radio; Faith Hill’s song “Breathe” wafted from its small speakers. The song expresses passion. Something I’d never really known. Oh, I’d thought I had—once—but then . . .
The phone rang.
I switched off the radio before turning toward the old wooden countertop where the phone rested, the black rotary my mother had installed in the midseventies and I’d not been able to part with.
“The Calla Lily,” I said. “This is Anise.”
“Oh good, Anise. I caught you. I was afraid you’d already headed out to the church.” My caller was Lisa MacNeil, co-owner of Harbour Inn, one of the oldest bed and breakfast inns in New England. She was also my best friend.
I sighed appropriately, knowing Lisa would understand. I had forever decorated for everyone else’s weddings. Never my own. Weddings exhausted me more than funerals. At least I knew I would get one of those. Some day. “I more or less have everything in the car. One last box to carry out to the van. Cheryl is already there so . . .”
“Are you planning to stay once you get everything set up?” Panic rose in Lisa’s voice.
“Goodness no. You know me and weddings.” I allowed a giggle to escape my throat—forced but effective.
“Oh good. Because . . . I need you. Can you bring a fresh arrangement for the front hall after you’re done?”
“What happened to the one I brought yesterday?”
Now it was Lisa’s turn to sigh. “An unsupervised child just had to inspect it.”
This time my laughter was real. “I think I have something here that will suffice. I’ll be there around . . . five?” I reached for a pad and pencil to make myself a note.
“Perfect. Dinner afterward with Derrick and me? At the inn, on us?”
I paused. Saturday evenings were nearly always spent with my brother Jon and his wife—and my assistant—Cheryl and their family. My not being there would hardly be a tragedy. And, since I’d sometimes rather spend an evening with Lisa and Derrick, I decided to take her up on it. “Sounds good,” I said. “I could use some Lisa and Derrick time.”
“See you when you get here.”
I delivered the remainder of the flowers and other arrangements to the Chapel of Saint Mark and found Cheryl already busy at work. I watched her with amazement. What she’d managed to accomplish in the short time she’d been there was nothing short of miraculous. White linen cloths and runners the color of burnt sunset had been laid over the tables. The chairs had been swathed in white and tied off with ribbon matching the runners. Peach-colored napkins had been fanned at each place setting, the silver and the crystal arranged. The reception hall looked ready for the one hundred guests who would celebrate in just a few hours, though I knew we had a few touches left to arrange, including the bride and groom’s table.
As soon as Cheryl spotted me, she met me at the first table I’d come to, which had been set up as a place for staging our boxes and containers. “Before I forget,” I said, “I have to go out to the inn this afternoon to replace the front hall arrangement. Lisa has asked me to stay for dinner. I hope that’s not an inconvenience.”
Cheryl—a tall, willowy redhead—pretended to pout, but I knew her better than to take it to heart. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. Although little Aleya will be devastated.”
“Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow and I’ll bring her a lollypop.”
Cheryl brightened. “Well, with news like that, I can guarantee you she’ll get over the devastation.”
We reached into the box with the floral table arrangements simultaneously, our chatter complete and work about to begin. “Go ahead and start the bride and groom’s table,” I said. “I’ll get to work on these centerpieces.”
“Will do,” Cheryl said.
She walked away, leaving me alone with my work, and my gratitude that I had somewhere else to be.

A few hours later, my Land Rover rambled toward the seashore and the inn. My windows were down; a cross breeze of thick air ruffled my recently ordered linen cropped pants and a long-sleeved linen tunic. Though the summer sun warmed our eastern Maine town during the day, I tended to get cold in the evenings when the wind blew in from the surrounding hillsides, skipping across Seaside Pointe’s shoreline. Because the inn was only a stone’s throw from both, I slid a long, narrow scarf that I kept in the car’s front passenger seat around my neck as soon as I pulled into the personnel parking area behind the grand inn.
The back of Harbour Inn rose regally before me. With the evening still early, faint light poured from nearly every one of the twenty windows stretched across the second and third floors. The first-floor windows were dark, save those of the inn’s restaurant at the right-hand corner.
I slipped out of my car, closing the door quietly behind me. Such peace as was felt in the gentle rustling of the shrubs, the lapping of water, and the salty-sweet air should not, in my opinion, be disturbed. I opened the back door, pulled the container holding the front hall arrangement—a summer collection of apricots and greens—toward me, and closed the door with a click. With the vase held tight against my body, I mounted the seventeen steps leading to the wide porch. A quick glance upward showed that the porch lights—though few—had already been turned on in anticipation of night’s fall.
Lisa purposefully kept the lighting muted. Too much, she said, deterred from the romantic feel of sitting in the rockers in the evening, listening to the quiet sounds of the sea, the music from the restaurant.
With it not being quite sunset, the flap-flap of the American flag—proudly displayed at the left side of the house—greeted me. I watched it as I climbed, proud of all it meant, paying no attention to where I was going. I’d gone up these steps a thousand times or more. I knew each one. Just how high to step. Just when I had reached the landing.
But this evening’s ascent was complicated by one of the inn’s guests coming down. Rather quickly. Looking out toward the harbor rather than to where he was going. We crashed into each other without warning; the vase slipped from my grip, falling to the step at my feet, then tumbli