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Return of the Wild Son
Cynthia Thomason
“What are you doing here, Nate?
Why have you come back?”
He stared at her with those blue eyes that used to make her adolescent knees weak. “I heard about the old lighthouse being for sale. I’m thinking about making an offer.”
Jenna’s heart tripped. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t look at his handsome face, so like his father’s.
The son of the man who had killed her father was planning to buy the lighthouse.
Dear Reader,
This book is about a special place that reconnects two people with their past. In life, a location can evoke powerful emotions, both good and bad. For Nate Shelton, coming home to Finnegan Cove after twenty years, the lighthouse on the shore of Lake Michigan brings back memories of peace in his troubled youth and a hope for his family’s future. But to Jenna Malloy, who never left the small town, the station has been a constant haunting memory of a tragedy from years ago that changed both characters’ lives forever. Now the decaying building houses secrets as dark as its abandoned beacon—secrets that could keep Jenna and Nate from forgiving past mistakes.
I hope you enjoy this story. And I hope you can tell that I love lighthouses. Proud structures with dozens of winding steps or small tokens that sit on a shelf, all kinds and sizes of lighthouses never fail to weave a spell of romance and mystery over me. And if, in your busy travels, you are lucky enough to pass a lighthouse, pull over, put on your comfortable shoes and circle your way to the top. The view is always worth the trip, just like the happy ending in a romance.
I love to hear from readers. You can visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.
Happy reading,
Cynthia Thomason
Return of the Wild Son
Cynthia Thomason
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances and dabbles in mysteries. When she’s not writing, she works as a licensed auctioneer in the auction business she and her husband own. In this capacity, she has come across scores of unusual items, many of which have found their way into her books. She loves traveling the U.S. and exploring out-of-the-way places. She has one son, an entertainment reporter, and an aging but still lovable Jack Russell terrier. Cynthia dreams of perching on a mountaintop in North Carolina every autumn to watch the leaves turn. You can learn more about her at www.cynthiathomason.com.
This book is dedicated to
my dearest climbing “Buddy,” who has held my
hand on all the journeys we’ve taken together.
We haven’t reached the top yet, and I believe
the last steps are the best.
CONTENTS
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
Los Angeles, California
April
N ATE WALKED OUT OF Vincennti’s and slipped the claim check for his BMW through the window of the valet hut. Carlo, who’d been parking cars here for as long as Nate had been coming to the renowned bistro, grabbed his keys from among dozens hanging on the board behind him and joined Nate in the sunshine.
“How was your lunch, Mr. Shelton?” he asked.
Seeing no point in answering truthfully, Nate swallowed the first symptom of indigestion and said, “Just fine, Carlo.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder to the restaurant entrance. “I am kind of in a hurry, though.”
“Sure, I understand. Isn’t everybody in this town?” Carlo jogged across the circular drive, the keys jangling in his hand, and zigzagged through a maze of vehicles.
Nate needed Carlo to return with his car before Brendan Willis and his associate finished the last of their pricey merlot and came outside. It was bad enough that Nate had paid the hundred-and-fifty-dollar lunch tab. He didn’t need another helping of condescension.
And he’d been so confident this time. He’d chosen Willis’s Boneyard Films as the perfect production company for his latest screenplay after the big studios had turned him down. Boneyard’s innovative producer was getting his name in print in Variety and Entertainment Weekly .
Still, Boneyard was a small independent, which meant Willis should have jumped at the chance to sign a Nathaniel Shelton script.
Now, an hour-and-a-half lunch later, Nate was fairly certain that even though the producer had agreed to read the script, their collaboration was going nowhere.
“I’ll call you in a week or so,” Brendan had said.
A week or so? Nate was used to getting offers an hour after dropping off his work. Of course, that was before he’d produced three flops in a row. But he was an award-winning writer, for Pete’s sake, though most of the power brokers in this town seemed to have forgotten that accomplishment.
His steel-gray BMW pulled up to the curb and Carlo jumped out. “You have a good day, Mr. Shelton,” he said. Nate pressed a modest tip in the guy’s hand and drove off.
He headed toward his Beverly Hills condo. With the weekend ahead of him, he had to regroup, study the latest industry news journals and come up with another production company to pitch his latest project to. This was a big town, with countless possibilities, and Nate was a hell of a writer. No need to panic—yet.
The ringing of his cell phone jerked him back in his seat. He hit the speaker button and snapped, “Shelton.”
“Nathaniel?”
At the sound of the gravelly voice, his heart constricted. “Dad? Is everything okay?”
“It’s better than okay.”
“Why, what’s happened?”
“I didn’t tell you before, son, because I didn’t know what the parole board would decide.”
“What are you talking about?” Nate’s father had been incarcerated twenty years of a twenty-four-year sentence. Was parole possible this soon for a second-degree murder conviction? Nate knew his father had only been before the board one other time.
“I didn’t get my hopes up,” Harley said. “Guys are almost always flopped the first few times around.”
Flopped. Prison talk for turned down. Nate had learned a lot of new meanings for old words since his father had been taken away. “Dad, what are you saying?”
“I’m going to be approved, Nate. Dr. Evanston told me a few minutes ago that I’m getting out May 23.”
Nate’s jaw dropped. He did a quick calculation. “For real, Dad? That’s only five weeks off.”
“It’s real enough. Assuming I don’t make anybody mad or break any rules in the meantime. There’s still some paperwork…” He paused. “Notification of victims, housing plans, probation details, that sort of thing. There’s also one more review before the parole board processes my release. But the doctor wouldn’t have told me if he wasn’t sure of the outcome. We’ve been through too much together.”
Nate’s mind raced. He’d have to make arrangements for Harley to come to L.A. His father would have to find a place to live, a way to earn a living. But all that could wait. “Congratulations,” he said. “This is great news.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Harley said. “To go from having no thoughts about tomorrow to all of a sudden having a future, to having to make decisions. I’m just getting used to the idea.”
Nate hadn’t had that luxury yet. “Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll work it out. I’ll take care of plans to bring you to Los Angeles, and we’ll—”
“No, Nate. I’m not coming to California. That’s about all I’m certain of at this moment.”
“But where will you go?”
“I’m moving back to Finnegan Cove.”
Nate swerved, nearly hit the curb. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“But, Dad, you won’t be welcomed there. Hell, I wouldn’t even go back to Finnegan Cove.”
“It’s the only place I know, Nate,” Harley said. “All I’ve ever known. It’s home.”
Nate refrained from pointing out that Finnegan Cove hadn’t been kind to the Sheltons and chances were, wouldn’t be now. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
His father lowered his voice soothingly. “It’ll be okay, Nate. I know what I’m doing.”
The hell? In the past twenty years maybe a few people had come and gone from the small town on Michigan’s western shore, but Nate figured the population would have stayed pretty much the same. Two thousand folks, give or take, lived in comfortable bungalows, and a few fancy Victorian houses from the town’s lumber boom days. The same mom-and-pop businesses probably still lined Main Street.
And no doubt the same attitudes prevailed. And memories for certain details had probably only grown sharper. Like Harley Shelton’s face on the front page of the Finnegan Cove Sentinel. Like the face of his eighteen-year-old son as he’d left the courthouse after the verdict was read. Like the absence of Harley’s older son, who hadn’t shown up for the trial at all. It baffled Nate why Harley had decided to go back where he wasn’t wanted.
“Where will you live, Dad? You think you’re going to just put down a welcome mat at your door and neighbors will drop by?”
“No, Nate, I don’t. I’m not naive.”
“Frankly, I’m beginning to think you are.”
“I’ve found a place to live. A place where nobody’ll bother me, and I’ll be able to stay pretty much to myself.”
“In Finnegan Cove?”
“The outskirts, yes. But I need a little help. It might take a couple of bucks to get this place in shape.”
“I don’t mind helping you. I’ve always told you I would, but you’ve got to be reasonable. Going back to Finnegan Cove is not a good idea. Why don’t you consider L.A.? You can start over, make a new life for yourself.”
“Believe it or not, son, there are aspects of my old life I remember fondly. It wasn’t all bad.”
Nate pulled into his underground parking garage, grateful he didn’t have to drive anymore. Paying attention to the busy Los Angeles thoroughfare while having this unexpected conversation with his father would tax anybody’s ability to concentrate. He parked in his assigned spot. “Where is this place you found, and how did you find it?”
“I read about it in the Sentinel about six months ago.”
His father read the local newspaper? This man was surprising him more and more. Nate wanted nothing to do with the town, yet his dad maintained his ties. Maybe prison life did that to a person. Made you appreciate what you had before, even if it was less than ideal. “Okay, where is it?” he said.
“It’s right on Lake Michigan,” Harley told him. “In fact, you know it well.” He paused. When Nate didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s the Cove Lighthouse, Nate. It’s for sale.”
“The lighthouse?” Nate’s voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched in his own ears.
“Yep. It’s perfect.”
