Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series) Read online

  COMING HOME

  Jackson Falls Book I

  by Laurie Breton

  c. 2012 by Laurie Breton

  All rights reserved.

  This one is for Terry Plunkett,

  who believed in me long before

  I dared to believe in myself,

  and who is undoubtedly looking down on me

  from somewhere in the Great Beyond

  and saying, “I told you so.”

  Again, I have to thank my soul sister, Judy Lineberger, for suffering with me through the endless rewrites, and for cracking the whip over my head whenever she caught me slacking. If not for you, this book might never have been finished.

  www.lauriebreton.com

  [email protected]

  OTHER BOOKS BY LAURIE BRETON:

  Sleeping With the Enemy

  Black Widow

  Final Exit

  Mortal Sin

  Lethal Lies

  Criminal Intent

  Point of Departure

  Die Before I Wake

  AND COMING SOON:

  Days Like This

  BOOK ONE

  chapter one

  Summer, 1974

  Jackson Falls, Maine

  A cloud of dust billowed behind the pickup truck, and Casey yanked the wheel hard to the right to avoid a pothole. Just over five feet tall, she could barely see past the hood, but she drove with an expertise acquired at the age of twelve at the wheel of her father’s ancient John Deere. On the radio, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas were entreating Jimmie Mack to come on back, and she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music.

  At the end of the driveway, she pulled onto the shoulder to get the mail. There was a strange car parked beside Dad’s rusted hay baler, a blue Chevy with Massachusetts plates. Casey parked next to it and shut off the engine, cutting off the Vandellas mid-note. She was juggling grocery bags when a voice just beyond her shoulder drawled, “Need any help with those, brat?”

  Casey spun around in surprise. “Travis Bradley!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  As a kid, she’d suffered from a massive case of hero worship, dogging the footsteps of this older brother who’d made his escape from the family farm five minutes after the ink dried on his high school diploma. Trav had traded Maine’s rural back roads for the congested streets of Boston, and it had been a long six months since his last visit.

  Her brother took both grocery bags from her. “I came to see you.”

  Snaking her way around paper bags, she embraced him with all the strength her hundred pounds could muster. “You look like you’ve been living on beer and pizza,” she scolded. “Does Dad know you’re here?”

  “Nope. He’s out somewhere on the tractor. We’ve been drinking coffee with Colleen.”

  She wondered who we meant. Had he brought home some woman? Was the family vagabond finally settling down? Wrinkling her nose, she said, “You’ve been drinking Colleen’s coffee?” Her sixteen-year-old sister’s kitchen misadventures were the stuff of family legend. “You do realize there’s a fine line between bravery and lunacy?”

  He grinned. “And I think I just crossed it. Listen, Casey, I really did come home to talk to you. That tape you sent was outstanding. Where’d you learn to write songs like that?”

  Her heart began a funny little dance inside her chest. “You liked it? Really?”

  “Are you kidding? It was so good I let Danny drag me up here to Outer Mongolia because he wanted to hear more.”

  She hoisted the remaining grocery bag and closed the tailgate. “Who’s Danny?”

  “Just the best damn singer on the East Coast. He’s dying to meet you.”

  Inside her, pleasure warred with embarrassment. Nobody had ever taken her songwriting seriously. She wrote them simply because they were there inside her, and she couldn’t prevent them from pouring out. She’d sent the demo tape to Travis in a fleeting moment of insanity, an act she’d regretted the instant the package was in the hands of the United States Postal Service.

  It was the embarrassment that won. “I didn’t know you’d let anybody else hear it,” she said.

  “You’ve got talent. Don’t bury it under a rock.” He followed her up the steps and across the porch. “Are you working?” he asked as he held the screen door open for her.

  “Just keeping house for Dad. Jesse and I will be married in a few weeks anyway.” Her mouth thinned. “He doesn’t want me to work.” The door slapped shut behind them and they set the grocery bags on the sideboard. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ll let Danny explain.”

  Until now, she hadn’t noticed the man who leaned casually against the living room door frame, but at first sight, she couldn’t imagine how she could have missed him. He seemed to go on forever, effortlessly dwarfing her six-foot brother, and she gawked at his height before gradually becoming aware of the rest of him: the broad shoulders, the narrow hips encased in worn denim, the light brown hair, shot through with golden highlights, that fell in a clean line to his shoulders. But it was his eyes that caught and held her, those wild and turbulent eyes, eyes the color of a summer sky. “Well,” he said. “Hello.”

  Her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth, Casey stared at him like an idiot. She wet her lips and found her voice. “Hi.”

  Trav’s hands on her shoulders nudged her forward. “This is my sister Casey,” he said. “Sis, this pain in the ass is Danny Fiore.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze, then released them. “She’s all yours, Dan. Good luck.”

  Danny Fiore crossed the room, hand extended, and she finally remembered her manners. She took the proffered hand, and his grip was warm and firm. “Six-four,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m six-foot-four. I could see you wondering.” His smile warmed the blue eyes and carved a deep cleft in his cheek. She realized that he was still holding her hand, and she quickly withdrew it. “You’re a talented songwriter,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you about using some of your material.”

  It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in. When it did, she gripped the edge of the countertop to steady herself. “You want to perform my music?” she said, incredulous. “In public?”

  “We’ve been playing the same stale Top 40 stuff for two years, and I’ve spent ages looking for something new. When I heard your tape, I knew I’d found it.” He brushed the long hair back from his face with the fingers of one hand. “I’ll be straight with you,” he said. “I’m looking to make a name for myself. But I need original material. Judging by what I’ve heard so far, I think you can give me what I want.”

  Casey’s palms began to sweat, and she had to hunt for her voice. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He had a smile that could melt marble. “You could start,” he said, “with yes.”

  ***

  Four weeks and counting.

  Clad in the wedding gown her mother had worn twenty-five years ago, Casey stood in front of her sister-in-law Trish’s full-length mirror, scrutinizing her reflection. The dress was pretty and feminine, with yards of frothy white lace and hundreds of tiny seed pearls hand-sewn to the bodice. While Trish fussed and tucked and smoothed, Casey stared in disbelief at the woman in the mirror. Could this exquisite, green-eyed creature in satin and lace be the same Casey who’d grown up in jeans and Trav’s cast-off shirts? She’d never thought of herself as pretty, but the antique white satin of Mama’s gown complemented her olive complexion and her dark hair, and the mandarin collar lent elegance to the neck she’d always considered too long. Spellbound, she stared into the mirror. “Is that really me?” sh
e said.

  “It’s really you, sweetie. And your mother would be so proud.”

  In the mirror, a vertical line appeared between her eyes. “Would she?”

  “Of course she would! You and my brother grew up together. She thought the world of Jesse. She’d be thrilled to know that you’re marrying him.”

  Maybe, although Casey wasn’t totally convinced. Some days, she thought that the only person, aside from the groom, who was thrilled about the pending nuptials was Trish herself. Casey had been twelve when her oldest brother, Bill, had married Trish Lindstrom, and Trish had become the best friend and big sister she’d always wanted. It had been Trish who helped her through those bleak months following Mama’s death when, at fifteen, Casey had stepped into her mother’s shoes, taking responsibility for raising her younger sister and running a ten-room farmhouse. When Casey and Jess had set their wedding date, a jubilant Trish had badgered her into unearthing Mama’s wedding gown from the attic, then had spent weeks laboriously altering it to fit Casey’s slender frame.

  Casey frowned at her reflection. “Trish?” she said. “Can I ask you a question?”

  On bended knee, fussing with the voluminous folds of the gown’s hem, her sister-in-law looked up. Around the half-dozen straight pins she held precariously in her mouth, she said a muffled, “What?”

  “With Bill…how did you know? That he was the one?”

  Trish spat the pins out onto her palm. “Honey,” she said, “I knew Bill was the one from the time we were in third grade.” She rocked back on her heels and studied Casey through narrowed eyes. “Why? Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts?”

  “Nothing like that. It’s just that…sometimes I wonder. Jesse’s the only guy I’ve ever kissed. I’ve never even dated anyone else.”

  “Cold feet,” Trish said briskly. “Nothing more than that. Don’t let it bother you. It’s normal. Everything will work out fine in the end.”

  “But what if—”

  “What if what?”

  “What if it doesn’t? What if he’s not…you know…the one?”

  Trish looked at her long and hard. Then she got up, walked to the bedroom door, and closed it. “Okay,” she said. “It’s just you and me now. Where is this coming from?”

  “I don’t know.” When Trish simply stood there, arms crossed, waiting, Casey waved her hand to indicate the entire household and said, “What you have here with Bill? It’s what I want. A husband. Kids. The white picket fence, the station wagon, the dog. But what if I’m missing out on something? What if I realize later that I made some terrible mistake that it’s too late to fix?”

  “Has something happened?” Trish studied her closely. “Is there someone else?”

  She felt herself flushing. “Be serious.”

  “I am being serious. Do you love my brother?”

  “Of course I love him! What kind of question is that?”

  “A very important one. Because if you don’t love him, you need to think long and hard before you go through with this marriage.”

  “I am absolutely going through with this marriage. That’s not even negotiable. I’m just feeling a little restless, that’s all.”

  “Honey, it’s normal to feel that way. Marriage is a big step.”

  “Did you feel this way? With Bill?”

  “I was a basket case. Major bridal jitters. Right up until the moment I walked down that aisle and saw him standing at the altar, waiting for me. And then all my doubts just fell away, and I couldn’t wait to start our life together.”

  Biting her lower lip, Casey turned back to her reflection. “Did you and Bill plan to have kids right away, or did it just happen that way?”

  Trish’s mirrored reflection, standing behind her, rolled her eyes. Making a minor adjustment to the collar of the wedding dress, she said, “Let’s just say that Billy was a bit of a surprise. As a matter of fact, there’s a very good chance that I got pregnant on my honeymoon. There’s nothing more fun than starting out a marriage with morning sickness. Why? Are you worried that Jesse will want to start a family right off?”

  “Actually, just the opposite. We’ve talked about it. I’m ready now, but he wants to wait until he finishes college.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I know it’s the sensible thing to do. The logical thing. But every time I hold one of your babies, scrubbed and rosy and sweet-smelling from the bath, logic and sensibility just fly right out the window.”

  “Sweetie, you’re only eighteen. I realize you’re not like most eighteen-year-olds. You had to grow up fast when your mom died. But there’s plenty of time for babies. Why rush it? Believe me, once those kids start coming, you’ll look back at the days you and Jesse had alone together and wish there’d been more of them.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.”

  “Listen to me, and listen good: If you have even the slightest doubt about this marriage, now’s the time to say so. It gets a lot harder to disengage once you’ve taken those vows. I love you both. I don’t want to see anybody get hurt.”

  “It’s not like that. Really. This is all just idle speculation. I’m sure you’re right, and I’m just experiencing cold feet. Please forget I even brought it up.”

  Her sister-in-law didn’t look convinced. “If you need to talk—about anything—you know where to find me.”

  Trish went back to hemming the skirt, and Casey stared into the eyes of the woman in the mirror. A stranger, ripe with promise and possibility. Inexplicably, her thoughts drifted to Danny Fiore, and she wondered if he had found her attractive. Her breasts were small, but her derriere was okay, and she had great legs. What had Danny thought when he looked at her? Had he seen her as a woman, or merely as a means to an end, someone who had written some songs he desperately wanted to get his hands on?

  She was mildly appalled by her thoughts. This was dangerous ground she was treading. In four weeks, she intended to become Jesse’s wife. Flesh of his flesh, joined to him, in the eyes of God and the world, until death. How could she even look at another man?

  The question troubled her all the way home. In the glow of the dashboard lights, she studied Jesse’s profile, the taut line of his jaw, the high cheekbones and the hollows beneath. Jesse Lindstrom was a strikingly handsome man, with his Swedish father’s silver-blond hair and the high cheekbones and dark eyes he’d inherited from his mother, a full-blooded Passamaquoddy Indian. To his credit, Jesse accepted his looks matter-of-factly, without a trace of vanity. Oblivious to all the attention, he went his quiet way, with eyes for only one woman. She’d known since she was twelve years old that someday she would marry him. So why couldn’t she summon more enthusiasm for their impending marriage?

  He dimmed his headlights for an approaching car. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

  “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  He didn’t question her further. That wasn’t his style. He turned into her driveway and cut the lights and the engine. The pickup rolled to a stop, and he leaned toward her, cupped her chin in his palm and drew her mouth to his. For a time, there was only the two of them, only the sound of their breathing and the distant call of a whippoorwill. “Four weeks,” he said in a ragged whisper, his breath moist and hot upon her ear. “I might not make it.”

  In the distance, a cricket chirped. Casey pressed her face against Jesse’s shirt and felt the erratic racing of his heart and wondered why she felt nothing when he took her in his arms. It was not a desire to remain pure until her wedding night that had kept her a virgin. Nor was it fear of pregnancy, for Dr. Grimes had put her on the pill weeks ago. It was her own indifference. When Jesse touched her, she felt none of the fireworks she’d heard about.

  But she couldn’t tell him that. She wouldn’t hurt him that way. A marriage was based on more than sex. She and Jesse would build a life together, they would have a home and children. Those were the things that mattered. Sexual attraction faded with youth. What she and Jesse had was m
uch more lasting. She would do her best to nurture it and keep it thriving throughout the years, so that Jesse would never regret marrying her.

  She tried not to think about the possibility that she might regret marrying him.

  chapter two

  The hunger began early in him.

  Danny Fiore couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t thrummed inside with music. His earliest memories were of his mother, barely more than a child herself, singing him to sleep in a sweet, clear soprano. By the time he was two years old, he was singing with her. By the time he was four, at an age when other kids could hardly carry a tune, he’d already begun harmonizing with the pop songs he heard on the radio. His ear was flawless, his pitch true, his understanding of music elemental, its concepts vividly clear to him long before he ever learned the words for them. At the age of six, he began picking out simple tunes by ear on his grandmother’s old Baldwin, and she hired a piano teacher for him.

  Loretta Lucchesi’s tastes ran to classical German composers, heavily interspersed with Italian opera. He reluctantly learned to play Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi. But he hungered for something else, something to make his blood run and his toes tap. He found it when the Beatles crossed the Atlantic and changed the face of popular music forever. The piano ceased to be an instrument of torture the instant he realized he didn’t have to play the classics. Danny began working his way feverishly through rock and jazz, rhythm & blues, old standards. Because the piano wasn’t portable, he bought a secondhand Fender guitar and taught himself to play that. But it was his voice, had always been his voice, that was Danny Fiore’s true instrument.

  Thirteen months in Vietnam cured him of his youthful naiveté. When he came back, Danny had changed. His world had changed. He moved out of his grandmother’s apartment over the butcher shop on Salem Street and into a room in the heart of Boston’s Combat Zone, where junkies slept in doorways, triple-X-rated movies played day and night, and pimps and hookers plied their trade. He claimed an empty street corner near Filene’s, sat down on a milk crate with his Fender, and began singing for the tourists.