Secret Shores Read online

  ALSO BY ELLA CAREY

  Paris Time Capsule

  The House by the Lake

  From a Paris Balcony

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

  Text copyright © 2017 by Ella Carey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542046497

  ISBN-10: 1542046491

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  In memory of my mother

  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

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  South Australia, 1946

  It was a night for beginnings, not endings. For love, not death. Rebecca raised her shaking hand to her face, shielding her eyes from the artery of moonlight that glistened in a pure arc across the sea, finishing at the exact spot where she stood on the beach. It was as if the moonshine mocked her, laughing at her smashed hopes. She knew now she had been naïve. And yet, insistent questions fluttered like fireflies in her heart, each one imprinted with the things that she thought mattered in this life: love, art, strength. Kindness.

  Rebecca stood ramrod straight, holding her few belongings as if she were about to climb on a bus with no idea of her destination. She didn’t know where her journey began, let alone where it would end. With the determination that seemed to have kicked in during these last few hours, she heaved the wooden rowboat into the water, watching as ripples spread across the sea’s glassy surface. The little vessel was only a bucket of memories now. Memories of yesterday.

  She placed her things on the wooden bench in the boat—her drawing materials: charcoals, sketching paper, the small portable easel that she had brought with her from Melbourne. And her basket, which held her purse, lipstick, and a couple of changes of clothes, along with an apple and a bar of chocolate that she had grabbed before she fled.

  Rebecca pushed the boat farther out, climbed in, and turned back for one last look at the darkened beach house that overlooked the bay. The place where everything was supposed to have come together. The place where everything had fallen apart.

  The stone house with its wide verandas gazed back at her as if content with the turn of events, as if telling her that all was as it should have been. Even the sea was still as Rebecca rowed out to the small island in the middle of the bay. It was not as if she had not done this sort of thing before; she had rescued herself countless times in her life. But this was worse. Much worse. The beat of the oars through the water imprinted the tune in her head—much worse, pull push. Much worse . . .

  She reached the island and heaved the boat up onto the rocky, silent beach. After collecting her drawing things, she tucked her wicker basket under her arm like any housewife on her way to the shops. Rebecca set off, up the small beach, making her way through the tufts of sea grass that seemed to float like delicate birds above the rocks lining the steep rise to the top of the island. Rebecca’s feet in their espadrilles knew exactly where to go. She made her way, silent, along the narrow pale path of raked gravel, well kept for the tourists, that skirted the sea on her right.

  On her left, wild granite outcrops dotted the island’s grassy peak. The soft thuds of the resident kangaroos were the only sounds in the darkness, until she rounded the bend to the island’s wild side looking out over the Southern Ocean. Here the roaring wind whipped up Rebecca’s dark hair, sending it flying in concentric circles around her face as she gazed down at the sea, which roiled like shining dragons’ tails in the moonlight, making sea-swirls that smashed against the granite boulders, seaweed wafting beneath the surface.

  Impenetrable.

  Rebecca loved it.

  She found her rock, her own boulder that hung over the ocean. There she loved to draw, sketching not what was in front of her, but what was in her mind, springing from the place that she could only access when she was alone. There she held everything at bay and drew the truth.

  Rebecca sat down, tucking her thin white dress, the one dotted with tiny red flowers, around her knees. She settled her drawing paper and the backing board on her lap.

  Then she reached for her pencil, which she had placed on the rock just in front of her right foot. But as she reached, the pencil rolled just beyond her grasp, just a little beyond. She could reach it, couldn’t she?

  Her favorite pencil slipped away from her as fast and as easily as everything else. And as Rebecca reached forward for it, in that split second of movement, she knew it was a mistake. She should have let it go . . .

  But she fell—or was she flying?—down past the rocks like a tumbleweed, spiraling over the edge of the cliff that led to the darkness, to the secret depths below.

  New York, 1987

  No time was a good time for bad news. But a Friday seemed like the very worst time of all. While Tess’s boss, Leon, would no doubt retreat to his home in the Hamptons for the weekend, Tess would be left reeling from the fact that she’d lost everything in one stunning blow. She’d spend the weekend desperate, trying to forge a solution to the glitteringly painful shock. She stared with disbelief at the remnants of the afternoon tea Leon had ordered in for their meeting—clearly, it was only an attempt to soften her reaction to his “news.”

  Flakes of abandoned croissant were scattered across Tess’s porcelain plate. Steam still curled from her coffee. At the outset, Leon had thanked her for her considerable contribution to the publishing house. She’d guided her client, the stellar author Alec Burgess, toward three bestselling thrillers in three wonderful years. Leon acknowledged Tess’s hard work, her tenacity as an editor, the sheer effort that she had put into Alec’s career.

  Tess had presumed Leon was going to offer her a promotion. Instead, he’d effectively sacked her.

  Leon Moss gazed up at the ceiling as if something fascinating was happening above his head. Tess fought the urge to pour her coffee over his well-groomed hair. Instead, she fixed her stare on her boss’s polka-dotted bow tie. His bow ties always annoyed her. Was there any hope of appealing to a man who wore such a thing? She’d always seen them as smug, and it seemed as if Leon wore them as if he were a gift to the world.

  Tess slumped back in her chair. Her brain whirled with que
stions. Why? What had she done wrong? What was going on? How could they make such a decision?

  “I’ve decided that James Cooper would be best suited to edit Burgess’s work from now on,” Leon said.

  A second round of shock waves hit Tess. She sat bolt upright again and clutched her hands together in her lap.

  James Cooper? James was Campbell and Black’s newest hire—the literary phenomenon who edited only top-echelon books. To have James on board was magic for a writer; being associated with him made any author a guaranteed success. It was said that he had the Midas touch. James Cooper had every advantage under the sun. His literary pedigree was unmatched in New York. As the only son of Sean Cooper, the chief literary critic at the New York Times, and of a mother who was a well-known society beauty with twenty-seven degrees from Harvard, James would have had success stamped on his forehead from the moment he took his first breath. Apart from his literary credentials, the man was also famous for his stunning looks, perfect manners, and witty repartee.

  Of course Alec Burgess wanted to take advantage of James’s arrival at Campbell and Black. What on earth else could she expect?

  Tess’s teeth seared into her bottom lip. “I see,” she said, in her best permafrost voice.

  “Tess, you’ve done a wonderful job with Alec so far. As you know. As you know.”

  A piece of lead lodged itself below Tess’s ribs. At the same time, the urge to run out of Leon’s wood-paneled office and make a desperate call to her friend and confidante Flora was almost irresistible. Flora’s finger was on every pulse in New York publishing. She would know if James Cooper’s reputation extended beyond literary genius to nasty, author-stealing poacher without a second thought.

  Leon went on as if nothing were amiss. “Since Alec’s next book is going to be completely different from his thrillers, we’re going with an editor with a different area of expertise. Alec’s next novel is literary, perfectly suited to James.”

  Or could it possibly be that I’m not as easily able, perhaps, to garner an advantageous review?

  “Tess, I’ve decided that you will be continuing to work on our commercial lines.” Leon’s voice was as calm as a summer lake.

  Tess had to hold back a snarl. Had Leon rehearsed his entire speech? Probably, she thought viciously, this very morning while his wife perfected his annoying, obnoxious bow tie.

  “We created a new editorial position for James, you see, as soon as we heard he was looking to move. We need to ensure that he’s working with our best authors. It would be inappropriate for him to do anything else.” Leon cast a glance at Tess.

  Tess stayed silent. Her heart ricocheted around in her chest.

  Leon’s eyes remained focused on her now. Tess knew that all he wanted was for her to exit gracefully. But who did Leon think had nurtured Alec Burgess? Who did he think had brought him from an unknown midlist author to one of the nation’s bestselling writers in three years? Who had spent hours of unpaid overtime slogging over his manuscripts, meeting with him in cafés, dives, real tough diners in Midtown? Who had sat by him, drinking fetid coffee out of paper cups while he sweated over his early manuscripts in his old leather jacket, not the expensive new jacket he had now, which crinkled attractively as he lifted a hand to smooth back his fine hair when Tess met up with him in the upmarket restaurants that he paid for these days? She had sat by while he smoked endlessly, stinking up Tess’s hair and clothes, and she had patiently guided his every step. If there was one thing she could do, it was spot raw talent. She’d always had an eye for that. But to be dumped right when Alec was becoming successful, right when he was on the brink of an international career? It was outrageous.

  And she could do literary. That wasn’t the point at all. The point was she knew Alec Burgess. Knew his every mood, his insecurities, what set him to panic. She knew when he was overloaded, how to pace him, how to encourage him. She knew not to criticize but to nurture instead. James Cooper might be a superstar editor, a wunderkind, but did that make him right for her author?

  “Leon,” she said. “Obviously, this decision has been made completely over my head.”

  Irritatingly, James Cooper’s famous boyish grin flashed into Tess’s head—the one that always shone out in the society pages. Now, she saw it as a triumphant leer.

  When Tess’s voice came out it was almost a growl. “I’m not sure how anyone could make a decision like this without proper and due discussion with all parties concerned, and that includes me. I am Alec’s editor; I should have been informed and involved in decisions concerning any major changes to his career. I am sorry, but this is unprofessional. And I would not normally say this, but it smacks of nepotism. I have a master’s in English lit; I believe James has the same credentials. We are the same age. We are both experienced editors. But I am the one who has worked with Alec, and you know exactly what I’ve done for him. How he can sit by and let this happen is beyond me. Leon, I am appalled, to be honest.”

  “Tess.” Leon’s voice was deep butterscotch.

  “Yes, Leon.”

  He leaned forward and tented his fingers on the desk.

  Tess drew in a shuddering breath. She had to speak out. “You know, if I had a dime for every time that I have been patronized in my career, I would be an incredibly rich woman.” Her voice was dangerous and low. “But if I wanted to be rich, I would not be an editor; I would be an author like Alec. Instead, you see, I spend my time working hard for writers, because that is what I’m good at. And in return, I ask nothing. But there are boundaries, and my goodness, this crosses every one of them. You know how hard I’ve worked. You know that I haven’t asked for regular raises. Because I trusted the fact that I was working in one of New York’s most respected publishing houses, and I trusted that ethics would be in place.” She cast her eyes over the bookshelves that lined the antique-filled office—first editions in pristine condition sat in well-dusted rows, their leather spines embossed with gold ink. Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner. The firm’s reputation was as solid as a boulder. Working here had been Tess’s dream since she was in college.

  “Tess . . .”

  Tess’s breathing picked up pace. Her mind flipped back to all those nights she’d worked late while her friends had gone out and met their husbands and partners. Most of them had children now. It felt as if a life force had kicked in and fought its way back into her system. Here she was, frankly, having worked herself to the bone for this author who was going to dump her the moment he saw the words “celebrity editor” and “James Cooper” appear in bright lights.

  She stood, picking up her folder with the notes that she had prepared for this meeting with Leon, in good faith, when Alec had pitched his new idea to her two weeks ago.

  Leon sat back in his seat and stretched out his legs. And it was then, at that moment, that Tess wanted to yell at him. James Cooper had every advantage, she wanted to say. Every stupid advantage anyone could conjure up. Why should he get her hard-cultivated author handed to him on yet another silver platter?

  Being dumped was not in Tess’s game plan. If she was not good enough, then good luck to them all—Leon, Alec, and the vile James Cooper.

  And yet, here was the rub: James Cooper would be able to do the job. He would make Alec’s book a success. So where did that leave Tess? Apparently, it didn’t matter. She was fallout.

  “It seems I have no choice,” she said. “I suspect you have no idea what that’s like, Leon. Good decision. On all your parts. Please excuse me. I’m going now.”

  Tess’s hands shook as she pushed back her chair. She had lost her best author, and was probably at risk of losing her job as well. And yet she would simply not give in.

  Leon stood up too, adjusted his suit jacket, and said nothing at all. He was not going to break his professional code, Tess knew that. Leon was not going to respond to Tess’s outburst. He would play by the rules. And if a woman complained, she was hysterical.

  Tess clenched her hands and dug her nails into her palms
. The urge to find out the dirt on James Cooper was overwhelming. How had he done it? Tess thought again of the one person who could help. Flora. Repository for everything that was up-to-date in the publishing world. She’d have a take on it.

  “Tess, take the rest of the afternoon off,” Leon said. “And then I want you to meet me in my office at nine on Monday morning. We need to talk.” He still sounded kind. Still patronizing.

  Tess fought back everything that glittered inside her. At this moment, she had no choice but to walk away with dignity.

  Once she was back in her office, Tess threw herself into her chair and dialed Flora. Flora wouldn’t let this happen to her, not in her capacity as acquiring editor in one of the world’s most famous romance houses.

  “Flora,” she gasped. “Caffè Reggio. Now.”

  “Okay then.” Flora didn’t beat around with irritating questions. “I’m with you.”

  Fortunately, Tess would never call her friend away from work unless something was utterly dire, and now Flora seemed more than happy to help out at the drop of a manuscript on a hard office floor.

  Tess caught the subway and made a beeline to Caffè Reggio, which was below Tess’s apartment and not far from Flora’s office. Tess needed to go into damage control. A little cappuccino and a serving of Flora’s quips could point any crisis in the right direction.

  Tess felt a little calmer as she made her way back to West Third, having ridden the subway with countless people who all looked tired and worn, just like she did. The mechanics in the workshop next to her building greeted her in their usual proprietary way. Sometimes they sent her wolf whistles when she went past for her morning jog around Washington Square Park. But they always hurled abuse at any other man who tried to do the same thing.

  Tess caught a glimpse of herself in the plate glass window of their small shop as she walked past: short blond bob, black suit with shoulder pads so the jacket sat just so, red coat over her arm. She might look the part of the woman who had it all, but she was fuming. She refrained from showing the mechanics her dimple today.