Sand Castles

Sand Castles

WINNING A LOTTERY ... who hasn't dreamed of it?

Wendy Hodene, for one.   She has always been one of those people for whom just enough is plenty.  She's married to a charmer, has a young son she loves, and lives close to family in a small
New England
house that her great-grandfather built.  True, she'd love to have room for a three-cushion couch (and of course more closet space), but all in all, she's happy with her life.

Happy, until her husband Jim goes and wins a lottery, upending every reassuring aspect of Wendy's existence.  The man she thought she was married to for a decade turns out to be someone else entirely; the house she thought she wanted renovated turns into a stress-inducing pile of dust and demolition; the son who once desired nothing more than a new video game now wants a big new house on the beach; and the mysterious contractor who shows up among the crew on a fine June morning turns out to be a man who's both able and willing to destroy all that Wendy holds dear.

Zack Tompkins has better things to do than to knock down walls and put in floor joists, but his fragile and heartbroken sister Zina is convinced that the lottery winner whose photo she's seen in a newspaper is the man who once married and then abandoned her.  It doesn't take long after he's signed on as crew in the Hodene renovation for Zack to see that Zina was right.  His choice then becomes all too clear:  wound his sister, or tear apart a family.

As dreams and schemes are washed away like sand castles from an incoming tide, one truth remains:  some hearts, not fully broken, can mend and still be whole again.

"Well-drawn, sympathetic characters, exceptional writing, and an intriguing premise that puts a new spin on a classic plot combine to produce a riveting story of selfishness, betrayal, and love that readers will find hard to put down.  Stockenberg is a RITA Award-winning author and is noted for her compelling,
emotionally involving stories
."

--
Library journal

"Moral dilemmas abound in this intriguing and compelling tale."

--
Booklist

This book is dedicated to those who

volunteer their love and kindness at animal shelters.

You make the world a better place.

A note about the NOOK version of
SAND CASTLES

The paperback edition of this book is
337 pages in length.
 
The NOOK
edition is identical to the paperback,
but your NOOK may show a much
larger total number of pages.
 

As in the paperback edition, the NOOK version contains a prologue,
29
chapters and an epilogue. Also included
are
a
one
-chapter sample of
TIDEWATER and
a
four
-chapter sample of
KEEPSAKE
.

He ripped the phone cord out of the wall, then grabbed her and swung her around, knocking over a floor lamp and sending shards of glass skittering over the worn oak floor.

"We're rich!" he whooped. "Rich! We're rich! God, we're rich!"

He set her down so abruptly that he had to hang on to her to keep her from stumbling backward. Holding her tightly, he let loose a howl of triumph. His look was wild, exultant, new.

Wendy was aghast. She was pinned to his chest, breathless. She said, "Jim, what's
wrong
with you?"

"First thing, phone off the hook, that's what they always tell you. Wendy, we are
rich,
rich, rich. Don't you get it? Rich! No more jobs
... no more bills
... Tyler will get his pick of schools and you can have the house of
—
"

"Jim, stop; you're scaring me!" She was afraid of the thought that was forming in her head, afraid that it might not be true. Trapped in his grip, caught in a downward drift of cheap white wine and garlic chicken, she said, "For God's sake, just
tell
me."

"Powerball. No kidding, the lottery." His voice had dropped to a whisper, a tiptoe along the edge of a canyon. She could see that suddenly he was afraid, too.

"The office pool. Seven of us
—
no, eight, eight. What am I thinking? Jack makes eight. He'll shit feathers when he learns. He's in Munich all week."

She was blinking rapidly, as if she had a speck in her eye. She was trying to comprehend.
Jack makes eight.
Eight of what? Eight of Jacks? Eight of what?

"How much? Tell me," she wailed, in agony now.

Her husband's lips were dry. He wet them with his tongue quickly, as if he were trying to get away with something. "Eighty—" He cleared his throat in one harsh try. "Eighty-seven."

"Thousand?" No; that wasn't enough. Not for this. "Million?" No. That was too much. She was bewildered by the math, staggered by the possibilities of it.
"Tell
me, damn it," she said, because she was getting light-headed and was about to fall into the chasm.

He exploded in a singl
e loud laugh. "Wendy, sweet du
fus, concentrate! Eighty-seven million dollars. Eighty-seven million dollars divided by eight and then by income tax, but—
eighty-seven million dollars."

Her face felt scorched by the numbers spewing over her like volcanic ash; they blasted through her mind, obliterating thought. She began to shake. She whispered numbly, "I can't believe it. Not us. That doesn't happen." Inexplicably, she burst into sobs.

Jim howled again and hugged her and lifted her off her feet once more, rocking her left and right and then swinging her around in a circle as if she were a rag doll. Wendy laughed and cried and said, "Jim, put me down, put me down."

He was six feet two; she was half a foot shorter than he was. When they were old, he would be able to see the
gray
roots of her dark hair in that awful week before a touch-up trip to the hairdresser. But for now they were young, with over half their lifetimes yet to come. Wendy had always assumed that they would spend them in love.

How amazing to her that they would be spending them rich.

The place smelled of cat pee, but Zina didn't mind. She had come to associate the piercing scent with abandoned creatures who needed her love.

The old house was drafty, the budget tight. It was cold in the shelter—clearly too cold for some of the cats in the cages.

"Poor babies. Hang on; I'm here. Everything's going to be all right now," Zina
told
the demoralized cats. She turned up the heat, then began the day's routine of cleaning the cages and replenishing the food in them.

Each of the cats was to be let out in turn as she tidied up; but the one that Zina invariably let out first was the Siamese female with the earsplitting howl—the kind of wail that made homeowners hang out of their windows at midnight and lob hand grenades of shoes and clocks. The Siamese wanted out. Now.

All of the volunteers were hoping, against all odds, that the cat, nicknamed Banshee, would somehow be adopted and leave (she was not only loud but bulimic). But not Zina. She loved every cat in every cage without reserve. Whether the cats were fat or skinny, young or old, male or female, mute or loud, she loved them all. After four years of volunteer work, Zina had made hundreds of friends: almost every one of them had four legs and whiskers.

The door opened, and a woman entered on a sharp gust of April air. "Good morning, Zina. You're here bright and early."

Marilyn
Radisson, volunteer director of Flo's Cat House, was much more clear-eyed than Zina about what it took to run a successful shelter.

Money. "Zina, sweetie, you've got a really heavy hand on the thermostat. Oil prices are sky-high; every degree really does matter," she said, throttling back the heat. "It's the Sphynx, isn't it?" she ventured.

Zina glanced at the bizarre, hairless cat huddled in the back of his cage. "He always looks
so
cold."

"Yes, he does, doesn't he?"

"I know! I'll knit him a vest
.  Do y
ou think he'd wear it?"

"It can't hurt to try," said
the director
. She paused at
one of the
cage
s and wiggled a
finger through the bars
at a young calico, who wrapped a paw
around it
and began gnawing
on it gently
.

"One of these days, Zina,"
Marilyn
said over her shoulder, "you're going to find yourself a husband. And then you'll be knitting baby sweaters, not cat vests."

After a silence, Zina said softly, "She likes it when you drag a pencil across the cage for her to attack."

Marilyn
turned her wise, middle-aged smile from the cat to the keeper. "Later. After I've caught up with my paperwork." The look she saw on the younger woman's face made her shrug. "Some people—you—are better at parenting than others, Zina. I just happen to shine more behind a desk."

"You're good at everything," Zina said generously.

"Not everything. Some things. And one of them is making sure that this shelter doesn't go belly-up four years after opening. Flo would not approve."

The allusion to Flo made Zina glance
up at the historic photograph that hung, improbably, between the rows of cat cages
:  of
Florence Benson, a young woman with a sober expression on
her face and a cat on her lap,
seated in a carved chair on an oriental carpet in the very same ro
om that now smelled of cat pee.

Below the sepia-toned photograph was a framed excerpt of her will.

I give and devise residential real estate that I may own at the time of my death, located at 24 Wood Road, Hopeville, Massachusetts, together with all buildings and improvements thereon, to the Hopeville Animal Rescue League with the wish that said real estate shall be used for purposes of sheltering abandoned
cats.

How old had she been when she died, this only daughter of a farming couple? Ninety-seven, someone had said. Nearly a century of living without a husband, without a ch
ild. So, yes, it could be done.

"Zina?"

"Hmm?"
Zina
had to rouse herself from her revery, as she so often did, and re-enter the world of the here and now. "I'm sorry; I was off daydreaming."

"I said, could you do the calico next? A woman is supposed to come in this morning to look her over."

Look her over.
As if the cat were a used car. It didn't seem right. It never seemed right. Who could pick up a cat, pet it, play with it, and then walk away? The thought that people did that not only with cats and dogs but with children at adoption fairs never failed to shock Zina. But then, she knew that she was easily shocked. Sensitized, her brother called her. Because of that day.

"Okay, but that means the Banshee goes back in her cage ahead of schedule. She's not going to like that. Hold your ears."

The predictable howl of protest drove
Marilyn
to close the door of her office.

Saying awful things in soothing ways to the
prematurely
locked-up Siamese, Zina began tidying the calico's cage while its lucky inmate ro
amed free. "Shh, bitchy-bitchy-
bitchy Banshee, shh, there, now, Banshee, it's okay." She folded the
soiled
newspaper at the bottom of the
calico's
cage and dumped it in
to
a plastic bag. "Someday you'll have a real home of your own to throw up in. Shh-h. Don't be upset."

She opened the regional news section of the
Worcester County Sentinel
and was fitting it to the bottom of the calico's cage when a photo on the front page caught her eye. It was a shot of a group of men with arms folded across their chests and broad grins on their faces, looking as if they'd just won the SuperBowl.