"Full of charm and wit, Stockenberg's latest is truly enthralling."
--
Publishers Weekly
In 1692,
Salem
,
Massachusetts
was the setting for the infamous
persecution of innocents accused of witchcraft.
Three centuries later, little has changed.
Helen Evett, widowed mother of two and owner of a prestigious preschool in town, finds her family, her fortunes, and her life's work threatened —all because she feels driven to protect the sweet three-year-old daughter of a man who knows everything about finance but not so much about fathering.
"
Richly rewarding
… a novel to be savored
.
"
--
Romantic Times Magazine
A
Nantucket
cottage by the sea: the inheritance is a dream come true for Jane Drew. Too bad it comes with a ghost —and a soulfully seductive neighbor who'd just as soon boot Jane off the island.
"
A deft blend of mystery and romance … sure to win more kudos"
--
Publishers Weekly
To Meg Hazard, it seemed like a good idea at the time: squeezing her extended family into the back rooms of their rambling Victorian home and converting the rest of the house into a Bed and Breakfast in the coastal town of
Bar Harbor
,
Maine
.
Paying guests are most welcome, but the arrival of a
Chicago
cop on medical leave turns out to be both good news
and bad news for Meg and the Inn Between.
"As hilarious as it is heart-tugging ... a rollicking great read."
--I'll Take Romance
In Gilded-Age Newport, an upstairs-downstairs romance between a well-born son and a humble maid is cut short of marriage. A hundred years later, the descendants of that ill-fated union seem destined to repeat history. Or not.
"Buy this book! A truly fantastic read!"
--
Suzanne Barr
,
Gulf
Coast
Woman
USA
TODAY
bestselling author Antoinette Stockenberg delivers an original and wonderfully romantic story of two people -- college lovers separated for twenty years -- who have the chance to be happy together at last.
But family, friends, an ex-husband, a teenaged daughter and an unsolved murder seem destined to keep the lovers star-crossed, until Dan takes up residence in the Cape Cod lighthouse, with Maddie's rose-covered cottage just a short walk away ...
"
Complex … fast-moving …humorous … tender"
--
Publishers Weekly
SAFE
HARBOR
. That's what
Martha's Vineyard
has always been for Holly Anderson, folk artist, dreamer and eternal optimist. If she could just afford to buy the house and barn she's renting, fall in love, marry the guy and then have children as sweet as her nieces, life would be pretty much perfect.
Poor Holly. She has so much to learn.
RITA Award Winner
"Booksellers' recommended read."
--
Publishers Weekly
A showdown between a U.S. Senator (with a house on
Martha's Vineyard
) who believes in ghosts and a reporter who doesn't.
What could possibly go wrong?
"
An addictive, captivating story of love, family and trust.
"
--
Romance Reviews Today
Laura
Shore
has fled her humble past on
Cape Cod
and made a name for herself on the opposite coast. But when she returns and joins forces with her two siblings to try to save Shore Gardens, the failing family nursery, she finds that she hasn't left the past behind at all. Kendall Barclay, the town's rich son and her childhood knight in shining armor, lives there still, and his hold over Laura is as strong as ever. Like a true knight, he's attentive, courteous, and ready to help -- until a
murder is uncovered
that threatens the family, the nursery, and Laura's deepening relationship with him.
USA Today bestselling novelist Antoinette Stockenberg grew up wanting be a cowgirl and have her own horse (her great-grandfather bred horses for the carriage trade back in the old country), but the geography just didn't work out: there weren't many ranches in
Chicago
. Her other, more doable dream was to write books, and after stints as secretary, programmer, teacher, grad student, boatyard hand, office manager and magazine writer (in that order), she achieved that goal, writing over a dozen novels, several of them with paranormal elements. One of them is the RITA award-winning EMILY'S GHOST.
Stockenberg's books have been published in a dozen languages and are often set in quaint
New England
harbor towns, always with a dose of humor. She writes about complex family relationships and the fallout that old, unearthed secrets can have on them. Sometimes there's an old murder. Sometimes there's an old ghost. Sometimes once-lovers find one another after half a lifetime apart.
Her work has been compared to writers as diverse as Barbara Freethy, Nora Roberts, LaVyrle Spencer and Mary Stewart by critics and authors alike, and her novels have appeared on bestseller lists in USA Today as well as the national bookstore chains. Her website features sample chapters, numerous reviews, many photos, and an
enchanting Christmas section.
Visit
her
website at
antoinettestockenberg.com
to r
ead sample chapters of all of her books
.
Antoinette Stockenberg
"A spellbinding thriller that is both intense and riveting."
--
Romantic Times
Newly married to a man of wealth and reputation who's very willing to be stepfather to her child, Sara Bonniface would seem to have all she's ever wanted. But her young daughter has other ideas, embarking on a crusade to learn more about her birth father. And that's where Sara's life begins to spin slowly out of control ....
Prologue
Abigail.
It seemed like such a good name at the time.
"Source of joy," that's what the word meant according to the baby-name booklet that Sara had picked up at the checkout register of her grocery store. Four months later and with no man at her side, Sara had cradled her seven-pound, two-ounce Abigail and marveled at just how much joy she was holding. That was twelve long years ago.
It seemed like such a good name at the time.
Chapter 1
The black night and pounding rain were doing little to improve
Sara
's mood. She was rattled to the point of fear.
When had she last filled the tank?
It had to be over a month ago, and yet here she was, still rolling along on three-quarters full. Obviously she must have stopped recently at a gas station—but when? Where? The effort to remember consumed her: she drove straight through a red light and got pulled over immediately by a cop.
Where had he come from?
Sara
didn't know the answer to that one, either. Her hand was shaking as she handed him her license and registration through the partly rolled-down window.
"I'm sorry, Officer, really," she said, wincing under the lash of driving rain. "I was totally preoccupied. I never saw the light."
"Is
that
the reason," the cop muttered.
He beamed a small flashlight on her
Massachusetts
license and the now-damp registration. It was clear that he resented being forced out of the dry warmth of his car for the sole purpose of ticketing someone else's absent-
mindedness
. If
Sara
had been rushing to an emergency room, maybe, or returning home from a wake
... but all she was doing was driving home on a tank of gas that seemed too full. It would be pointless to t
r
y to explain.
"It's my gas tank. I don't understand it; it never seems to go empty anymore," she said, powerless to stop the stream of her babble. "I can't remember when I last filled up. I'll have to, to, you know, start using American Express, start keeping records of, you know, everything I do—you know? Start taking notes and things like that?"
The ponchoed officer gave her an appraising look, then went off with her documents back to his squad car, presumably to fetch his Breathalyzer.
Good grief,
Sara
, get a grip
The only thing worse than going crazy was announcing out loud that she was doing it.
She drummed her finge
rtips nervously on the leather-
bound steering wheel of her Mercedes while she waited. The sound was louder than the pound of the rain, louder than the beat of her heart. The message in it was earsplittingly clear:
shutup shutup shutup shutup!
The officer returned.
"You can go, Mrs. Bonniface," he said, handing her back her license. "Please drive carefully. The roads are slick. You could easily get in an accident on a wild night like this." He nodded a dismissal and then beat a retreat through the pouring rain.
It was an about-face. Apparently he had figured out who she was: the wife of one of the most well-regarded men in Farnham, certainly the most generous, a man beloved by all.
Sara
had been married to Rodger Bonniface for nearly a year and she had known him for five years before that, but every day she learned a little more about the depth of affection—and influence—that he enjoyed around town.
Or maybe the officer was just being nice.
Sara
slipped her license into a glove-soft wallet and tossed the registration on the passenger seat.
And then she reconsidered. Better to put it back where it belonged, in the glove compartment, right now, while she was thinking of it, before she forgot
.
The way her mother had once begun to forget. First the little things. Then the big.
Who are you? Who said you could be here? Get out right now, you, or I'll call the cops. Get out! Out!
Sara
could still hear her
mother's voice, shrill and ter
rified; could still see her mother's eyes, round and green and blank with paranoia. The day that her mother hadn't recognized her had been the single most shocking of
Sara
's life. For years now, and probably until the day she died,
Sara
's mood would plunge whenever she herself forgot the most trivial thing—the name of a movie she'd just seen, or the outfit she'd worn to work on the preceding day.
Or the last time she'd topped off the tank.
Sara
pulled into the flow of traffic with ridiculous caution. The patrolman could well be watching her, after all—unless, of course, she was just being paranoid.
Rain hammered the roof of her wagon and swept over the windshield in sheets as she continued on her way in a slow crawl home. Puddles of water pooling on the shoulder rose up in high arcs as she drove through them, anxious to show up before Rodger became worried.
Her husband had seen firsthand how forgetful she'd been lately and was doing his best to reassure her that her state of distraction was perfectly normal. His most recent try had been at breakfast.
"You're about to open your own shop, for Pete's sake," he had said as he cracked the fat end of an egg with a spoon. "There are a million things to do, contractors to oversee, more antiques to acquire—what did you expect? Of course stuff is slipping past you. You can't remember every little thing."
"The store won't be ready to move into for weeks," she had pointed out. "I'm not all
that
busy yet."
There was a silence—far too long for
Sara
to feel comfortable with it.
"Well, then," Rodger had said in a softer, more tentative voice, "maybe you should look somewhere else for the reason you're so distracted. Could the reason be Abby?"
The name was a hot coal on a raw nerve. "Abby? Why Abby?"
It was such a dumb question. The man wasn't deaf; obviously he had been hearing the recent arguments between
his stepdaughter
and
his wife.