Spencer's Cove Read online

  Spencer’s Cove

  Successful mystery author Foster Owen hasn’t finished a manuscript in three years and her writer’s block shows no signs of retreating. When the bills start piling up, an unexpected offer to ghost write a memoir for an heiress on the West Coast seems like too good an opportunity to ignore.

  Painfully shy Abigail Spencer has just returned from studying abroad. The sprawling estate she inherited from her parents includes a crumbling mansion rumored to be haunted and an historic lighthouse nestled along the remote northern Pacific coast.

  When the executor of the Spencer estate hires Foster to write the history of the family, Foster and Abby are drawn together as they peel back the layers of history and uncover a story of lives adrift, loves lost, and true love found. Can seeds from the past help love to blossom in the present?

  What Reviewers Say About Missouri Vaun’s Work

  Take My Hand

  “The chemistry between River and Clay is off the charts and their sex scenes were just plain hot!”—Les Rêveur

  “The small town charms of Take My Hand evoke the heady perfume of pine needles and undergrowth, birdsong, and summer cocktails with friends.”—Omnivore Bibliosaur

  The Ground Beneath

  “One of my favourite things about Missouri Vaun’s writing is her ability to write the attraction between two women. Somehow she manages to get that twinkle in the stomach just right and she makes me feel it as if I am falling in love with my wife all over again.”—The Lesbian Review

  Crossing the Wide Forever

  “Crossing the Wide Forever is a near-heroic love story set in an epic time, told with almost lyrical prose. Words on the page will carry the reader, along with the main characters, back into history and into adventure. It’s a tale that’s easy to read, with enchanting main characters, despicable villains, and supportive friendships, producing a fascinating account of passion and adventure.”—Lambda Literary Review

  All Things Rise

  “The futuristic world that author Missouri Vaun has brought to life is as interesting as it is plausible. The sci-fi aspect, though, is not hard-core which makes for easy reading and understanding of the technology prevalent in the cloud cities. …[T]he focus was really on the dynamics of the characters especially Cole, Ava and Audrey—whether they were interacting on the ground or above the clouds. From the first page to the last, the writing was just perfect.”—AoBibliosphere

  “Simply put, this book is easy to love. Everything about it makes for a wonderful read and re-read. I was able to go on a journey with these characters, an emotional, internal journey where I was able to take a look at the fact that while society and technology can change vastly until almost nothing remains the same, there are some fundamentals that never change, like hope, the raw emotion of human nature, and the far reaching search for the person who is able to soothe the fire in our souls with the love in theirs.”—Roses and Whimsy

  Birthright

  “The author develops a world that has a medieval feeling, complete with monasteries and vassal farmers, while also being a place and time where a lesbian relationship is just as legitimate and open as a heterosexual one. This kept pleasantly surprising me throughout my reading of the book. The adventure part of the story was fun, including traveling across kingdoms, on “wind-ships” across deserts, and plenty of sword fighting. …This book is worth reading for its fantasy world alone. In our world, where those in the LGBTQ communities still often face derision, prejudice, and danger for living and loving openly, being immersed in a world where the Queen can openly love another woman is a refreshing break from reality.”—Amanda Chapman, Librarian, Davisville Free Library (RI)

  The Time Before Now

  “[The Time Before Now] is just so good. Vaun’s character work in this novel is flawless. She told a compelling story about a person so real you could just about reach out and touch her.”—The Lesbian Review

  Jane’s World and the Case of the Mail Order Bride

  “This is such a quirky, sweet novel with a cast of memorable characters. It has laugh out loud moments and will leave you feeling charmed.”—The Lesbian Review

  Love at Cooper’s Creek

  “Blown away…how have I not read a book by Missouri Vaun before. What a beautiful love story which, honestly, I wasn’t ready to finish. Kate and Shaw’s chemistry was instantaneous and as the reader I could feel it radiating off the page.”—Les Reveur

  “Love at Cooper’s Creek is a gentle, warm hug of a book.”—The Lesbian Review

  Spencer’s Cove

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Spencer’s Cove

  © 2019 By Missouri Vaun. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-172-3

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Photo By Michael Ryan

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  All Things Rise

  The Time Before Now

  The Ground Beneath

  Whiskey Sunrise

  Valley of Fire

  Death by Cocktail Straw

  One More Reason to Leave Orlando

  Smothered and Covered

  Privacy Glass

  Birthright

  Crossing the Wide Forever

  Love at Cooper’s Creek

  Take My Hand

  Proxima Five

  Spencer’s Cove

  Writing as Paige Braddock:

  Jane’s World: The Case of the Mail Order Bride

  Acknowledgments

  Point Arena, California, is one of my favorite places. While this book is not technically set in Point Arena, my experiences there contributed heavily to the setting of this story. The photo on the cover, taken by Michael Ryan (an amazing nature photographer), is a shot of the coastline near Point Arena.

  Rachel, my favorite local librarian, was incredibly helpful with research. Thank you!

  I’d like to thank my beta readers, Jenny, D. Jackson Leigh, Vanessa, and Alena. And as always, thanks to the amazing crew at Bold Strokes Books, Rad, Sandy, Ruth, Paula, and my editor, Cindy.

  The characters in this story came to me with vivid voices. I hope you enjoy their journey. Welcome to Spencer’s Cove.

  Dedication

  To Evelyn, everything with you is magic.

  Chapter One

  Something pressed down on Foster, making it hard to breathe. It began to move. Points of intense pressure across her ribcage. The true horror came next, cat breath. She blinked. A sharp glare bounced off the hardwood floor from the uncovered window, bathing part of the sofa in sunlight. Daylight, unwelcome, and far too bright.

  “Gah…stop breathing on me.”

  William Faulkner, twenty pounds of orange striped fur and feline girth, stood on her chest, his nose almost touching hers. A whiff of tuna arrived with every exhale.
<
br />   “I’m up, I’m up.”

  Foster heaved the cat off as she rolled over. She’d fallen asleep on the couch, again. She rotated and sat up. Her faded flannel shirt was buttoned wrong and the collar was all askew. She rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side; her neck popped and cracked. The side of her face tingled. The edge of the laptop had left a crease across her cheek. She rubbed the indentation with her fingers in an attempt to get the feeling to return. Foster was only thirty-five, but this morning she felt a hell of a lot older. The ergonomics of her grandma’s hand-me-down sofa left a lot to be desired. A perpetual dent in the cushion where the springs had given out was clearly where her grandma sat each day to watch her story. She’d been a loyal follower of Days of Our Lives until her passing.

  William Faulkner meowed loudly from the kitchen doorway. No doubt she’d forgotten to top off his bowl of kibble before falling asleep on her laptop.

  “Stop yelling at me. I’m up, for cryin’ out loud.”

  Just as she topped off his bowl, her cell phone buzzed on the counter, somewhere. Several days of story notes, magazines, and newspapers had to be shuffled before she found it. When she saw who was calling she considered not answering it, but she knew Rosalind would just keep hitting redial until Foster picked up. Rosalind King, her literary agent in New York City, had no respect for mornings, or those who were slow to rise.

  Well, coffee was definitely in order to deal with whatever this conversation was going to be about.

  “Hello, Rosalind.” She put the phone on speaker and poured coffee beans into the grinder. She waited until she heard Rosalind’s voice on the other end before turning it on. The grinder was so loud it might as well have been chewing metal.

  “…are you finished?”

  She’d missed the first half of whatever Rosalind had been saying, unable to hear it over the kitchen machinery.

  “Sorry, I’m making coffee.”

  “You know that phone probably has a mute button.”

  “Really?” Foster pressed the cover down so that the grinder buzzed loudly again near the phone.

  “It sounds like you’re making coffee with a leaf blower.”

  Rosalind had a sense of humor. Foster always gave her points for that.

  “How’s the manuscript coming along?”

  “I’m making progress.” She basically said that every time Rosalind asked.

  Foster had managed to write an entire paragraph the previous day, but almost as soon as she lifted her fingers off the keyboard had decided it was rubbish and deleted it. She’d been suffering from writer’s block and was beginning to worry that it was never going to dissipate. Voicing the worry out loud would only make the whole situation more real, so she opted for denial and kept it to herself.

  “I have a job for you.”

  “Dang it.” Small mounds of ground coffee spilled on the counter, like potting soil from the garden.

  “You haven’t even heard what the job is yet.”

  “Sorry, I spilled the coffee grounds before I got them into the filter.” She scooped them up with a spoon as best as she could and swept the rest into the sink, then dusted her palm across her boxer shorts.

  “As I was saying, I have a job for you.”

  “You mean besides the job where I write books and you sell them to a publisher?” Foster took the phone off speaker and held it to her ear. She leaned against the counter’s edge waiting for her morning brew to brew.

  “Yes, see, that’s the thing…when you don’t actually write a book, then I can’t sell it, and neither of us makes any money.”

  Foster pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m listening.” She owed Rosalind. Most agents would probably have dropped an author who couldn’t deliver, or at the very least, stopped calling them. Especially since she’d been unable to finish a new manuscript for almost three years.

  “I got a call late yesterday from an attorney in San Francisco. She wants to hire you to ghostwrite a memoir for a client of hers. A woman named Abigail Spencer.”

  “That sounds like a terrible idea. I write mystery novels, thrillers. I’ve never written a memoir before—”

  “She’s offering to pay forty thousand dollars.”

  Foster had just taken a sip of coffee and almost choked. A coughing fit ensued.

  “Are you okay? Should I call nine-one-one?” There wasn’t even a hint of real concern.

  “Forty thousand dollars?” Her voice cracked and she coughed again.

  “I told her you’d take it.” The rustle of shuffling papers came through the phone. “I emailed you the ticket info for the flight to San Francisco. You leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Rosalind, I don’t know…”

  “Foster, you need to be working, writing…I think this is a great opportunity to break out of your…well, whatever slump you’re in.” Rosalind paused. “Should I have turned it down?”

  After taking a few seconds to do the math in her head, Foster confirmed that she really had no choice. Her bank account was on life support and she had a mortgage to pay, not to mention the monthly tab for cases of Fancy Feast that William Faulkner demanded. He required a full bowl of hard kibble with a serving of Fancy Feast on the side or things got ugly. He could literally scream meow for hours when he felt shortchanged for dinner.

  “No, you did the right thing.” She refilled her coffee cup. “I’ll do it.”

  “Great. I’ll send you the rest of the details. Call me in a week and let me know how things are going.”

  “Hey, Rosalind…”

  “Yes?”

  “Why me?”

  “What?”

  “Why did she want to hire me, specifically?”

  “Apparently, this Abigail Spencer is a fan…and there’s some sort of mystery about the family history.” A second phone rang in the background. “Okay, well, I’ve gotta go. Call me in a week.”

  “Bye—” Rosalind had already clicked off.

  Foster took several sips of her coffee. There had to be some catch to this. Forty thousand dollars was a crazy amount of money for a memoir that might not even be much of a story. Whoever this Abigail Spencer was she obviously had more money than sense. She pictured a matronly older lady, sipping tea daintily, surrounded by family albums, heirlooms, and several cats.

  She topped off her coffee and went outside to get yesterday’s mail. She was looking down as she shuffled envelopes of junk mail and didn’t notice William Faulkner until it was too late. The way he looked at her through the window of the door, she knew he was standing partly on the washer, with one paw on the doorknob. She lunged for the door, sloshing her coffee, but a millisecond before she reached the handle she heard the unmistakable sound of the deadbolt handle flip, sliding the lock into the doorframe.

  “No, no, no, nooooooo!” Foster banged on the door.

  Unmoved by her threatening display, William Faulkner sniffed the air, stared at her for a moment, and then jumped down. He showed her his hind end as he leisurely strolled out of the laundry room into the living room. She stood at the window in her boxer shorts, barefoot, holding coffee and the mail as he calmly curled up in a sunny spot on the sofa.

  “Damn you, William Faulkner,” she said to no one.

  Great. Now she’d have to walk down to her neighbor Patty’s house to retrieve the spare key to get into her own house. She and Patty kept keys for each other in the event of pet care or other emergencies. Patty worked nights at the hospital, so with any luck she’d be home to give Foster the key. This was the second time William Faulkner had stepped on the deadbolt handle and locked her out. The last time she’d been fully dressed and wearing shoes, this time, she wasn’t so lucky.

  She dropped the mail on the steps in a haphazard pile and started down the street with her coffee. It was late morning, probably around eleven, so of course her neighbor, the elderly Mrs. Washington, was stooped over, tending her flower garden.
Mrs. Washington stood and studied Foster. She looked at Foster as if she’d just seen the Lord himself walk by buck naked.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Washington. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She tipped her coffee mug in Mrs. Washington’s direction as if walking down the street half-dressed was the most normal thing in the world. As if grown women always wore plaid shirts and Sponge Bob Squarepants boxers when they strolled the neighborhood barefoot.

  Mrs. Washington frowned and shook her head as Foster walked past where she stood in a large patch of bright yellow daffodils.

  ***

  Sunlight had not yet pierced the marine layer. A thick fog hid the horizon from view, the gray, damp cover like dense clouds riding the waves across the surface of the Pacific. By noon the fog would withdraw, and from this cliff top vantage, Abigail Spencer would have a breathtaking miles-long view of a rugged swath of the Northern California coastline. But not at this early hour. Before the warmth of the sun was allowed to reach the ground, everything would remain as it was now: cold, damp, and painted in myriad hues of gray.

  Abby tightened the cashmere scarf around her neck and tucked it snuggly into the collar of her coat. A wisp of hair pulled loose and swept across her face in the steady breeze. She tugged her wool beanie down farther over her ears, taming the flyaway strands.