Secrets of Summer Read online

  Praise for the novels of Lee Tobin McClain

  “Lee Tobin McClain dazzles with unforgettable characters, fabulous small-town settings and a big dose of heart. Her complex and satisfying stories never disappoint.”

  —Susan Mallery, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fans of Debbie Macomber will appreciate this start to a new series by McClain that blends sweet, small-town romance with such serious issues as domestic abuse.... Readers craving a feel-good romance with a bit of suspense will be satisfied.”

  —Booklist on Low Country Hero

  “[An] enthralling tale of learning to trust.… This enjoyable contemporary romance will appeal to readers looking for twinges of suspense before happily ever after.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Low Country Hero

  “Low Country Hero has everything I look for in a book—it’s emotional, tender, and an all-around wonderful story.”

  —RaeAnne Thayne, New York Times bestselling author

  Secrets of Summer

  Lee Tobin McClain

  To Shana Asaro, who reminded me to make this book a romance, not a creative-writing lesson.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  EXCERPT FROM FOREVER ON THE BAY BY LEE TOBIN McCLAIN

  CHAPTER ONE

  MEG HARRIS JERKED AWAKE, checked the clock and groaned. It was 2:45 a.m.

  Tap-tap-tap. Click-click. Silence, then just as she was dropping back off, there it came again. Click-tap-click-click-click.

  She was used to noise—she did run a preschool, after all—but the annoying tapping from the other half of her duplex was different. It pounded on her brain like a gremlin with a tiny hammer.

  At forty-eight, she already wasn’t a great sleeper. Thank you, perimenopause. And every time she woke up, she thought about her thesis, due in two weeks.

  Getting her master’s degree was a lifelong goal, and she hoped to use it to kickstart this new phase of her life, but she was blocked, blocked, blocked. She’d already negotiated two extensions. These two weeks were her last chance.

  She threw back her too-hot covers and climbed out of bed, glad to notice that the noise had stopped. She’d get a cup of chamomile tea and do some brainstorming. Hopefully, she’d come up with a way forward. She had the academic section done, and the bibliography was perfect, but the final, creative part was doing her in.

  It was insecurity. She lacked confidence in her creative ability, just like she lacked confidence in herself as an attractive woman. Two areas of weakness in what was otherwise a really great life.

  Her dachshund, Oscar, lifted his head and looked at her as if to ask, “Do I have to get up?” He was eight years old and getting lazy.

  “Go back to sleep,” she said, giving the dog a quick ear rub.

  There came the tapping again, this time accompanied by a scream. And then a sharp crack, like a gunshot.

  A gunshot? Was it one?

  Oscar woofed half-heartedly, as if he didn’t know, either.

  Heart racing, she reached for jeans instead of her robe. Should she go next door or call the police herself?

  Breathe. It’s probably nothing.

  In her small Chesapeake Bay town, crime was rare, and it would be embarrassing if the noise next door were just a too-loud TV show. After all, the walls here were thin. But tourists dominated Pleasant Shores in the summer, and although her landlord tried to vet the short-term renters, occasionally, someone not so great slipped through.

  Downstairs, she popped a teabag into a mug and stuck it in the microwave, then looked out the window at the parking spaces in front of the duplex. Her quiet street was deserted, peaceful, bathed in starlight.

  A loud bang from next door made her jump. Another scream and more clacking. Oscar trotted downstairs. His awkward gait usually made her smile, but not tonight. She was annoyed. Annoyed her temporary neighbors had awakened not only her, but also her dog.

  She did want to get back to sleep at some point. At the risk of sounding like a cranky old lady, she was going to have to go next door.

  She opened her front door, ordered Oscar to stay and headed out. The August heat enveloped her as she marched over to the other half of the duplex. She banged the knocker, rang the doorbell and then backed down the porch steps in case she needed to flee.

  The noises stopped. After a minute, she heard footsteps trotting down the stairs. The door flew open to reveal an enormous pair of sock-clad feet. She looked up to a slim midsection, broad shoulders, hair graying at the temples and...

  When she focused on the man’s face, she gasped. “Finn? Finn O’Conner?”

  What on earth was her late husband’s business lawyer doing in Pleasant Shores?

  He looked stunned, too. He leaned forward and squinted out into the night. “Meg? Is that you?”

  She nodded. “It is. What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here? Since it’s...” He pulled a phone from his back pocket and looked at the face of it. “It’s 3:00 a.m.”

  “I came over about the noise.” She gestured upward. “We share a wall. I heard screams and gunshots, and then this irregular tapping sound. Woke me up.”

  He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry. I was right in the middle of... Well, look, the yelling and gunshot sounds came from some videos I was watching. Would you like to come in? I can offer you coffee, with or without a shot of bourbon.” He held open the door.

  Which suggested he was here alone. When he was photographed as a major donor at the charity events he attended, he usually had some extremely young, extremely attractive woman on his arm. A different one every time, if Meg was remembering correctly.

  Still, he was a good guy. He’d gone to school with her and Randy, and he’d been a big help with Randy’s estate, but then they’d lost track of each other. They hadn’t spoken in years.

  She had to look a sight, her hair a tangled mess down her back, her jeans and sweatshirt faded, her face bare of makeup. Not exactly the way you wanted your former sweetheart—because they’d been that too, briefly, as teenagers—to see you. But oh, well... she was past the age of being obsessed with her looks. “Sure, I’ll come in for a minute, if I’m not interrupting anything,” she said. “And I’ll take that shot.”

  * * *

  “I HAVEN’T SEEN you since Randy died,” Finn said as he led Meg inside. This flash from the past at 3:00 a.m. felt fairly surreal.

  As he gestured her into the kitchen ahead of him, he noticed that her long, wavy red hair was threaded through with silver. It looked good on her.

  She looked good, just as good as the day she’d married Finn’s former best friend. Slim and fit, with that athletic way of moving that reminded him she’d been a gymnast and cheerleader in high school. Way fewer lines on her face than he had, which probably meant she’d led a more peaceful life.

  He pulled out a chair for her at the small kitchen table and then set about making coffee, wondering how to play this scene. He hadn’t realized the walls were so thin, that he’d have to come up with some explanation for the noise. There were two secrets he needed to keep from her, one about himself and one about her, or rather, her past. That meant he needed to get into lawyer mode, where schooling his features was second nature.

  He’d lead with questions so she didn’t start asking too many. “What brought you to Pleasant Shores?” he asked. They’d grown up in a town a few miles inland, and most everyone had come here to
Pleasant Shores for recreation and fun, but the last he’d heard, she’d been a teacher farther up the coast.

  “A job opened up running a preschool here,” she explained. “I needed a change, and Kayla was having some problems in middle school, so...” She lifted her hands, palms up. “All of a sudden, I’ve lived here twelve years. It’s home now.”

  “And Kayla’s doing well?” He found two mugs and poured coffee. Although he’d mostly focused on Randy’s business, and then later on his estate, he’d met Kayla twice. Once, as a scared and worried ten-year-old whom he’d met visiting Randy at the hospital. Then once more, at her father’s funeral.

  “Really well. She’s a teacher at my school.” She leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know if you knew her scoliosis got worse. Wearing a brace made her adolescent years a little tough, but that and some surgery fixed things. She’s well and happy now.”

  He hadn’t known that, and he felt for Kayla and for Meg, too. From the way she was talking, it sounded like she hadn’t remarried. And though he’d deliberately not kept track of the woman he’d always regretted letting go, he couldn’t help but be glad she was single.

  It sounded like she’d raised her daughter alone, helped her through some serious struggles, which was an achievement to be proud of. “If you work together, you must be close. That’s terrific.”

  Meg nodded. “She’s a real blessing. So, how long are you renting this place? I know Primrose usually doesn’t let it for less than a week.”

  “I’m here for two. As long as you don’t file a noise complaint against me.” He broke the seal on a bottle of bourbon and splashed some into her coffee. “Cream?”

  She shook her head, raised her hand like a stop sign when he offered to add more bourbon. “Yeah, why were you watching scary videos in the middle of the night?”

  “I, uh, was looking up some stuff on my laptop and the volume was turned up high.” That much was true. He’d wanted to make sure he was describing the sound just right.

  She tilted her head to one side, probably curious because he hadn’t answered her question. “I’m saving up for a single-family home with some real walls, but for now, I get to listen to some weird stuff.” She took a sip from her cup, studying him. “So the laptop explains the screaming and gunfire, but what was that clicking and clacking?”

  He hadn’t intended to, but he poured some whiskey into his own cup of coffee. “I was working on something, writing on an old typewriter.”

  “Oh, a typewriter!” She smiled. “I was trying to figure out what it was. That’s it.”

  “I’m sorry it woke you up,” he said. “I can work downstairs, on the other side of the house. And keep my computer volume down.”

  “Sure, but...if you have a laptop, how come you’re using a typewriter? A manual one, from the sounds of it.”

  He sat down at the table, looked into her honest green eyes and found that he wanted to tell her the truth. “I write legal thrillers. Under a pseudonym. Using my dad’s old typewriter seems to bring out the creativity in me.”

  “Would I know your work?” she asked politely.

  The skepticism was most people’s reaction, and he preferred it, but for some reason he decided he didn’t need to keep his writer identity a secret. “I’m Alex Marsh,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re Alex Marsh?”

  “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. I like my privacy.”

  “You always did,” she said. “Wow. That’s really cool. Congratulations on your success.”

  “Thanks.” So he’d blurted out one of his two secrets. Hopefully, that was all he’d do.

  Clearly Meg had become a competent and successful woman. A happy one. She could handle knowing the rest of the truth, but why burst her bubble?

  She seemed so different from most of the women he dated, but then again, she was the type you married.

  If you were the marrying kind, which he wasn’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Meg returned home from errands to see Finn sitting on the front porch, laptop awkwardly perched on a coffee table. Just looking at the tall, lanky man bending over to type made her back hurt. Made her heart pound a little harder, too, but that wasn’t important.

  It was eighty degrees and humid. What was he doing outside?

  She set her grocery bags inside her front door and called over. “Is that comfortable?”

  He stood and laughed ruefully. “Not really, but I don’t like being cooped up all day. I’m trying to capture the sights and sounds, you know.”

  “Your book is set here?”

  “In the general area.” He waved a hand like he didn’t want to talk about it. “Speaking of writing, I thought you said you were working on your thesis today.”

  She made a face, annoyed with herself. “I’m supposed to be, but I decided I couldn’t live another minute without oregano and paper towels.”

  “Procrastination.” He nodded as he stacked the papers he’d had strewn out on the table. “I’m very familiar with it.”

  “If you only knew.” She was embarrassed to confess to him how uncreative she really was. Part of the problem was her subject: kids with disabilities in literature. It hit a little too close to home.

  “Happens to all writers, from time to time,” he said.

  “But what do you do about it when it happens to you?”

  He tilted his head to one side, shrugged. “Take a break or a walk.”

  “Done both.”

  “Sometimes I talk things through with my editor,” he said. “Do you have a thesis advisor?”

  “I’ve burned her out with all my questions.” She lifted her hands, palms up, trying to make a joke of it. “I’m a hopeless case.”

  He leaned against the porch rail and studied her, all long, loose limbs, genuine interest in his eyes. “What’s your thesis about?”

  “Children’s literature. I focus on kids with disabilities, how they’re portrayed.”

  “Interesting. You have part of it done?”

  “Most of it, but I’m stuck on the creative part. I have to write either a short story or the start of a longer work, kind of putting the principles I’ve learned into action. I don’t know where to begin.” She shrugged, self-deprecating. “I just don’t have the imagination.”

  His eyebrows came together and he shook his finger at her, mock scolding. “Sounds like an excuse. Have you tried brainstorming with someone else?”

  She shook her head. “Pleasant Shores isn’t chock-full of writers.” Goodness, she sounded whiny. She’d have chewed out her daughter if she came up with that many excuses.

  Hands on his hips, Finn pinned her with an intense gaze. “I’m a writer. I’ll brainstorm with you.”

  Her heart gave a flutter. What was this vibe she was getting from him?

  Most likely, she was just imagining it, and that was pathetic. “You’re a famous thriller writer. I’m a nobody.”

  “It’s the least I can do for keeping you awake all night.”

  She blushed at the image his words evoked, other reasons a man like Finn might keep a woman awake all night. She waved a hand and turned back toward the house. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Wait, Meg.” He walked over to the divider between their two porches. “I’m serious about that offer. I would be happy to help you brainstorm, especially if you’d let me do it over dinner.”

  His words made her feel breathless. “I don’t... Well.” She’d been about to say she didn’t want to do it, but she’d be lying. “That would be a wonderful help, but I at least ought to cook. If you take me out, and brainstorm with me, the transaction’s unequal.”

  A car drove by, windows open, country music blaring. From the bay, a breeze chilled her sweaty skin. She looked into his amber eyes, eyes she’d always found interesting.

  He
studied her. “Is that how you look at it, a transaction?”

  She shook her head rapidly. “I don’t know.” Restless, she took the broom propped against the wall and brushed a few sticks and leaves off the porch. She felt like a frumpy old lady, wearing her faded jeans, sweeping her porch, complaining about her woes. “I’ll be fine, but thanks for the offer.”

  “You don’t have to cook. I’ll pick up pizza.” He hesitated, then added, “You don’t know me all that well, despite the past. Maybe working at your place isn’t the best idea. Do you know of any place where we could use a whiteboard or chalkboard? That always helps me capture good ideas.”

  His thoughtfulness touched her. “There’s my school, but—”

  “I’ll knock on your door with a pizza, and we’ll take it to your school.” He held up a hand, stopping her protest. “Six o’clock. See you then.” He turned and disappeared into his side of the duplex, leaving Meg to wonder what had just happened. Had she agreed to a date or a work session?

  And which did she want it to be?

  * * *

  WHAT HAD HE been thinking, asking Meg to dinner? Actually insisting on it.

  Shortly after six, Finn followed her toward what looked like an old house converted to a school. He knew what he’d been thinking, or rather feeling: lonely. His usual active dating life had paled lately, and most of his friends had families to keep them busy.

  Plus, Meg was pretty. He looked at her now, punching a code into the keypad lock at the door of the big old house, which according to the sign was the Coastal Kids Early Learning Center, and admiration filled him.

  She was competent and successful, here in her element. That alone drew him to her. Of course, she was attractive in other ways, too. Right now, she wore a skirt made of some kind of athletic material that flared out around her pretty legs. Just a plain red T-shirt, but it showed off her figure. And those flat sandals that all the young women wore now.

  Toenails painted red. Nice.