Cover Copy
Johanna Coco is finally home in Bitterly, Connecticut, to attend her beloved grandmother's funeral—only to be confronted by the very reason she's stayed away to begin with-—Charlie McCallan. Her high school sweetheart is now divorced, and no longer the skinny boy Johanna once loved. Hometown handsome and dependable as always, Charlie is the kind of man she needs to lean on as she and her sisters grapple with their grief—as well as the mystery of their long-missing mother, Carolina. But Johanna’s heart isn't only haunted by her ghosts; it’s haunted by what happened between her and Charlie…
Charlie is determined to do things right this time, and he has to do it before Johanna vanishes from his life again. First he needs to prove to her that the past is past, and they can overcome it—no easy task when he’s up against the ghosts lingering in her life, trying to convince her that happily-ever-after is not in the cards for any of the catastrophe-prone Coco sisters, least of all Johanna. But her fearless first love is ready to do whatever it takes to win her back—ghosts be damned.
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Books by Terri-Lynne DeFino
Seeking Carolina
Dreaming August
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Seeking Carolina
Terri-Lynne DeFino
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2015 by Terri-Lynne DeFino
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First Electronic Edition: October 2015
eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-768-8
eISBN-10: 1-61650-768-3
First Print Edition: October 2015
ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-769-5
ISBN-10: 1-61650-769-1
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For my dollbabies~women of words, sea breezes, and chocolate cake.
Acknowledgements
I have heard it said writing is a solitary effort. We sit at our computers for hours at a time, oblivious to the world going on around us in favor of the one in our heads, one peopled by men and women of our own creation. Solitary? As a famous wizard once said, just because it’s happening in your head, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Our worlds, our characters, the events we write are very real. We make them real, we hope, for our readers. Solitary? Hardly.
We also have editors and copy editors and cover artists. Whole teams work on bringing our novels from files in our computers to books winging their way out into the world. Without my editor, Penny Barber-Schwartz, Bitterly, Connecticut and all its inhabitants would not be in this book, at this time. For that, darling Penny, not only I, but my characters thank you.
Thanks to my sisters in romance, the members of CoLoNY. Not only did you help birth The Bitterly Suite, but you have encouraged, supported, and celebrated with me every step of the way.
As always, thanks to my brilliant dollbabies, women who are not just a week on the beach, writing, eating cake, and laughing. They are the core of my writing life. We don’t see one another but a week every year, but they are with me every day. Hands on my shoulder. Whispered words of encouragement. Messages on Facebook.
And though it’s going to make her blush, I want to especially thank Sharon Struth. She is kindred of a kind one doesn’t find every day. Thanks, Shar—without you, I wouldn’t be writing this acknowledgement in the first place.
Last, as always, thanks to my Frankie D. He knows why.
Chapter 1
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Snowflakes do not fall; they dance. Will-o’-the-wisps in Les Sylphides. White on black. The poet wind scatters them and they twirl amid the tombstones—stately guardians dressed in gray—and fall, at last, to sleep.
Disturbing that slumber is a sacrilege, I know, she cannot not bring herself to commit.
No matter the cold.
No matter the dark.
No matter she is trespassing after cemetery hours. She will stand perfectly still until she is another guardian among the stones.
* * * *
Rough hands chafed warmth back into Johanna’s hands, her arms.
“Are you crazy?”
The masculine voice mumbled words she did not care to decipher. He was right. She was crazy. Crazy as a loon. Mad as a hatter, as a Cheshire Cat. Crazy as…
She closed her eyes, unwilling to finish the unkind, if accurate, thought. Trembling, drifting, all she wanted was to sleep.
“Oh, no you don’t. Get up. Walk.” He jammed a shoulder under her armpit and hefted her upright.
Johanna’s feet moved of their own accord, half-dragged, but they moved. “Where am I?”
“Bitterly Cemetery,” the man answered, “doing your best impression of a snowman…woman.”
Oh. Right. Farts. She pushed feebly out of his arms. Her knees buckled, and she was grateful he hadn’t let go. “I can walk on my own.”
“I’m sure you can. Normally. Come on. I’ve got the heat blasting in the truck. Get warm, and I’ll take you home.”
Johanna let him help her. Bitterly, Connecticut was way too nice a town to allow miscreants. Everyone knew everyone and had most of their lives. This was no one to fear, even if he did frequent cemeteries after hours rescuing would-be popsicles from certain frostbite.
Her head began to clear. Memory edged around her trembling, the cold, her grief. The man scooted her into the truck, closed the door and came around the driver’s side. “There’s coffee in the thermos next to you.”
“No,