Outstanding praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin!
THE SUMMER NANNY
“A satisfying and multifaceted story that keeps readers guessing. For fans of similar works by authors such as Shelley Noble and
Nancy Thayer.”—Library Journal
THE SEASON OF US
“A warm and witty tale. This heartfelt and emotional story will appeal to members of the Sandwich Generation or anyone who has had to set aside long-buried childhood resentments for the well-being of an aging parent. Fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Wendy Wax will adore this genuine exploration of family bonds, personal growth, and acceptance.”—Booklist
THE BEACH QUILT
“Particularly compelling.”—The Pilot
SUMMER FRIENDS
“A thoughtful novel.”—Shelf Awareness
“A great summer read.”—Fresh Fiction
“A novel rich in drama and insights into what factors bring people together and, just as fatefully, tear them apart.”
—The Portland Press Herald
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
“Explores questions about the meaning of home, family dynamics and tolerance.”—The Bangor Daily News
“An enjoyable summer read, but it’s more. It is a novel for all seasons that adds to the enduring excitement of Ogunquit.”
—The Maine Sunday Telegram
“It does the trick as a beach book and provides a touristy taste of
Maine’s seasonal attractions.”—Publishers Weekly
Books by Holly Chamberlin
LIVING SINGLE
THE SUMMER OF US
BABYLAND
BACK IN THE GAME
THE FRIENDS WE KEEP
TUSCAN HOLIDAY
ONE WEEK IN DECEMBER
THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE
SUMMER FRIENDS
LAST SUMMER
THE SUMMER EVERYTHING CHANGED
THE BEACH QUILT
SUMMER WITH MY SISTERS
SEASHELL SEASON
THE SEASON OF US
HOME FOR THE SUMMER
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
THE SUMMER NANNY
A WEDDING ON THE BEACH
ALL OUR SUMMERS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
all our summers
holly chamberlin
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Teaser chapter
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Elise Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1922-5
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1922-5
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1922-0
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2020
As always, for Stephen
And this time, also for Veronica Donner
Acknowledgments
Thanks once again to the best
editor I could ever hope to have, John Scognamiglio.
Thanks also to Kathryn and GG for bringing light into my life, all the way from Nebraska.
This book is in memory of Joe Riillo, friend and musician extraordinaire, taken from us too soon.
For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Chapter 1
It was a beautiful, early summer day in the town of Yorktide, Maine. The temperature was politely hovering around seventy-five, the humidity was low, and the pink and white peonies were in magnificent bloom.
Summer was Bonnie Ascher Elgort’s favorite time of the year. It didn’t matter that she was spending the day at Ferndean House, her family’s homestead, dusting and polishing furniture, vacuuming rugs and draperies, keeping an eye out for spiders, and checking for burned-out lightbulbs. The windows were open and the cooing of a pair of mourning doves filled the air. Life was good.
Bonnie leaned over the deep kitchen sink to scrub at a mark on the backsplash. The motion caused an ache in her shoulder. At sixty-two, Bonnie was heavier than she had ever been. She knew she had lost about half an inch in height; she could see how her shoulders were slightly hunched. It didn’t bother her; she still felt strong, and that was what mattered. Her medium-brown hair had dulled a bit over time, and since her husband Ken’s illness and death it had become threaded with gray. This didn’t trouble Bonnie. She had been told by friends that she had a youthful air about her, though she wasn’t really sure what that meant or if it was important. Probably not.
What really mattered in life was on the inside. Unlike her sister, Carol, Bonnie had never been particularly interested in clothes. It had been years since she had worn a pretty dress and carried a fancy bag, and that had been at the wedding of a friend’s grandson. And, of course, there had been Ken’s funeral a year ago come September. As the grieving widow, form had required her to make a certain appearance and she had, in the only skirt, blouse, and jacket that still fit her. Shoes had been a problem. Her daughter, Julie, had taken her to one of the outlets in Kittery, where after a grueling hour or two they had finally found a pair of tan low-heeled pumps. Bonnie had not worn them since the funeral. Maybe she would wear them to her granddaughter’s high school graduation in a few years.
Bonnie moved from the kitchen into the dining room, where she ran a dustcloth over the carved bits of the massive oak sideboard that held pride of place. It was one of Bonnie’s favorite pieces in the house. No one was quite sure who had brought it to Ferndean or when, but the sideboard had been there as long as Bonnie could remember. Truth be told, almost every single piece of heavy furniture, every knickknack no matter how cracked or otherwise damaged, every painting darkened with age and lack of professional care, every plate and saucer decorated with a pattern long out of fashion, held special meaning for Bonnie.
Which was why it had not been difficult for her to come to a decision about her future. She would sell the cottage in Yorktide in which she and Ken had lived for all of their married lives and move permanently into her family home. Ferndean House had been left equally to Bonnie and Carol by their parents, Shirley and Ronald Ascher, but Carol lived in New York City and had done since she was nineteen. Ferndean meant nothing to Carol Ascher. It meant the world to Bonnie. It was a member of the family. It was alive.
Ferndean House, located at 23 Wolf Lane, was situated on twenty acres of land that boasted a good-size pond (a stop-off for migrating birds in autumn and home to peepers in early spring); monumental oak, pine, and maple trees; and a profusion of native ferns, high and lowbush blueberry bushes, and flowering shrubs such as azalea and rhododendron. The house itself was about three thousand square feet with two floors of rooms and an attic that had formerly served as servants’ quarters. There was a big stone fireplace in the living room; a charming front porch that ran the entire length of the house; a back deck that had been added at some point in the 1940s; a large flower and kitchen garden; and the puzzling remains of a stone structure set at one end of the large lawn that stretched behind the house.
Ferndean had been built by Carol and Bonnie’s great-grandfather for his much younger third wife. He had named the structure after the house in Jane Eyre where Jane and the blind and crippled Mr. Rochester were reunited. The novel—only recently published—had been his wife’s favorite; indeed, it was Bonnie’s favorite novel, too. Marcus and Rosemary’s wedding portrait, taken in June of 1848, still hung in Ferndean’s living room, in what Bonnie had been told was its original frame.
After Shirley Ascher’s death some thirty years earlier, Bonnie and her sister, in a rare instance of accord, had decided to rent the big house during part of the summer season. It would be a good source of income, most of which would go toward the upkeep of the old place. What was left over was pure profit; that profit benefited Bonnie and her family enormously, but Carol, who didn’t need an additional source of income, routinely put her share back into the fund kept for the maintenance of the building and grounds.
Taking up full-time residency at Ferndean House would eliminate the income from seasonal renters, but Bonnie wasn’t concerned. She would have cash from the sale of the cottage. Besides, she was not an extravagant person. Her needs were small, and she was used to living on a tight budget. All would be well going forward.
It would have to be well, Bonnie thought as she left the dining room, because she thoroughly believed that she was entitled to full possession of Ferndean. She was the one who had cared for Shirley Ascher in her dying years. She was the one who had helped to raise Carol’s troubled daughter, Nicola. She was the one who had handled the management and maintenance of the family homestead for the past thirty years.
Who had changed Shirley Ascher’s soiled sheets, prepared her meals, and taken charge of administering her medicines? Who had attended Nicola’s school events from the time she came to live with her aunt in Yorktide? Who had cleaned up when Ferndean’s pipes had burst? Who had mowed the lawn, planted the flowers, harvested the herbs and vegetables? Who had repainted the kitchen and bathrooms every ten years? Who had dealt with the summer tenants—finding them, vetting them, cleaning up after them?
Bonnie fondly patted the curved wooden banister of the grand staircase that led to the second floor. Yes, after all these years as full-time caretaker of her family homestead, Bonnie Ascher Elgort was entitled to be Mistress of Ferndean. It was something she had been dreaming about for a long time, pushing aside Carol’s claim to the house and reigning supreme. But Ken had always held her back from making waves with her sister. Ken, the calm and reasonable husband, the broker of peace, the man who had wholeheartedly accepted Carol’s troubled child into his home. And Carol Ascher hadn’t even had enough respect for such a wonderful man to attend his funeral.
But now that Ken was gone, there was no one to keep Bonnie from achieving her dream. That the dream was largely fueled by ancient sibling rivalry didn’t make it any less desirable. On the contrary, ancient sibling rivalry gave Bonnie’s dream its incredible power.
In the living room now, Bonnie straightened the framed photos that were grouped on a table draped with a yellowed lace cloth. The entire family was represented, from Marcus and Rosemary to Bonnie’s granddaughter, Sophie. Bonnie was especially fond of her parents’ wedding portrait. Both looked so young and so solemn! And here was a photograph of Bonnie and Carol taken when they were quite young, three and six, Bonnie guessed. The girls were wearing bulky snow suits; behind them, Ferndean House, laced with snow, rose in its classic New England majesty. The image was a bittersweet reminder of the happy, almost idyllic childhood the sisters had shared at Ferndean, long before Carol had abandoned her home and her family for fame and fortune in New York City.
The distinct sound of a key in the front door caused Bonnie to turn from the table of p
hotographs. It was probably Nicola, Bonnie thought, though her niece usually knocked before entering when she saw her aunt’s car in the drive.
“Hello!” Bonnie called out as she made her way to the door. She felt a smile come to her face. She always felt like smiling when Nicola was around.
The door creaked loudly as it opened inward and a woman’s figure stepped inside. The dustcloth Bonnie had been holding fell to the floor. She felt her stomach drop along with it. Her right hand went to her heart.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped.
Chapter 2
New York City
Two weeks earlier
The past few days had been unseasonably warm; heat seemed to rise visibly from the concrete sidewalks and to shimmer in waves above the busy streets. Even though she would be comfortably seated in an air-conditioned, chauffeur-driven town car, Carol was glad she didn’t have to commute from her home on the Upper West Side to her office in Chelsea and back again.
The reason that Carol Ascher was able to avoid the steamy streets of Manhattan was because a month earlier she had sold her business—Ascher Interior Design—to her long-time, dedicated, and very talented junior partner. There was no doubt in Carol’s mind that the company she had birthed and raised would find as much success in the future as it had found in the past. Still, there were several moments each day when Carol effectively forgot that she was no longer at the helm. When she realized with a start that she was no longer needed. When she found herself worrying about things for which she was no longer required to worry.
Carol passed through the hallway that led from her bedroom at one end of the apartment. As was her habit, she glanced at her image in the Art Deco mirror that hung over a black lacquer occasional table just outside the living room. She was pleased with what she saw. She hated that awful term sometimes used to describe a woman who appeared younger than her biological age. Well-preserved. Like a bit of dinosaur bone at the Museum of Natural History. What Carol was, in fact, was well taken care of. She got regular therapeutic massages; attended Pilates and yoga classes; had her hair professionally cut and colored every five weeks; and took her vitamin, calcium, blood pressure, and cholesterol pills as recommended by her doctor. At sixty-five, she was as tall and straight as she had been at nineteen, when she first arrived in New York City.