Karen Templeton – The Doctor's Do-Over (страница 1)

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“You and I were friends, and you are back, and it’s high time we opened those closet doors, don’t you think? So. Dinner,” Ryder repeated. “Just you and me.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’m not above kidnapping you.”

“I don’t know, Ry. Could I at least think about it?”

“Of course.”

And that should have been his cue to haul his sorry ass through the door and out to his car. If he’d been inclined, that is, to listen to his head and not whatever made him instead lift one hand to brush his thumb across her rapidly cooling cheek, a move that sent his stomach into a freefall.

Mel sucked in a breath, her eyes going even bigger. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Seriously thinking about things I’ve got no right to think about.”

Dear Reader,

It always amazes me how often the tiniest seed of inspiration can grow into a whole story. Or, as with SUMMER SISTERS, an entire series. In this case I’m talking memories of childhood vacations spent in North Carolina with my two close-in-age cousins, when my father would take me to visit my grandmother nearly every summer.

I still remember long, jostling rides in the back of somebody’s Country Squire station wagon, cannonballing into assorted swimming pools and jamming out to the Beach Boys (guess that decade!).

Of course, this is fiction, and my cousins and I aren’t anything like Mel, April and Blythe. High Point, North Carolina, turned into make-believe St Mary’s Cove on Maryland’s eastern shore, and heaven knows none of us went on to lead lives anywhere near as tangled in secrets as those three. But the love and camaraderie, the shared silliness and laughter—those, the six of us had in common. Like all three of my heroines, I, too, was an only child, who cherished those weeks every summer when I had “sisters.” And writing these stories has allowed me to pay tribute to those gals … and those wonderful memories.

Enjoy!

Karen Templeton

About the Author

Since 1998, two-time RITA^® Award winner and Waldenbooks bestselling author KAREN TEMPLETON has written more than thirty novels for Mills & Boon. A transplanted Easterner, she now lives in New Mexico with two hideously spoiled cats and whichever of her five sons happens to be in residence.

The Doctor’s Do-Over

Karen Templeton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Amy and Lainey

Here’s to memories of hot summers,

frigid swimming pools,

sighing over boys

and more good times than I can count.

Miss you guys.

Chapter One

Her nostrils twitching at the putrid mix of mildew, ancient grease and whatever it was that had died in her grandmother’s Nixon-era refrigerator, Melanie Duncan could only gawk in horrified amazement. Holy cannoli—Amelia Rinehart had apparently kept every glass jar and plastic container she’d ever touched.

Along with—shuddering, Mel thunked shut the grimy, mustard-yellow cabinet door—decades’ worth of magazines, newspapers and junk mail stacked in teetering piles throughout the eight-freaking-bedroom house. And just think, she thought sourly, shoving up the nasty water faucet with her wrist and waiting for-ev-er for the hot water to meander up from the basement, it was all hers. Hers and April’s and Blythe’s, that is.

With that, her gaze also meandered, out the dirt-fogged window and beyond the weed-infested backyard sloping down to the inlet beyond, to the slate blue water glittering in the late September sunshine … and she could almost see those three girls sunbathing on the pier, stretched out on Walmart-issue beach towels as Green Day blared from somebody’s old boom box. Blythe’s, most likely.

The water suddenly went blistering hot, making Mel yelp. Cursing, she adjusted the handle, thinking maybe she was still in shock. Not so much about her grandmother’s passing—she had been nearly ninety, after all, even if Death probably had to hog-tie her and drag her away kicking and screaming. But, yeah, inheriting the Eastern Shore property, especially since her grandmother and she hadn’t spoken in more than ten years? That was strange. Far more strange than that, however, was finding herself in the last place she’d ever expected to set foot again.

Or wanted to.

Anxiety prickling her chilled skin—the thermostat didn’t appear to be working—Mel scrubbed her hands with the dish soap still sitting on the back of the pock-marked sink and turned, only to grimace at the M. C. Escher-like towers of long-since-expired bottles of herbal supplements smothering the chipped Formica counters … the jungle of dead plants at the base of the patio doors leading to the disintegrating back porch … what appeared to be hundreds of paper bags, undoubtedly loaded with mouse droppings, wadded between the fridge and the cabinets. Disgusting, as her daughter would say. Thank God the washing machine was working—go, Maytag—because no way in hell was she letting her child sleep on any of the musty sheets she’d found all jumbled up in the linen closet.

Had her grandmother always been that much of a pack-rat? Or had the three of them turned blind eyes to the clutter during those long, lazy summers when the world as they all knew it simply didn’t exist?

Shaking her head, Mel tromped to the dining room and yelled for her daughter, who, being made of sterner stuff than Mel, had gasped in utter delight the moment they’d set foot inside, then immediately taken off to explore.

“Quinn! Where are you?” she bellowed again, fighting images of the child fending off a posse of rats, breathing a sigh of relief at Quinn’s faint, but strong, “Coming!” in reply.

She glowered at the behemoth of a buffet across the room, the blotchy mirror behind it nearly obliterated by more … stuff. Doodads and knickknacks and tchotchkes galore. And in every corner, packages of all shapes and sizes—some unopened, even—from every purveyor of useless crap on the planet.

So much for a quick in-and-out. What had clearly taken years to accumulate wasn’t going to simply go poof in a couple of days. And then what? What the hell were the three of them supposed to do with the place? Yes, St. Mary’s Cove was picturesque and all, but even divested of all the stuff, potential buyers would take one look and laugh their tushies off. And she sincerely doubted that either of her cousins had the funds, let alone the wherewithal, to fix it up. She sure as hell didn’t, a thought that only shoved Mel back down into the Pit of Despair she’d been trying—with scant success—to climb out of for what felt like forever.

With a mighty sigh, she hiked through the House of Horrors and outside to her trusty little Honda to unload the backseat, the tangy, slightly fruity bay breeze catching her off guard. Oh, no. Not doing nostalgia, nope.

And just like that, there he was. In her head, of course, not in person, since there was no reason for him to know she was even here—and God willing, that’s how this little episode would play out—but … damn.

She hadn’t allowed herself to think of him in years. Had almost convinced herself it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t matter anymore, that what they’d shared was as firmly and irrevocably in the past as those long ago summers—

“Mom? Whatcha doing?”

Mel glanced up, smiling for the slightly frowning ten-year-old—her life, her love, her reason for living—standing on the porch, all turn-of-the-century charm fallen on hard times, and her heart turned over in her chest. Heaven knows she’d made a boatload of mistakes in her life—oh, let her count the ways—but the skinny fifth-grader with the wild red hair currently standing with her hands planted on her skinny, not-at-all-like-Mama’s, hips wasn’t one of them.

Although the circumstances of her conception? In a class by itself.

“Unpacking. And good news! You can come play pack mule.” Because there was no way she was leaving that half-finished cheesecake to rot back in Baltimore while they were here. Or the pumpkin soufflé. Or the …

Okay, she liked her own cooking. So sue her.

They carted the various Tupperwared goodies into the kitchen, at which point Quinn gasped, bug-eyed, then shook her head.” Looks like you and me have got some serious cleaning to do.”

“You might say,” Mel said as she cautiously opened the doors under the sink to find—booyah!—six half-empty containers of Comet and as many boxes of garbage bags, a bucketload of desiccated sponges and enough Lysol to disinfect a cruise ship. And, praise be, two unopened packages of rubber gloves. The good Lord will provide, she heard her mother say, and tears threatened. Not going there, either, Mel thought, standing and handing her daughter a pair of gloves, a sponge and one of the Comets.

“Start with the sink.” Gloves donned, Mel yanked out a garbage bag and faced the fridge. “This puppy is mine.”

“Got it.” Quinn dragged over a step stool to better reach inside the sink, wriggled into her own gloves and got to it, determination oozing from every pore in her little body … as she started to sing, loudly and very badly, a song from Wicked.