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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2021 by Babette de Jongh

  Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Magnolia Bay Memories

  Acknowledgments

  Back Cover

  This book is dedicated to Penelope Smith. My ability to communicate telepathically with animals was a curse, not a blessing, until I found her book, Animal Talk. It showed me how to summon the ability at will (rather than being smacked upside the head by incoming communication at the least opportune moment). When I later attended her classes in animal communication, her wisdom and mentorship literally changed my life. Thank you, Penelope, for showing me how to light my own small candle and keep it burning. I promise to add my light to the collective torch that all animal communicators carry, so that together, we can hold it high and pass it along.

  Chapter 1

  “I hate people.” Abby Curtis wadded up the hem of her yellow bathrobe and dropped to her knees in the ditch. A pair of green eyes stared at her from the middle of the culvert. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she called.

  The eyes blinked, but the kitten stayed put. Another stray dumped in front of Aunt Reva’s house, and it wasn’t going to trust humans again anytime soon. For a nanosecond, Abby thought about running back to the house to get Reva, but something told her the kitten would skedaddle the moment Abby turned her back.

  Reva’s dog, Georgia, a Jack Russell terrier/cattle dog mix, peered through the other side of the culvert and whined. The kitten spun around to face the dog and hissed.

  “Georgia.” Abby snapped her fingers. “Stay.”

  The frightened kitten puffed up and growled at Georgia. Abby didn’t have Reva’s way with animals. But with the little dog’s expert help, she might be able to catch the kitten without bothering her aunt, who was in the house packing for a long-postponed trip.

  Georgia whined again and the kitten backed up farther, her full attention on the dog.

  Thankful the ditch had been mowed and recently treated for fire ants, Abby eased forward onto her belly in the damp grass. She reached into the culvert, ignoring the cool, muddy water that seeped through her robe and soaked her T-shirt and panties. Shutting out images of snakes and spiders, she scooted closer and stretched out farther.

  Just a little bit more…

  Georgia seemed to know exactly what to do. She fake-lunged toward the kitten, who spat and hopped backward into Abby’s outstretched hand. “Gotcha!” Abby grabbed the kitten’s scruff.

  The kitten whirled and spun and scratched, but Abby held on, even when it sank needle-like teeth into Abby’s hand.

  “Shh. Shh.” Abby got to her knees and stroked the kitten’s dark tortoiseshell fur. A girl, then. Like calicos, tortoiseshell cats were almost always female. “You’re okay, little girl. You’re all right.”

  Abby’s robe had come open in the front, and the kitten pedaled all four feet with claws extended, scratching gouges in Abby’s exposed skin. She held on to the scruff of the kitten’s neck, crooning and humming. “You’re okay, baby.”

  Georgia leaped with excitement, begging to see the kitten, who continued to struggle and scratch and bite.

  “No, Georgia.” Abby wrapped the kitten in the folds of her robe and held it close. It calmed, but Abby could feel its body heaving with every desperate breath. “Not yet. She’s too scared.”

  If this catch didn’t stick, Abby wouldn’t get another chance. Abby’s fingers touched a raw, bloody patch on the kitten’s back: road rash from being thrown out of a moving vehicle.

  God, Abby hated people. No wonder Aunt Reva had all but turned into a hermit, living out here in the boondocks alongside the kind of people who would do this. But then, Abby had learned that evil lived everywhere—north and south, city and country. She cuddled the kitten close, even while it tried to flay her skin with its desperate claws.

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you, not ever again.” She could make that promise, because she knew Reva would keep the kitten or find it an even better home. All strays were welcome at Bayside Barn.

  Abby herself was proof of that.

  Disgusted with all of humanity, Abby struggled up out of the ditch, her mud-caked barn boots slipping on the dew-wet grass. She had just scrambled onto solid ground when a Harley blasted past, turned in at the drive next door, and stopped just past the ditch.

  Uncomfortably aware that her bathrobe gaped open indecently and her hair hadn’t seen a hairbrush since yesterday afternoon, Abby hid behind the tall hedge between Aunt Reva’s place and the abandoned estate next door. Georgia clawed Abby’s legs in a “Help, pick me up” gesture.

  “Lord, Georgia, I can’t hold both of you.”

  Determined, Georgia scrabbled at Abby’s legs. One-handed, Abby scooped up all thirty pounds of the scaredy-cat dog. “It’s only a motorcycle.”

  The sound of garbage trucks in the distance promised an even more terrifying situation if she didn’t get the kitten into the house soon. She held Georgia in one hand and clutched the covered-up kitten with the other, jiggling both of them in a hopefully soothing motion. “You’re okay. You’re both
okay.”

  The loud motorbike idled near the estate’s rusted-out mailbox. The rider put both booted feet down on the gravel drive. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore motorcycle leathers and a black helmet with a tinted visor.

  Georgia licked Abby’s chin, a plea to hurry back to the house before the garbage trucks ravaging the next block over ushered in the apocalypse.

  “Shh. I want to go home, too, but…” If she fled from her hiding place, the motorcycle dude would notice a flash of movement when Abby’s yellow robe flapped behind her like a flag. What was this guy doing before 8:00 a.m. parking his motorcycle in a lonely driveway on this dead-end country road?

  The rider got off the motorcycle and removed his helmet. His light-brown hair stood on end, then feathered down to cover his jacket collar.

  His hair was the only soft thing about him. From his tanned skin to his angular face to his rigid jaw, from his wide shoulders to his bulging thighs to his scuffed black boots, the guy looked hard.

  He waded through the tall weeds to the center of the easement and pulled up the moldy For Sale sign that had stood there for years. He tossed the sign into the weed-filled ditch and stalked back to his motorcycle. The beast roared down the potholed driveway to the old abandoned house, scattering gravel.

  * * *

  Quinn Lockhart sped down the long drive, a list of obstacles spinning through his head:

  1. Cracked brick facade: possible foundation problems.

  2. Swimming pool: green with algae and full of tadpoles, frogs—probably snakes, too.

  3. Overgrown acreage: ten acres of out-of-control shrubs choked with vines and weeds.

  He’d seen all this on his first and only inspection; he knew what he was getting into. Though he had never attempted to renovate and flip a long-abandoned house before, he knew he possessed the necessary skills to do it successfully. Hell. Even JP—his ex-business-partner and ex-friend he’d known since high school—had made a fricking fortune flipping houses. If all-talk, no-action JP could do it, Quinn could roll up his sleeves and do it ten times better. The sale of this polished-up diamond would provide the seed money he needed to start his own construction business in Magnolia Bay and, maybe even more important, prove his talent to future clients.

  When his lowball offer was accepted, he hadn’t known whether to whoop or moan. The hidden gem of this dilapidated estate could only go up in value. Located on a remote back road several miles outside Magnolia Bay and an easy hour to New Orleans, the place was a rare find he wouldn’t have known about if he hadn’t been dating the local real-estate agent who helped him find an apartment here after his divorce. But the next-to-nothing price and a small stash of cash for renovations had consumed every penny of the equity he’d received in the divorce. And he still hadn’t quite convinced himself that leaving New Orleans to follow his ex and their son to her hometown was the best decision he’d ever made.

  He reminded himself that moving to Magnolia Bay was the only way he could spend enough time with his teenage son. After years of working more than he should and leaving Sean’s raising to Melissa, Quinn knew this was his last chance to rebuild the relationship between him and his son. Quinn was hoping they’d bond over the renovation, if he could convince Sean that helping out would be fun. So it wasn’t just a business decision; it was a last-ditch effort to be the kind of father Sean deserved.

  When Delia Simmons—his real estate agent—showed him this estate, a thrill of excitement and hope had skittered through him. This old place had good bones. Putting it back together again would be the first step toward putting his life back together again.

  And when she told him the rumor she’d heard around town that the adjacent acreage between this road and the bay might soon become available as well… Maybe it wasn’t a sign from God, exactly, but it sure lit a fire under his butt. With the right timing, he could use the money from the sale of this place to buy the strip of Magnolia Bay waterfront land that ran behind all five estates on this dead-end road.

  He could subdivide the bayside marshland along the existing estates’ property lines, then sell each parcel to its adjoining estate. If he had enough money, he could build nice elevated walkways from each estate to the marsh-edged bay; maybe even haul in enough sand to make a community beach complete with boat docks and shaded pavilions.

  Maybe he was dreaming too big. But he couldn’t stop thinking that with perfect timing on the sale of the estate and the availability of the waterfront land, he could make an easy-peasy fortune for not too much work. And—dreaming big again—the ongoing maintenance for five private boat docks would give him a steady stream of income doing seasonal repair work that he could depend on from here on out.

  Quinn parked his bike on the cracked patio around back of the sprawling bungalow-style house and killed the engine. Expecting silence, he was assaulted by a loud racket of braying, mooing, and barking.

  “Are you kidding me?” He walked to the hedge separating his property from the annoying clamor. When he’d toured the property with Delia, it had been as peaceful as a church. She hadn’t warned him it cozied up to Old McDonald’s farm.

  Or, maybe more accurately, Old Ms. McDonald’s farm. He’d glimpsed the crazy-looking woman hiding in the shrubbery with her wild mane of honey-brown hair, ratty bathrobe, and cowboy boots. How the hell would he get top dollar for a house with an eccentric animal-hoarding neighbor next door? He stalked to the overgrown hedge between the properties and bellowed at the animals. “Shut. Up.”

  The noise level escalated exponentially. “Fork it,” Quinn said, forgetting that without Sean here, he could’ve used the more satisfying expletive.

  The multispecies chorus ramped it up. Parrots screeched loud enough to make the donkeys sound like amateurs. Parrots? “What next? Lions, tigers, and bears?”

  Fine. He would work inside today. Quinn planned to get the pool house fit for habitation in time for Sean’s scheduled visit next weekend—unless the kid canceled again, claiming homework, football practice, school projects, whatever.

  All great excuses, but was that all they were? Excuses?

  Did his son really hate him so much that he never wanted to see him again?

  The thought hit Quinn in the solar plexus with the force of a fist. If it had been a woman treating him that way, he’d have gotten the message and moved on. But this was his son. His heart. The kid was fifteen now, so Quinn had only three years of court-mandated visitation to compel Sean to keep coming around.

  Three years suddenly seemed like a very short time, given all the inattention and absence Quinn had to make up for. And yet, it had to be possible for him to retrace his steps and rebuild the bridge between him and his son.

  Quinn was a carpenter, after all. He knew how to build anything, even a rickety, falling-apart bridge. And he would rebuild this one, no matter what it took. The fight for Sean’s time and attention generated its own list of obstacles, but Quinn had ordered the first round of obstacle-climbing tools online:

  1. Cool guy furniture.

  2. Flat-screen TV.

  3. Premium cable and internet.

  4. Xbox game system.

  5. Paddleboards (secondhand).

  Quinn knew of only one way to close the distance between him and Sean that compounded daily—worse than credit-card debt—because of his ex-wife Melissa’s subtle sabotage.

  He must become the best weekend dad he could afford to be.

  * * *

  “Got you another one,” Abby announced above the sound of the screen door slapping shut behind her. “Saw her run into the culvert when I took the trash up to the road.”

  Reva came into the kitchen, dressed in Birkenstocks and a tie-dyed hippie dress, her prematurely silver hair secured with an enormous jeweled barrette. “Oh my Lord.” She set her suitcase by the sliding glass doors and reached for the kitten. “Just this one? No stragglers?”


  “She’s the only one I saw, but I’ll keep a lookout in case there are others.”

  Reva held the kitten like a curled-up hedgehog between her palms. Her magic touch calmed the kitten, who immediately started purring. Reva closed her eyes, a slight frown line between her arched brows. “She’s the only one.” Reva opened her hazel-green eyes, her gaze soft-focused. “But kitten season has begun, and folks’ll start dropping off puppies next. Are you sure you can handle this place by yourself all summer?”

  No, not at all. Abby had only recently mastered the art of getting out of bed every morning. But Reva deserved this break, this chance to follow her dreams after years of helping everyone but herself. “Yes, of course I can handle it.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Don’t you need to leave soon?”

  “No hurry. My friend Heather will pick me up after she drops her kids off at school, so rush hour will be over by the time we get into the city. And the New Orleans airport is small enough that I can get there thirty minutes before departure and still have plenty of time. It’s all good.”

  Abby gave Reva a sideways look, but didn’t say anything. Abby knew her aunt was excited about her upcoming adventure, but equally afraid of reaching for a long-postponed dream she wasn’t sure she’d be able to achieve. She might be stalling, just a little.

  “What can I do to help you and your suitcase get out the door?”

  “Would you get a big wire crate from storage and set it up for this baby?”

  “Sure.”

  Cradling the purring kitten, Reva followed Abby through the laundry room to the storage closet. “Litter box is in the bottom cabinet, cubby for her to hide in is on the top shelf.”

  Abby hefted the folded wire crate. “Where should I put it?”

  Reva closed her eyes again, doing her animal communication thing. “Not a big fan of dogs—or other cats, either. Wants to be an only cat.” Reva smiled and stroked the kitten’s head. “You may have to adjust your expectations, little one, just like everyone else in the world.”

  Not exactly an answer, but Abby knew Reva would get around to it, and she did. “She’ll need a quiet place away from the crowd for the first few days. Let’s put the crate on top of the laundry room table.”