Harvest Moon (32 page)

“The true harvest of my life is intangible—a little star dust caught, a portion of the rainbow I have clutched.”—Henry David Thoreau

October

“I don’t do costumes.” Veronica watched the lunar ascent on the horizon, a spectacular mix of amber and golden yellow. A harvest moon, rising over the darkened hilltops that surrounded Blue Moon Lake.

She glanced to her side at Trent, who a half hour ago had begged her to leave the Harvest Festival activities under the guise of giving her a surprise. He’d led her to a private spot behind one of the vineyard’s fields, where he’d already set up a plaid blanket, wine and cheese, and lit candles.

He lay flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, staring at the sky. With her response he frowned and glanced her way. “Why don’t you do costumes?”

Just beyond Trent, Boomer sprawled out on the grass, a few unused napkins bunched in his large black paws. He tore at them with zeal, the same way Veronica would go at a box of Belgium chocolates. About to stop him, she paused. Everyone had a vice and this was Boomer’s. She’d pick up the mess later.

“Why don’t I do costumes?” She looked at Trent and shrugged. “I just don’t.”

“Are you one of those party poopers who is too mature for Halloween?”

“I give out candy and even decorate the house a little.” From the flickering candlelight, she could see his doubtful expression. “Costumes don’t interest me.”

Almost too confident, he said, “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

She rolled her eyes.

He grinned, stretched to his side, and propped up on his elbow. “We’d make a great pair. How about we go to Bernadette’s party as Cleopatra and Marc Anthony?”

“Isn’t he still with J. Lo?”

“Ah, so it’s the comedic route you’d prefer. How about Abbott and Costello? We can talk up next season’s vineyard softball team after we do a little skit.” He reached behind his back, took a grape from a container, and popped it in his mouth.

She rolled onto her side and mirrored his pose. “Sure. I mean, we’ve got who’s on first, what’s on second, and I don’t know is on third.”

A slow smile crept across his lips. “Any woman who can do the best comedy routine of all time is precious as a pearl to me. In fact”—his voice dipped—“I’m pretty turned on right now.”

She chuckled, even though his suggestive tone made her want to do something more intimate than talk about Halloween. “You’re that desperate for me to wear a costume?”

He reached for another grape and ate it. “Desperate is a strong word.”

“Could I have a grape?”

“Sure.” He took another. “Open wide.”

She opened her mouth, and he brought the grape close to her lips. She anticipated the sweet taste, but the second she went to bite, he pulled his hand away and dropped it into his mouth.

“Hey!”

“We have the matter of that costume to discuss. Halloween is four weeks away.”

“So you’re going to withhold food?”

“It is kind of cruel.” He snickered as he studied her, then reached behind and took another grape. “Okay, open wide.”

He again lowered the grape, brushing it softly against her upper lip but not close enough to go inside. “Ready?”

She nodded and he inched it close, oh so close she could almost taste the juicy fruit, but he again dropped it in his own mouth.

“You’ll be lucky if I even attend the party with you.” She rolled onto her back and pretended to pout. “And poor you because I’ve memorized at least the first third of the baseball skit.” She glanced his way and caught him reaching behind his back to the grapes again.

“You’ve got that much memorized? Guess I shouldn’t push my luck.” Trent hovered over her, his fingers wrapped around the next grape. “Open wide.”

“Nope.” She pressed her lips tight.

He laughed. “Aw, come on, Pearls. How about we make a deal.”

“A deal? I’d like to see my lawyer, please.”

His good humor vanished. “Listen, Duncan’s thinking of buying some land in Tuscany next year. Maybe starting a sister vineyard in Italy. He’s asked me if I’d scout out properties in the spring.”

“That’s exciting.” The idea Trent might be off traveling again, or worse, working in another country had never crossed her mind. “Would he want you to work there?” She pressed her hands against his chest and massaged gently.

“Maybe. But here’s the thing,” Trent stared into her eyes. “I figured Italy would also be a great place for us to go together. Maybe there we could sort out our future. I’m pretty sure we’ve got one.”

Veronica pondered the idea of finally leaving behind Northbridge, after exiling herself to town for the past twenty years in the name of safety.

“Oh, and before I forget my surprise…” He opened his hand and held between his fingers a silver antique band with a pearl centered between two small diamonds. “I saw this, and it reminded me of you. A single classy pearl, who stands out even amongst diamonds.”

He watched her through sparkling eyes, lifting her heart and making it pirouette with happiness. Such a beautiful ring, but it wasn’t the only gift he’d handed her. His words served as a reminder that even when she’d lost the ability to believe in herself, he hadn’t ever given up on her.

“It’s beautiful.”

He reached for her hand. “So, since you won’t wear a Halloween costume, will you wear this as a token of my love?”

Before she could answer, Trent slipped the ring on her finger. A perfect fit.

He leaned close and kissed her, slow and passionate.

After a minute, they leaned apart and she grinned at him. “I’ll consider this venture under one condition.”

“What? No costume?”

She grinned. “No. For you, I might wear a costume, but can you please give me a damn grape.”

He grinned, plucked one from the bunch, and, this time, he fed it to her. She nestled along his side, and he wrapped her in his arms. They lay quietly together on the blanket surrounded by the beautiful vineyard canvas as the stars above slowly brightened in the sky. A place where the miracle of nature had provided rain and sun, joined with assistance from the human hand, and allowed for this year’s bountiful harvest.

Sharon Struth is an award-winning author who believes it’s never too late for a second chance in love or life. When she’s not writing, she and her husband happily sip their way through the scenic towns of the Connecticut Wine Trail. Sharon writes from the small town of Bethel, Connecticut, the friendliest place she’s ever lived. For more information, including where to find her other novels and published essays, please visit her at
www.sharonstruth.com

Keep reading for a sneak peek of the next Blue Moon Lake story by Sharon Struth:

Sometimes the rescuer becomes the rescued...

Popular advice columnist Rose Richardson has changed her appearance, grabbed her basset hound, Bella, and run away to hide in rural Connecticut. She needs time to figure out how to prove she had no role in making illegal campaign contributions to her husband’s senatorial campaign—even though her soon-to-be-ex has made it appear that way.

Leo Drake wants nothing more than quiet as he tries to write his latest book and recover from the tragic loss of his wife. He’s returned to the lake house he loved as a child, where he learned his craft, and where he penned his Pulitzer Prize winning novel years earlier. Except his brother, unaware Leo plans to return, has rented the place to a strange woman and her droopy-eared dog.

Leo isn’t budging. And Rose has nowhere else to hide. It’s up to Bella to work her magic and help them find a compromise.

A Lyrical e-book on sale December 2016.

Learn more about Sharon at
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/author.aspx/31604

Rose Richardson stared beyond the car’s swishing wiper blades at the cloudy sky and whispered, “If anybody is
really
up there listening, please send a sign that this isn’t the biggest mistake of my life.”

She held her breath. Her gaze drifted to the front door of Blue Moon Lake Realty. Nobody walked out and gave her a thumb’s up. She glanced around the empty parking lot. A breeze blew a candy bar wrapper from the roadside onto the grass, not exactly sign-worthy.

Disappointed, Rose flipped on the inside light, adjusted the rearview mirror, and took another peek at herself. A near stranger stared back.

Noise behind the driver’s seat made her turn around. Bella stretched lengthwise in the Ford Escort, hogging most of the backseat.

“What do you think of me as a blond, Bella?”

The two-year-old Bassett hound wagged her tail a few times.

“Thanks, but you’re more positive than I am.”

Rose faced the wet windshield and took a deep breath to calm her nerves. The rural community’s real estate office could’ve been someone’s home, based on the green awning over the ranch’s front window and potted petunias on the stoop. Only a flashing neon sign reading “OPEN” hinted to the building’s business purpose.

Rain tap-danced on the car’s roof, a dreary end to her two-day journey. The trip started twenty-four hours ago, when she still had flowing chestnut layered hair that brushed her shoulders. The change to dirty-blond locks, cut around mid-neck, and wispy bangs was only a start in modifying her appearance from the publicity photo used in her magazine column. Heavy framed black eyeglasses, filled with fake lenses, offered a significant departure in the looks department. She pushed them tight to her face with her index finger, but the second she moved her head, they slipped down the slender slope of her nose.

Tap, tap, tap.

Rose’s heart startled. She turned to the sound.

“Emma? Emma Morris?” A voluptuous woman with perfect auburn hair and wide green eyes stared back. She wore a navy jacket with the real estate office logo on the lapel.

Rose rolled down the window, fingers crossed she passed this first critical test using her made up identity. “Yes, I’m sorry I’m late.” Her heartbeat pounded wildly. She forced a smile. “Are you Meg?”

“I am.” Meg held an enormous golf umbrella. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been worried.”

“Traffic coming out of Boston was bad.” Rose swallowed the lie.

“Don’t worry at all, sweetie. I had nothing else to do. Sit tight. Let me go grab the house key so you don’t have to come out in this rain.” She ran back inside.

Rose exhaled her relief. No signs of recognition…yet.

Besides the hair color, glasses, and Supercuts hairdo, her new wardrobe should make her a less noticeable version of her former self. After leaving North Carolina for Connecticut yesterday, a shopping spree in the junior’s department at the Roanoke, Virginia Target replaced her more sophisticated Ann Taylor clothes—left home in the closet. Today she’d chosen a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and French terrycloth jogger pants, with a rather strange geometric print and black cuffs around the ankle. Now she looked like a thirty-eight year old woman who had no style sense. Not a senator’s wife and nationally known advice columnist.

Meg came out the door and returned to the car. “Okay, everything you need is in here.” She handed her an envelope. “Two house keys and a signed copy of the lease from Mr. Drake.” She placed a hand on Rose’s arm. “You’re getting a great deal on this place. The last tenant just took off before the lease ended.” She dropped her voice, even though nobody else was around. “Mr. Drake was furious. He likes having someone in the house, you know? Makes him worry less about not using the place much.”

“I don’t blame him. Is the house far from here?”

“A stone’s toss away.” Meg grinned.

Rose had always heard the expression as a “stone’s throw,” but sayings often changed regionally, and she’d never lived in the northeast before.

“Follow Lake Shore Drive out of town going toward Southbridge. Go past the Litchfield Hills Vineyard. About two miles beyond that, you’re going to turn. Be careful. Potholes are everywhere. It’s been a rough winter, and they still haven’t patched the road. I mean, it’s early May! What are they waiting for?” She shook her head. “Oh, it’s rained for the past two days, so hopefully the driveway leading to the estate isn’t flooded. There’s a town map inside the envelope and a booklet with local services and businesses. Anything goes wrong, you call me right away. Mr. Drake is a good landlord and handles problems quickly. One of my cards is in there, too, with my cell number.”

“Oh, hold on.” Rose leaned over to the passenger seat and searched her purse for the envelope holding all her cash. Without this money, she couldn’t have made her escape and been left to face a husband who cared so little for her wellbeing. Her hatred for John swelled, but she held it in check while removing enough to cover the rent. “Here you go. For the first month.”

“I’ll print a receipt tomorrow, if that’s okay? The computers are shut off.”

“Sure.”

Meg tucked the money in her raincoat pocket. “Remember, call if you need me.”

Rose waited until Meg disappeared inside the office, then tipped her head against the headrest and blew out a relieved sigh.

Maybe she hadn’t gotten a sign earlier, but at this point, she had gone too far from home to look back now.

* * * *

Bellantoni’s Market, a small grocery store only about one-third the size of the Food Lion at home, held a surprising variety of products. Rose pulled from their lot with a few necessities for the night, but would return tomorrow.

Once she exited town, she drove slowly in the dark. Shadows of trees and twinkling lights from houses along the lakeside hills peeked out at each narrow turn. This ad for her rental house said it had water views and solitude.

A perfect place to remain invisible.

She thought about John. What was he doing right now? Was he with his mistress, laughing about how he’d screwed his wife, but in a totally different way than he clearly enjoyed screwing the redhead, who’s picture Rose had once found on his phone?