Stonehill Series Collection Read online

  The Road Leads Back

  Copyright © 2019 by Marci Bolden

  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, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Okay Creations

  ebook layout by Lori Colbeck

  mobi ISBN-13: 978-1-950348-02-2

  Contents

  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

  1

  Kara Martinson squeezed her way toward the crowded bar, nudging between two kids she couldn’t quite believe were old enough to be legally drinking in public. They should have been funneling cheap beer in a college dorm somewhere. Or sneaking shots from Daddy’s liquor cabinet.

  Art gallery openings used to be much more sophisticated than this. When she was a young artist, openings were about appreciating the art and the artist, not the free booze.

  Shit.

  Had she really gone there? Kara shook her head at her bitter thoughts.

  The bartender, a walking tattoo with spiked black hair, leaned over the counter. “What’ll it be?”

  She realized all she wanted was wine. And quiet. The kids around her were acting more like preteens jacked up on sugar than art aficionados. One made a face, squished and reddened, as he held up an empty shot glass as proof of his triumph.

  Kara wondered when she had gotten so damned old. She never used to snub her nose at a good drink. Actually, she completely understood what her problem was, and it had nothing to do with age. She’d conformed. She’d fallen in line. She’d done what she was supposed to do.

  Agent? Check. Gallery opening? Check. Interviews with all the fancy-pants art magazines? Check.

  But this wasn’t her. None of this was her.

  Frowning, she leaned toward the bartender to make sure he heard her over the jeering kids. “Tequila.”

  Within seconds he set a glass in front of her and filled it with amber liquid. He started to walk away, but she held up one hand and lifted the glass with the other. She downed the drink, slammed the glass onto the counter, and gestured for another. One shot wouldn’t be nearly enough to numb the misery of this evening. She motioned for him to fill the glass again.

  The young man raised his brows and smirked as he poured. “I can’t do this all night, lady.”

  “One more.”

  “Some of the crap in here costs more than my car. No puking. Got it?”

  Kara chuckled. Clearly he didn’t recognize her as the artist responsible for the crap. “Honey, I was doing tequila shots before your daddy dropped his pants and made you.”

  The barkeep threw his head back, laughed, then filled her glass one more time. “Nice one, babe.”

  Babe? Kara snorted, the shot almost to her lips, when someone squeezed her shoulder.

  “Kara?” asked a deep, smooth voice, as if the man wasn’t certain.

  She turned and her eyes bulged as she looked into the intense, dark gaze she hadn’t seen since the night she’d lost her virginity.

  The music had been loud, the beer lukewarm, and everybody who was anybody—and several nobodies like Kara and Harry—in their senior class of Stonehill High was at the graduation party. The only person she had cared about, though, didn’t care about her. Or so she’d thought. Until she somehow ended up on Shannon Blake’s disgustingly pink and ruffle-covered bed with Harry Canton, book club president and algebra superstar, who clumsily removed her clothes and left slobbery kisses in their wake.

  Kara swallowed hard as the flash of a memory faded and the man standing before her, looking as shocked as she felt, came back into view.

  She downed the liquor, slammed the glass against the bar, and sighed before she announced, “I’ve been looking for you for twenty-seven years.”

  He sank onto the vacant stool next to her and lifted his hands as if he were at a loss for words. Something that appeared to be guilt filled his eyes and made his full lips sag into a frown. She’d be damned if temptation didn’t hit her as hard as it had when she was a hormonal teen.

  “I wanted to tell you I was leaving,” he said, “but I didn’t know how.”

  “You should have tried something like, ‘Kara, I’m leaving.’”

  “You’re right. But I was a kid. I didn’t have a lot of common sense. All I could think about was how I finally had my freedom.”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “You had your freedom? You selfish prick.”

  His eyes widened. “Well, that might be a little harsh. I was just a kid, Kara. Yes, I should have told you I had no intention of staying with you, but I was a little overwhelmed by what had happened. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  Harry’s shoulders slumped, as if he had given up justifying sneaking out on her in the middle of the night. “Look, I saw a flier for your gallery opening, and I wanted to say hello. I thought maybe… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He sounded hurt—dejected, even. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Harry stood and Kara put her hand to his chest and shoved him back onto the barstool. The move instantly reminded of her their one night together. All of seventeen and totally inexperienced, she’d fancied herself a seductress and pushed him onto the bed before straddling his hips like she had a clue what she was doing.

  As she touched his chest now, warmth radiated through her entire body.

  She glared, pulling her hand away and squeezing her fingers into a fist. “Do you live in Seattle?”

  He shook his head. “I had a conference in town. There were fliers at the hotel. As soon as I saw your picture, I knew I had to come.” His smile returned and excitement lit his face. “I can’t believe you have a gallery opening. This is amazing, Kare.”

  She wasn’t nearly as thrilled by her accomplishment as he seemed to be. She felt like she was selling her soul instead of her art. She’d always preferred the indie route, but that crap agent had cornered her at a particularly vulnerable moment and convinced her she needed him…just like he’d convinced her she needed to be in a gallery. Although, now she was glad she’d conceded on the open bar.

  The tequila swirled through her, making her muscles tingle and preventing her from fully engaging the nearly three decades of anger she’d been harboring. She had spent an awfully long time wanting to give Harry Canton a piece of her mind.

  Even so, hearing him say she’d done something amazing warmed her in a way very little ever had. If he had come looking for another one-night stand, she hated to admit that she would consider reliving that night again—only this time with more sexual experience and less expectation of him sticking around.

  He might be almost three decades older, but his face was still handsome and his brown eyes were just as inviting as they had been when he was a high school prodigy and she was a wallflower.
r />   She smirked at a realization: he was in a suit, probably having just left a corporate meeting, while she was wearing a red sari-inspired dress at her gallery opening.

  He was still the straight arrow. She was still the eccentric artist.

  “Did you hear what I said, Harry? About looking for you for the last twenty-seven years.”

  His shoulders sagged. “I never meant to sleep with you that night. I mean”—he quickly lifted his hands—“I was leaving and should have told you before taking you upstairs. I shouldn’t have just left like that, but I didn’t think you wanted to see me again anyway. If it’s any consolation,” he said, giving her a smile that softened the rough edges of her anger, “I’d been working up the courage to kiss you since junior year when you squeezed a tube of red paint in Mitch Friedman’s hair after he made jokes about Frida Kahlo’s eyebrows in art class.”

  Kara frowned at him. That hadn’t been her finest hour. Then again, neither was waking up thinking she was starting a new life as a high school graduate and the girlfriend of the cutest boy she’d ever met, only to find the other side of the homecoming queen’s bed empty. “There’s nothing wrong with a woman embracing her natural beauty.”

  His smile faded quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincere. “I shouldn’t have left you like I did. I hope you believe that I regret it. Not being with you,” he amended, “but leaving without explaining.”

  He’d had that same nervous habit in high school. He’d say what was on his mind and then instantly try to recover, afraid his words had come out wrong. Usually they had. For as awkward as she’d been, at least she’d always been able to say what she meant and stand behind it. Of course, that ability got her in trouble more often than not.

  She’d told herself a million times that Harry didn’t owe her an explanation. They hadn’t been in any kind of relationship. She’d drooled over him from afar, but he’d barely acknowledged her existence in high school. Even if he hadn’t gone off to start his Ivy League college career the day after graduation, he likely never would have looked at her again. Well, at least not until she could no longer hide the truth of their one-night stand from the world.

  “I expected so much more from you, Harry,” she said sadly, the sting of what he’d done back then numbed slightly by the tequila.

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you ever write me back?” She thought her voice sounded hurt and pathetic. She was surprised that after so many years of being angry, there was still pain hiding beneath her fury. “I must have sent you a hundred letters.”

  He creased his brow. “Letters? I didn’t get any letters.”

  Kara searched his eyes.

  He looked genuinely confused.

  “I sent them to…” Her words faded. Suddenly the tequila-induced haze wasn’t so welcome. “Your mother said if I wrote to you…”

  “My mother? I never got any letters.”

  “But you sent money.”

  Harry shook his head slightly. “What the hell are you talking about? Why would I send you money?”

  She stared at him as realization started to weave its way through her oncoming buzz. He hadn’t responded to her letters because he hadn’t received her letters. And if he hadn’t received the letters, he hadn’t sent her money. And if he hadn’t sent her money, he hadn’t known that she needed it. Sighing, she let some of her decades-old anger slip. Her head spun, either from the alcohol or the blurry dots she was trying to mentally connect. Leaning onto the bar, she exhaled slowly. “They never told you, did they?”

  “Who? Told me what? What are you talking about?”

  Kara couldn’t speak. Her words wouldn’t form.

  Someone wrapped an arm around Kara’s shoulder, startling her and making her gasp quietly. She turned and blinked several times at the man who had just slid next to her.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I need to get home.” Leaning in, he kissed her head. “Congratulations on the opening, Mom. It was great.”

  “Um…” She swallowed, desperate to find her voice. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She flicked her gaze at the man sitting next to her. The longer Harry looked at her son, the wider Harry’s eyes became.

  Phil cast a disapproving glance at Harry, the way he always did when assessing a man who might distract her from her responsibilities, and then focused on her again. “Don’t forget that Jess is expecting you to make pancakes in the morning. You promised.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” Kara returned her attention to Harry. His jaw was slack and his cheeks had grown pale.

  Phil nodded at Harry, as if he were satisfied that he’d made the point that his mother didn’t need to stay out all night, and walked away. Harry watched him leave while Kara waved down the bartender and pointed at her glass. The tattooed kid hesitated, likely debating the ethics of giving her another shot. She pointed again, cocking a brow for emphasis, and he finally filled her glass.

  “Kara…” Harry’s voice was breathless, like he’d been kicked in the gut. “Was…was that my…son?”

  No. His mother definitely hadn’t given him the letters Kara had written. She lifted her shot, toasting him. “Congratulations, Harry. It’s a boy.”

  Harry couldn’t deny Phil was his if he tried. The picture on Kara’s phone might as well have been a picture of himself from twenty years ago. The man had Harry’s dark—almost black—hair and his dark brown eyes. He had the same oval face and long nose. Phil had Kara’s smile, though. Wide and inviting. Or at least that’s how Harry remembered it. She hadn’t exactly smiled at him since he surprised her.

  When he walked into the gallery and saw her, she’d looked as beautiful as she had back in high school. His heart had nearly exploded. Her long, strawberry blond hair hung in waves down her back, and when she’d turned to him, he could easily make out the spatter of freckles across her nose he remembered from so many years ago. The lines caressing her mouth reminded him how he’d once traced his thumbs over her cheeks before delving in for their first kiss. He’d seen that in a movie and had played it over and over in his mind, imagining Kara instead of Molly Ringwald.

  If only he’d stuck around to give Kara a happy ending like the movies promised.

  Almost thirty years may have passed, but he felt like he was instantly transformed back into that awkward teenager who wanted nothing more than to profess his undying love and promise her forever—if only she’d want him, too. She never had. Whenever he’d smiled at her in the hallways at school, she’d always looked away. He’d tried talking to her several times in art class. She’d blown him off each time, muttering responses, too focused on her work to give him the time of day.

  But he wasn’t that awkward teenager anymore. He was confident and successful. He took life by the balls and dragged it where he wanted it to go, not the other way around. Not anymore. So when he’d spotted her as he walked toward the bar, he had taken a breath and headed straight for her.

  He’d expected her to be a little miffed by his disappearing act all those years ago, but he’d thought they’d talk it out and move on. He’d even had a little light of hope that she’d forgive him. He’d wanted to ask her to dinner, catch up on her life, find out if she was as fascinating to him now as she’d been all those years ago.

  What he hadn’t expected was for his life to be turned on its ear.

  He had a son. He was a father. A real father. Not a stepfather who had never been quite good enough for his ex-wife’s kids.

  He had a kid. His own kid.

  Not that Phil was a child anymore.

  “I still can’t believe this,” Harry said.

  Now, sitting in a diner down the street from the gallery, Kara ate pecan waffles and drank coffee, while Harry stared at the picture of his son. The sounds of her coffee cup and silverware clinked in the empty diner as they put together the pieces of how their parents had sealed their fates.

  Kara’s parents had kicked her out without a second thought. She had run to Har
ry’s house, desperate for help. His mother had assured her all would be well. She fed Kara and tucked her away in Harry’s bedroom while discussing the issue with Harry’s father. Then, Elaine sent Kara away with false promises and never, not once in twenty-seven years, said so much as a word to him about his child.

  While Harry was in college, Kara had lived in a community that not only supported but embraced girls like her—single mothers with no one else in the world. They’d both lived lives they’d seemed destined for—Harry with corporate friends and family and Kara with likeminded artsy types who embraced a bohemian lifestyle.

  Harry had married the woman he was supposed to, and Kara had moved from place to place with Phil in tow. She’d lived all along the West Coast, only settling in Seattle after Phil had asked for help raising his daughter. Harry had returned to Iowa after college and took over his father’s marketing firm. Kara hadn’t set foot in her home state since the day she left it.

  “Phil?” he asked. “Why Phil?”

  “Why not?”

  Harry wasn’t sure if her clipped tone was from sarcasm or frustration or something in between—she never had been black and white like that—but her meaning was clear. He had no business questioning decisions she’d had to make without him.

  He lowered her phone. He didn’t blame her for being angry, but he couldn’t help that his mother had deceived him.

  If anyone other than their respective parents knew that Phil existed, they had kept it a tight-lipped secret. In all the years since Harry had come home from college, his mother never even hinted that she had a grandson. How many times had he told her how disappointed he was that his ex-wife hadn’t wanted children with him? How many times had he said he wanted a family of his own? Elaine could have given him the one thing he’d been missing all his adult life. Instead, she had stolen his one chance to be a father.