The Summer He Came Home

  Copyright © 2013 by Juliana Stone

  Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by John Kicksee

  Cover photography by Jon Zychowski

  Cover model: Dylan Solon/Agency Galatea

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  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, Inc.

  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.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  An early look at The Christmas He Loved Her

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This book is dedicated with love to my mom, Miss Millie.

  Everything starts with you.

  Chapter 1

  Cain Black hadn’t been home in ten years.

  At the age of twenty he’d packed his guitar—a beat-up Gibson Les Paul—said his good-byes, and left. Always a rebel, he’d had no trouble disappointing half the town, and as for the other half? Hell, they’d expected it of him.

  Cain Black—the star quarterback who’d had the arrogance to turn his nose up at a full ride to Michigan State University. The nerve, some said, after everything the town had done to support him and his mother. He’d left for Los Angeles one hot summer night in July and hadn’t looked back until now, and—truthfully—he’d rather be anyplace other than Crystal Lake.

  He ran fingers through the thick waves atop his head and cracked his neck in an effort to relieve the tension that stretched across his shoulders. Damn, but his muscles were tight, his legs stiff. He placed a booted foot on the top step of the Edwardses’ porch and paused. He’d been traveling for hours and would just about kill for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, except he was fairly certain it would knock him on his ass. He was dead tired and knew he’d either crash hard or catch his second wind.

  He smoothed his hair, trying to tame the waves a bit. It wasn’t as long as it used to be, barely touched his shoulders these days. With the earrings and the nose ring long gone, he was almost respectable.

  Or, at the very least, as close to some kind of respectability as he was ever going to get.

  He glanced at his forearm. The edge of an elaborate tattoo peeked out from under the hem of his sleeve. It was the only thing left over from his hell-raising days, and that was way before LA Ink and Kat Von D had brought tattoos into the mainstream.

  Now everyone and their mother had one.

  Cain blew out hot air, tugged his shirtsleeve down a bit more, and glanced around. It was surreal, standing here after all this time. How many nights had he and the boys hung out, shooting the shit and dreaming of a future that would rock their reality?

  He shook his head, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Too many nights to count.

  His thoughts darkened, and he clenched his teeth tightly as the reason for his return hit him in the gut. Not everyone’s future had turned out as planned. The unimaginable had happened, and it was a sobering reality check.

  One that had brought him full circle. Back to Crystal Lake.

  Back to this porch.

  He glanced up at a pristine blue sky and a plane caught his attention—its drone a melancholy sound that echoed into the stillness. A warm breeze caressed his cheek, bringing with it the smell of summer—of freshly mowed lawn, flowering bushes, and warm lake water. He closed his eyes and the scent took him back. Memories rushed through him: Fourth of July celebrations that lasted the week. The annual boating regatta that filled the lake with hundreds of revelers. Christmas out at Murphy’s sugar shack. Tailgate parties and football. Beach nights with the boys, a guitar, a couple of girls, and a case of beer.

  He saw the kid he’d been—the teen who’d dreamed large and let nothing stand in his way. Hell, none of them had. The twins, Jake and Jesse, had realized their dream to serve their country, while Mackenzie had fought his way out from beneath his father’s fists to make a life in the Big Apple.

  Ten years gone and it seemed like yesterday. Like nothing had changed.

  The Edwards family abode was a large, redbrick Georgian with a long rambling driveway lined with petunias in varying shades of violet. At the moment, every available space of blacktop was occupied. There were at least thirty cars parked in the driveway, and several had pulled onto the grass near the road.

  He’d left his rental on the street, because if memory served, Mr. Edwards was pretty anal when it came to his lush green lawn.

  Cain reached for the door, but something held him still. His fingers grazed the cool burnished-steel handle and he faltered. He hated hypocrisy, and at the moment it felt like his throat was clogged with its bitter taste. He was so far off the grid, he felt like he didn’t belong anymore.

  He took a step back instead. Christ, could he do this?

  Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been on stage in Glasgow. BlackRock—the band he fronted—had snagged the opening slot on the Grind’s latest tour and had performed in venues all over Canada, the United States, and Europe. It had been the chance of a lifetime—one he’d been waiting years for—and the exposure had been more than a gift, it had been a godsend.

  The tour had been a grueling, eye-opening experience with more than its fair share of drama, yet every drop of blood had been worth it. The record label was happy, and the buzz was incredible. BlackRock was a band on the rise, and after years of sacrifice, his dream was within reach.

  It was a dream that had taken him from this town ten years ago, and sadly, it had taken a funeral to bring him back.

  The door opened suddenly, and a small boy ran out, yanking it closed behind him. He skidded to a halt, barely missing Cain, his shiny shoes sliding across the well-worn wooden planks. He looked to be about six or seven and had a mess of russet curls, and large blue eyes that dominated his face. The child was dressed for church—black dress pants, white button-down shirt—and he clutched a bright piece of fabric in his hand that was a shade darker than emerald green. The boy’s eyes widened as his gaze traveled the tall length of Cain.

  “Who are you?” His yo
ung voice wasn’t so much surly as defiant.

  Cain cracked a smile. The kid had spunk. “I’m Cain.”

  “Oh.” The boy’s brow furled. “I don’t know you.”

  “No, I suppose you don’t.”

  The kid angled his head, peered around him, and frowned. “Why are you standing out here by yourself?”

  Good question. “I just got in a few minutes ago.” He nodded to the boy’s hand. “What’s that?”

  The little guy’s mouth tightened as he unclenched his fist. His face screwed up in disgust. “It’s a tie. My mom made me wear it, but I hate ’em.” He glanced at the long settee off to the side. “Thought I’d hide it so I didn’t have to wear it the rest of the day.”

  Cain laughed out loud. “Good call. I’m not really a tie man myself.”

  “You won’t tell her?” The kid grinned and ran to the settee, where he promptly stuffed the offending piece under the seat. He carefully placed the cushion in the exact way he’d found it and stepped back. “Do you think she’ll know?”

  “I’m pretty sure she won’t.”

  Cain walked over to the boy and paused. They stood in front of a large bay window, and he heard voices—muffled of course, but he knew there was a good-sized crowd in the house.

  “Did you know him?”

  The child’s question hit a nerve, and Cain clenched his jaw tight, fighting the emotion that beat at him. Know him? He was like a brother.

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked the boy instead.

  His reflection in the window didn’t look promising. He’d been on a plane for hours, and then there’d been the long drive from Detroit. He hadn’t showered since before the show in Glasgow. His jaw was shadowed, his clothes rumpled—the black shirt, faded jeans, and heavy boots were not exactly appropriate either.

  He looked like shit and knew he’d hear it from his mother, but until now none of that had mattered. His only thought had been to get home in time for the funeral, which he’d failed to do. As it turned out, he’d been damn lucky to make the reception.

  “My name’s Michael.” The boy’s eyes were huge as he looked up at Cain. He shoved his small hands into the pockets of his pants and scuffed his shoes along the worn wooden floorboards. “Mom says he was a hero. I never met a hero before.” He squared his shoulders. “Did you know him?”

  Christ, but the kid looked earnest. His pale skin was dusted with light freckles, his round cheeks rosy.

  “Because I didn’t.”

  Cain looked inside but couldn’t see shit. The reflection of the sun didn’t allow it.

  “Yeah, I did.” A wistful smile crossed his face, and he glanced down at the kid. “Your mom’s a smart lady. He was a bona fide hero.” He nodded. “I was about your age the first time I met the Edwards twins.”

  The young boy smiled, but it faded as he glanced toward the door. “I should go. My mom is gonna wonder where I am.”

  They both turned when the front door opened and a slender woman stepped onto the porch. She wore a simple black skirt cut to just above her knee, a fitted blouse in a muted moss green, and low-heeled shoes. Her hair was held back in a ponytail—one that emphasized the delicate bone structure of her face—and was dark, a shade between crimson and brown, more like burnished amber shot through with bits of sun. Her skin was the color of cream, and when she turned toward them, Cain felt a jolt as their eyes connected.

  Hers were blue—like liquid navy—feathered by long, dark lashes and delicately arched eyebrows. She was, without a doubt, one hell of a looker. A little on the thin side for his tastes, but Cain’s interest was piqued.

  Her eyes widened for the briefest of moments, and then she turned to the boy, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. “Michael John O’Rourke! What are you doing out here”—her voice lowered—“and where is your tie?”

  She had a slight Southern drawl that rolled beneath her words. It was melodic and soft.

  “It was tight and, uh, I took it off and I, um…” He tapped his foot nervously and shrugged. “Well, I’m not sure where I left it.”

  The boy shot a quick look his way, and it took some effort for Cain to keep a straight face.

  The woman sighed. “Michael, this is a serious occasion.” She walked over to them, ignored Cain, and bent forward to fix a stray curl that rested upon the boy’s forehead before fastening the top button of his shirt.

  Her scent was subtle, fresh with a hint of exotic. Cain liked it.

  “I know, Mom. But, like, can’t I be serious without a tie?”

  A ghost of a smile tugged the corner of her mouth and Cain smiled. “He’s got a point.” Cain motioned toward his tieless shirt.

  She straightened, though her hand never left her son as her eyes traveled the length of him. Gone was the smile. The lady was all business. “And you are?”

  Cain opened his mouth and then closed it. What to say? Obviously she wasn’t a townie, because he’d sure as hell have remembered someone like her. For the moment he didn’t feel like sharing his relationship with Jesse, didn’t feel like owning up to his hell-raising days.

  “A friend of the family,” he answered instead.

  She grabbed her son and pushed him toward the door. The boy opened it and a soft swell of voices spilled outside. He ran inside, but the woman paused. She looked at Cain as if he had two heads.

  “Aren’t you coming inside, then?”

  Her abrupt tone kick-started him into action. Cain exhaled and followed in their footsteps.

  The Edwards home boasted a grand foyer—the focal point, a massive centered staircase that led to the upper level. He took a second and glanced around.

  The walls were no longer taupe and had been done over in pale, cool greens. The wood accents—the railing and trim—once oak, were now dark ebony, and the ceramic floors had been replaced with a funky hardwood. It was similar to what was in the house he’d shared with his ex-wife, but damned if he remembered what it was called.

  Music wafted from the back of the house, and he assumed a good many people were gathered outside on the deck. It was the first week in June, so the weather was warm and the Edwardses’ yard was renowned for its landscaping, pool, tennis courts, and prime lake frontage.

  It was the sweetest spot on Crystal Lake and one not many could afford.

  There were quite a few folks talking quietly. He felt their interest. It was in the understated whispers and covert glances directed his way. Cain ran his hand over the day-old stubble that graced his chin and winced. Shit, he should have at least shaved.

  The woman and little boy disappeared among the crowd, and he took a step forward, suddenly unsure of himself. He was surrounded by faces he recognized, yet he felt like an outsider. Again he fought the sliver of doubt.

  Maybe he should have stayed away. Sent a card or a flower arrangement.

  “Cain, you came.”

  The whispered words melted his heart. Years fell away as he turned and gazed down into Marnie Edwards’s face. She was older, of course, her face fuller, with time etched into the lines around her eyes and mouth. Her dark hair was elegant, hitting the curve of her jaw in a blunt cut. She wore a smart black suit, with a dash of red in the scarf draped loosely about her neck.

  Marnie opened her arms, and he grasped her small frame close to his. She trembled against him. “I knew you would.”

  Grief welled inside him. Hard, like a fist turning in his chest. He couldn’t speak; his throat felt like it was clogged with sawdust. So he just held her, took her warmth and strength into his body, and closed his eyes.

  “Cain, thank you for coming. It means a lot.”

  Cain looked up, kept Marnie secure in his arms, and nodded to Steven Edwards. Pain shadowed the older man’s eyes, and Cain swallowed hard. “Sir, I tried to get here for the funeral, but…”

  Steven Edwards nodded. “I know, son.”

  “Jesse would be so happy to know you’re all together.” Marnie wiped her face and slipped from his embrace. “Mackenz
ie and Jacob are out back somewhere.” She crossed to her husband’s side. “You should go see them.”

  “Is my mother…” His voice trailed off as he struggled to gain control over the emotions inside. “I tried to get hold of her earlier, but she didn’t pick up.”

  Marnie smiled warmly. “She’s here somewhere, helping with the food, I think.” She glanced up at her husband. “It’s good now. We’re all home.” Marnie motioned toward the back of the house. “Go, the boys are waiting.”

  Cain nodded and slipped through the small groups of people gathered in the hall. Muted voices and snatches of conversations followed him as he entered the kitchen and headed toward the patio doors. He recognized a lot of the faces, smiled, said hello, but didn’t stop to talk.

  The deck was crowded, and conversation halted as he stepped outside. Hot sunlight filtered through the vine-heavy pergola overhead, and the scent of lilac filled the air. The bushes alongside the pool house had grown a lot. They were in fact twice the size he remembered and were full of fragrant white and soft purple-colored blooms.

  His gaze wandered past the deck. There was no one here he wanted to talk to. Bradley Hayes, a classmate from back in the day, nodded and headed in his direction. They’d never been friends, and he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to pretend.

  Cain turned abruptly and took the stairs two at a time to the patio below.

  He cleared the bottom step, grabbed a cold beer from the nearest waiter, and took a long, refreshing draw. He glanced out over the backyard as his hand absently wiped the corner of his mouth. The tight feeling in his gut pressed harder, and his skin was clammy.

  Cain was used to being the focus of attention but this was different. These weren’t fans. They were old neighbors, teachers, acquaintances, and some he’d considered friends a long time ago.

  Were they judging him? Was he the prodigal black sheep, returned?

  He squared his shoulders. None of them were the reason he’d come back.

  Two men caught his eye, and he moved methodically through the crowd of mourners, nodding to those who called greetings, yet his gaze never left the duo several feet away from everyone.

  The man on the left was dressed in a suit, his tall frame draped in expensive Armani. Cain knew this. His closet was filled with the crap. His newly minted ex-wife, Natasha, had insisted he wear nothing but the Italian designer whenever he accompanied her to one of her damn premieres. She’d spent wads of cash dressing him up like one of her West Coast buddies. After she had left, he’d considered getting rid of the lot, but hell, it had cost a fortune and he didn’t see the benefit in throwing money away.