The Silk Sisters—longtime friends Janelle, Sandra and Vicki—have turned their business savvy into a top-tier event agency. And in the wealthy enclave of Wintersage, Massachusetts, there’s an abundance of lavish parties, society drama and longing hearts to keep them busy.

Growing up among the powerful and privileged, formal-wear designer Sandra Woolcott learned early on to never show weakness—just smile and hold your head high. And ten years ago, when her young heart was broken, she learned just how strong she really was….

When Isaiah Jacobs left for the Naval Academy, he said he didn’t want to hold Sandra back—although he really wanted to hold on to her forever. Sandra let him go, masking her hurt with a glittering social life and career. Now Isaiah is back in Wintersage to care for his ailing father. And when he and Sandra meet again, it’s all they can do not to fall for each other once more.

But they’ve built such different lives, and so many years have passed—is their long-ago love worth the risk? Can they bury the pain of the past and build a promising future together?

What in the hell are you doing?

Isaiah braced his hands against either side of the doorjamb and lowered his head until it touched Sandra’s front door.

He’d spent hours trying to talk himself out of coming here, staying at the rec center long after the party had ended.

It hadn’t worked.

“Go home,” he whispered. She’d never have to know he had come here.

But his body refused the direct order. It stood steadfast at the door, not caring about the fact that he had no reasonable explanation for being there or the very real possibility of Sandra slamming the door in his face.

All Isaiah knew was he had to see her again.

Now.

Exhaling, he slid one hand down to the doorbell and pressed. The chime preceded one of the longest minutes of his life.

“Forget something?” he heard her ask through the door before it swung open.

Sandra held out the blue diaper bag he’d seen slung over her shoulder earlier. He watched her brown eyes widen at the sight of him.

Before either of them had time to think, Isaiah wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. She gasped as she stared up at him, and he caught the scent of cotton candy on her breath.

“Yeah, I forgot this.”

He leaned in and captured those pouty lips of hers—lips that had played a starring role in his dreams for four nights straight—in a kiss.

PHYLLIS BOURNE

is a native of Chicago’s South Side and began her writing career as a newspaper crime reporter. After years of cops and criminals, she left reporting to write about life’s sweeter side. Nowadays, her stories are filled with heart-stopping heroes and happy endings. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found at a makeup counter feeding her lipstick addiction.

You can find her on the web at www.phyllisbourne.com and www.facebook.com/phyllisbournebooks.

Falling

into

Forever

Phyllis Bourne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dear Reader,

Family is the best thing about the Thanksgiving holiday—it can also be the worst.

In Falling into Forever Sandra’s and Isaiah’s parents are overbearing, embarrassing and hilariously obnoxious. They’re also loyal, loving and filled with high expectations for their offspring.

While Falling into Forever is foremost a romance, at heart it’s a story about us as children—from toddlers to gray-haired adults with kids and grandkids of our own. We never lose our desire to make our parents proud.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Phyllis

For Byron, who shoulders the heavy lifting so I can live my dream.

I’d like to thank my fellow authors in the Wintersage Weddings continuity series, A.C. Arthur and Farrah Rochon, for their support and encouragement. You ladies are the best!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dear Reader

Dedication

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

Copyright

Chapter 1

“I want that low-down, cheating bastard to eat his heart out.”

The edict echoing in her head, Sandra Woolcott swept the graphite pencil over the paper in bold, rapid strokes. Turning a client’s dream dress into reality was her business.

Still, this particular request was a first.

A revenge dress.

Sandra sat cross-legged on her living room sofa, sketch pad on her lap, and examined the illustration. A sleek, backless dress with a thigh-exposing split. Sexy and beautiful, the gown encapsulated the hallmarks of a garment worthy of bearing her Swoon Couture label.

She stuck the pencil behind her ear and gnawed at her bottom lip as she continued to study the sketch. Her client had a lot riding on this particular dress.

It had to be better than good. It had to be perfect.

She ripped the page from the sketch pad, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the direction of a wastebasket stationed near the sofa. It landed on the hardwood floor in a pile of similar wads filled with rejected ideas.

Sandra scrubbed a hand down her face in frustration.

She worked by appointment only, with a private clientele, her schedule packed months ahead with back-to-back appointments for consultations and fittings. She also had to handle the business end of running her custom shop.

Mondays were the day of the workweek Sandra focused solely on the creative side of Swoon Couture.

Instead of retreating to the studio at her shop, she’d decided to work from home, hoping a change of scenery would help her get caught up on the tasks she’d put on hold last week to help arrange her friend Janelle’s wedding.

No such luck.

She’d barely made a dent in her to-do list, which included ideas for Everley Madison, a pop singer she was scheduled to meet with in a few days to discuss a gown for her New Year’s Eve wedding, and the preliminary designs for clients preparing for the spring season of charity balls.

Instead, she’d spent the majority of the day stumped on the last-minute plea from one of the most prominent citizens of Wintersage, Massachusetts.

“We built that business together. Now he expects me to sit home alone while he strolls into the party celebrating its silver anniversary with his new skank on his arm,” Octavia Hall had complained during her design consultation. “A party I spent over a year planning. I didn’t even use Alluring Affairs, because I wanted to see to every detail personally.”

Sandra had listened patiently while Octavia spent the entire hour painstakingly listing her soon-to-be ex’s faults, without giving as much as a clue to the style of dress she wanted.

It didn’t matter.

Behind the older woman’s bravado, longing had lurked in her eyes. It told Sandra that, deep down, her client was really seeking a gown so breathtaking, the sight of her in it would make her estranged husband think twice about abandoning their marriage for a twenty-year-old.

It was a lofty goal for a dress. However, Sandra intended to do everything within her power to make Octavia, a former Miss Massachusetts, once again the most stunning woman in the room.

The clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed, and Sandra calculated she could squeeze in another hour of work before making the short walk from her house, overlooking the harbor, to The Quarterdeck for her weekly business meeting/gossip session with her two best friends and business partners. In the meantime, she needed to concentrate on coming up with a showstopper of a gown.

She stared at the blank sketch-pad page. A vague idea of a shimmering dress embellished with beads and sequins...no, satin in the same caramel tones as Octavia’s skin...danced on the edge of Sandra’s imagination.

She closed her eyes and focused as the details slowly unfolded. Excited, she opened her eyes and snatched the pencil from behind her ear. She needed to get this design down on paper quickly, while it was fresh in her mind.

The doorbell sounded. Both the jarring chime and the accompanying pounding on her front door jerked Sandra from her thoughts, and visions of the satin gown faded.

So much for thinking working from home was a good idea. Muttering a curse, she set the pencil and pad aside.

She peered through the peephole and frowned. What were her parents doing in town?

“I thought you two were in New York City.” Sandra shivered against a blast of late-October wind coming off the nearby Atlantic Ocean as she pushed the door closed behind them.

“We barely had time to visit with the Kings before your father began griping about getting back to Wintersage and returning to work,” Nancy Woolcott said, “and his girlfriend.”

Stuart Woolcott winked at his wife. “Don’t be jealous of my side piece. She may be sexy, but you’re still my number one.”

As they walked into her living room, Sandra couldn’t help smiling at her parents’ running joke over her dad’s prized 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS. He’d acquired the muscle car of his boyhood dreams back when Sandra was in elementary school, and the rare hours he wasn’t in his office he spent in the garage, restoring his girlfriend to her seventies glory.

“I got a call about a 454 engine. I need to take a look at it,” he said. “Afterward, I’m going into the office.”

“That office isn’t going anywhere. Surely it can wait until tomorrow morning,” her mother countered.

“Woolcott Industries doesn’t run itself, dear. And neither of our children can be bothered to help run it, either.”

Sandra felt her father’s pointed stare as she bussed her mother’s upturned cheek.

Here we go, she thought, and steeled herself for the lengthy lecture that always accompanied that look. Sure enough, he launched into it.

“Computer hardware was good enough for me, my father, my grandfather and his father, who started out selling typewriters and adding machines, but it’s not good enough for my kids.” Her dad walked past her into the living room. “Fred King’s daughter, Ivy, is vice president of his company, you know. Her husband also works for their company, and they’ve given Fred two beautiful grand—”

“Don’t start, Stu.” Her mother cut him off. “Sandra chose her career. When the time comes, she’ll choose a husband and when to have children.”

“She’s not getting any younger,” Stuart said, as if twenty-eight years old was ancient. “And I just happen to know Dale Mills has asked our daughter out several times.”

Sandra cringed inwardly at the mention of the Woolcott Industries’ executive. Every sentence the man uttered was bracketed with the words, Stuart says or Stuart advises.

No way she’d ever date that brownnosing suck-up.

“Dale’s a good-looking young man,” her mother added. “And so considerate. Last week, he stood in line overnight just so he could surprise your father with Red Sox tickets for game two of the World Series.”

Sandra willed her eyes not to roll. She looked away from her mother to see her father scooping a wadded sheet from her sketch pad off the floor.

Unfurling it, he frowned. “Just think, Fred’s daughter’s negotiating multimillion-dollar deals.”

Sandra reached out to snatch the discarded sketch from his grasp.

Her father shook his head. “Meanwhile, my daughter is determined to make her living doodling stick figures.”

Sandra stopped short as a long forgotten voice and a buried memory pushed their way to the surface.

“Whatcha doing, doodling stick figures?” a boy looking over her shoulder in her high school art class had asked.

Sandra remembered spinning around, prepared to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, her angry gaze had locked with the dreamy brown eyes of Isaiah Jacobs, one of the most popular boys at Wintersage Academy.

One smile from him had turned her insides to mush, and all Sandra could do was gawk openmouthed. When she’d finally spoken, her tongue had twisted and her words had spilled out in a jumble.

Sandra sighed. Isaiah had gone on to become her first boyfriend, her first love and her first heartbreak.

“Stu!” Her mother’s sharp tone roused Sandra from the errant flashback.

“What?” Her father raised his hands in the air, his expression perplexed. “The girl tested off the charts in math and science, but instead of being an asset to her family’s business, like Ivy, she squanders her natural ability as a dressmaker.” He made the word dressmaker sound like loser. “How am I the bad guy here?”

Frowning at her husband, Nancy snatched the sketch from his hand and placed it on an end table. “You start this up every time we visit the Kings,” she said. “Let. It. Go.”

Sandra shot her mom a grateful look. The fact that Swoon Couture specialized in custom dresses and catered to the wealthiest women in Wintersage was lost on her father. As far as Stuart Woolcott was concerned, if Sandra didn’t work for Woolcott Industries, she didn’t really work.

Noticing the garment bag draped over her mother’s arm, Sandra jumped at the chance to change the subject. “I see you had time to do some shopping.”

Nancy averted her eyes. “Uh...well, I found a few things, including the most adorable Halloween costume for little Mason. He’s going to be a Patriots’ player.”

While her mother prattled on about toddler football helmets, Sandra zeroed in on the garment bag. In particular, the embossed logo of a hot New York designer who’d been getting incredible buzz in the fashion world. It was obvious the contents weren’t for Sandra’s nephew.

“I know this is a busy time of year for you with the holiday season almost upon us. I thought I’d take some of the pressure off by trying a new designer I read about in Vogue magazine,” her mother said, in way of explanation. “In fact, he’s been in all the magazines.”

“B-but I already have a capsule collection of holiday dresses, designed especially for you.” As always, Sandra had prioritized her mother’s dresses, having nailed down the perfect cuts, colors and styles for her over the summer. “They’re waiting for you at the boutique.”

“I’m sure they’re beautiful as always, dear, but everybody who’s anybody in Wintersage will be wearing your gowns this holiday season. No one will have Zack originals.”

“So you brought the dresses to show me?” Sandra asked, trying hard to keep the slighted edge out of her voice.

To be honest, she was also curious to see what the competition offered that was so dazzling her mother had purchased off-the-rack dresses without even bothering to see the custom ones Sandra had prepared.

“Not exactly.” Nancy glanced uncomfortably at the garment bag. “Actually, I was hoping to drop them off with you.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you need to bring them to me?” Sandra asked, confused.

“W-well, you see, your father was in such a hurry to get back home, I didn’t have time for a fitting and alterations,” her mother stammered. “I thought, well, since you know my measurements. I only need two inches off the bottom of all of them and a little nip at the waist of the green one...”

Nancy held the garment bag out to her, and Sandra’s jaw dropped as realization dawned. Her mom expected her to handle the alterations.

Stuart took the bag and shoved it into her arms. “Why waste time waiting around when we already have a seamstress in the family?”

Still stunned, Sandra could only blink. She wasn’t sure what stung more, her mother’s disloyalty or her dad’s total disregard.

“I...I’m not a seamstress, Dad,” she stammered, staring down at the offending bag. “I’m a designer.”

“Bottom line is you can sew, right?”

Sewing was something she rarely had time to do as Swoon continued to grow, and she contracted three expert seamstresses to handle the task.

“Of course I can, but—”

“Good.” Her father nodded once, in his view making it a done deal. He glanced down at his wife. “Do you want me to drop you off at home or are you staying to visit?”

Nancy looked from her husband to her daughter. “I’d love to stay and chat a bit, but I need to order Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Why? Isn’t Milly cooking?” Sandra asked.

Her mother shook her head. “Milly’s taking Thanksgiving week off to visit with her grandchildren. I’d cook myself, but I’m committed to spending Thanksgiving morning delivering boxes of groceries for my sorority’s needy families program, and the early afternoon helping serve dinners at the church. I simply don’t have time to prepare a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.” She sighed. “I’ll need to order a pie from Carrie at the bakery, too.”

“But it isn’t even Halloween yet,” Sandra said, disappointed that her parents’ longtime cook and housekeeper wouldn’t be preparing a turkey basted in the sage butter she loved.

“In terms of Thanksgiving in Wintersage, it’s already too late. The two best chefs in town aren’t taking any more orders, so finding someone to prepare a good meal won’t be easy.”

A snort came from her father’s direction. “Too bad I didn’t manage to finagle an invitation from Fred King for Thanksgiving dinner.” He turned to Sandra. “Did I mention Ivy prepared a five-course meal while we were there? It was superb.”

Sandra pressed her lips together. She loved her Dad, but today he was bouncing on her last nerve like a kid on a trampoline.

Ever since she’d returned home from college and refused to come to work at Woolcott Industries, he’d constantly compared her to the Kings’ daughter. The digs had become even more frequent since Ivy had married an executive from her father’s company.

Ivy was perfection in the daughter department, while Sandra had descended from Daddy’s girl to a big disappointment in her father’s eyes. Nothing she did pleased him. All they seemed to do was butt heads.

“Ivy’s dinner tasted like it came out of a Michelin starred restaurant. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven with every mouthful,” Stuart continued. “And that pie!”

Sandra bit the inside of her lip, hoping her mother would shut him down again.

Instead, Nancy licked her lips. “Which one? The salted caramel chocolate pecan pie or maple bourbon sweet potato pie? Goodness, they both practically melted in your mouth, didn’t they?”

“The entire meal did. And to think Ivy made everything from scratch, after putting in a full day helping run their family business.” Stuart leveled his gaze at Sandra.

“I run a business, too, Dad,” Sandra countered, although she knew it wouldn’t matter. “I love what I do, and I’m very good at it.”

He shook his head. “This isn’t about loving what you do, it’s about living up to your potential. When you were in school, I’d brag on you to Fred King every time you brought home your grades. He’d be so envious. Now he’s the one boasting about how his daughter’s efforts have resulted in record profits for their business. Not to mention she’s also a wife and mother.” He exhaled. “Guess who’s the jealous father now.”

Sandra swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She could show him statements proving Swoon Couture had also raked in sizable profits. She could also reveal, depending on the outcome of next week’s election, that she was in the running to design the inaugural ball gown for the wife of Massachusetts’s next governor-elect.

But she didn’t.

Sandra already knew he wouldn’t be impressed or proud.

Besides, she’d had enough of family for today. At this point, her best course of action was to get rid of them.

Now.

“Well, I know you two were eager to be going,” she said, mentally shoving them toward her front door. “I’ll take care of the dress alterations.”

Her parents didn’t budge. They were apparently still too overwhelmed by Ivy’s cooking to take the hint.

“She doesn’t even bother with recipes. Just uses a pinch of this and a little of that,” Nancy said.

“That girl’s amazing,” Stuart exclaimed. “The Kings definitely don’t have to be concerned about their holiday dinner, because their daughter can do it all.”

Sandra’s fingers dug into the garment bag still in her arms. She kept her lips pressed together in a firm line as her father smacked his lips loudly.

“Just thinking about what Ivy could do with a turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings sets my mouth to watering,” he said.

“Actually, she mentioned jerk turkey was on the menu for Thanksgiving,” Nancy added.

Sandra stifled a grunt, along with an overwhelming wave of jealously, which was ridiculous. So what if the Kings’ daughter was a great cook, and Sandra wasn’t?

It had nothing to do with her. She had nothing to prove.

Then why did she feel that it had everything to do with her, and she had everything to prove?

Stuart raised a questioning brow at his wife. “I could try to wrangle us an invitation to the Kings’ Thanksgiving table. It would be terribly pushy, but worth it.”

Nancy shook her head. “We can’t do that. What about the rest of our family? I’ll get to work ordering our holiday dinner as soon as I get home. It won’t be Ivy’s jerk turkey, but...”

Just when Sandra thought the sensible adult in her had reined in her jealousy, the green-eyed monster inside her broke rank.

“I’ll cook,” she blurted out.

“What did you say, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

The words continued to bubble out of her mouth of their own accord. “We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year,” she said. “I’ll do the cooking.”

Two pairs of surprised eyes swung toward her. Sandra was sure her own eyes reflected surprise, as well.

“You’re kidding, right?” Her father howled with laughter.

When the laughing subsided, he brushed at the tear rolling down his cheek and rested his arm on her shoulder. “Thanks, anyway, but none of us wants to spend the holiday doubled over in the bathroom, or even worse, getting a visit from the fire department.”

He burst into another laughing fit, while a giggle her mother had apparently been holding back escaped.

Sandra tried not to feel insulted. Admittedly, she did have a track record in the kitchen that indeed made her offer laughable.

If she was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t a cook. She didn’t even own a pot or pan. Breakfast was usually coffee and a granola bar. Lunch consisted of a gourmet cupcake from the bakery and dinner was either a hastily eaten deli sandwich or salad in her boutique’s studio.

“Don’t pay us any mind,” her mother said, with a wave of her hand. “It’s just, you and the kitchen...”

“Are a match made in hell,” her father finished.

Sandra looked on as her parents collapsed into yet another bout of laughter. Increasingly irksome laughter that would have made a less tolerant daughter boot them the heck out of her house.

Instead, Sandra cleared her throat. She’d show her father she was no joke and that there was a lot in her for him to take pride in—starting with Thanksgiving dinner.

“I’ve got our holiday meal covered,” she said firmly, “including a delicious jerking turkey.”

“That’s jerk turkey,” her mother corrected.

“Regardless, I’ll expect you two, along with our entire family, here on Thanksgiving Day, ready to eat.”

Then she made a mental note to figure out what exactly she had to do to make a turkey jerk.

Chapter 2

“I know, Dad,” Isaiah Jacobs answered for the umpteenth time.

His old man was spoiling for a fight, but he wouldn’t get it. Not today. No matter how hard he tried. Not with the news Isaiah had been blindsided by just two days ago still sinking in.

Isaiah tightened his grip on the old Ford pickup’s steering wheel and navigated the winding state road leading back to Wintersage. He was barely a week into civilian life, but tension stiffened his posture as if he was awaiting a fleet admiral’s inspection.

“I don’t need you hauling me around like a soccer mom, either,” Ben Jacobs groused. “I drove myself back and forth for six weeks of treatments. I can certainly do it this last week.”

“I know, but I’m here now, and I want to drive you.” Isaiah’s conciliatory tone belied the fact that he hadn’t given his father a choice in the matter. He’d parked the old pickup, which he’d driven back in high school, crossways, blocking the door to his parents’ four-car garage.

“It’s bad enough your mother’s got me on this god-awful macrobiotic diet. She also banned me from my own office. Threw the fact it’s technically her family’s business in my face and dismissed me like some grunt. After all these years.”

Isaiah glanced at the passenger’s seat. His father’s arms were crossed over his chest and weight loss had made the mulish set to his jaw more pronounced.

“Mom’s trying to look out for you,” Isaiah said. “And as far as work goes she just insisted you take sick leave. Like she would have done with any Martine’s employee in your situation.”

“I’m not any employee.” The elder Jacobs’s thunderous baritone rattled the windows of Isaiah’s old truck. “I’m president of that damn company.”

A president who had been outranked by Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ worried chairwoman, Cecily Martine Jacobs, who’d resorted to a power play to force her husband to make his health a number-one priority.

“Mom’s doing what she thinks is best to—” Isaiah began.

“Don’t need mothering or smothering,” his father interrupted. “I’m not some kid. I’m a grown man.”

So am I. The words sat unspoken on the tip of Isaiah’s tongue.

The logical part of him understood his folks’ reasoning for not revealing his father’s status as soon as they’d found out, camouflaging it in every email, phone call and Skype chat. They hadn’t wanted to worry him.

However, the son in him wished he’d been told immediately that his father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two months ago. Instead of being blindsided by the news his first day home in three years.

“Don’t need you patronizing me, either,” Ben groused. “We may have the same military rank, Lieutenant, but I’m still the parent here.”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Isaiah stuck with the same noncombatant phrase he’d repeated all afternoon.

“I know, Dad.”

His mother had warned him that while the course of radiation therapy wasn’t painful, it had left his father fatigued and ornery.

“And we should have taken my Benz instead of your old truck,” his father added. “When was the last time this beater was taken through a car wash, anyway? The neighbors are going to think I’ve hitched a ride with some backwoods hillbilly, instead of a decorated navy lieutenant.”

“Retired lieutenant,” Isaiah corrected.

A harrumph came from the passenger’s seat. “Who the hell retires at twenty-nine years old?”

I do, Isaiah thought.

Like his father and grandfather, he’d gone from Wintersage Academy to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Isaiah had graduated a commissioned officer and dedicated the next seven years of his life to the navy, proudly serving his country.

Now, for the first time in over a decade, he was a free man. No longer weighed down by tradition, expectations or duty, he was finally going to follow his own life plan and fulfill his long-held dreams.

Ambitions he hadn’t shared with anyone.

Actually, there was one person who knew, he thought. They’d even made plans to pursue their goals, together.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Before he could banish it, a faint recollection of a teenage girl with deep chocolate skin and a long raven mane swept up in a high ponytail popped into his head.

Sandra Woolcott.

Isaiah felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a half smile at the sweet memory of the first girl to claim his heart. He’d driven along this same road, in this same truck, with a brand-new driver’s license in his pocket and Sandra in the passenger’s seat.

He could almost hear her laughter as the wind freed her hair from her ponytail and her hair whipped around her face that long-ago spring day.

Isaiah had traveled the world and dated his fair share of women, but he’d yet to come across one more beautiful than Sandra.

Curiosity replaced his musings, and he wondered how her life had turned out. Had she pursued their big plans on her own, after he’d put family expectations and tradition ahead of his own desires and her?

“Hey!” His father’s strident tone jarred him out of his reverie. “Have you been gone so long you forgot your way home? You were supposed to make a left at the intersection.”

“I know, Dad.”

Staring through the windshield at the gray skies, and trees nearing the end of their autumn peak, Isaiah banished thoughts of Sandra to the back of his mind, chalking up the out-of-the-blue flashback to being back in Wintersage.

Ben heaved a drawn-out sigh. The one he used when he was on the brink of losing his patience. “Son, if you say ‘I know, Dad’ to me one more time...” His father’s voice trailed off.

“Sorry,” Isaiah said.

“Well, aren’t you going to turn this heap around?” Ben groused. “Or do I have to drive us home.”

Isaiah shook his head. “We’re not going home yet. So just sit tight.”

“We’re headed downtown?” Ben asked after Isaiah made a left turn.

He nodded, bracing himself for inevitable blowback.

“For what? To give the town busybodies something else to gossip about?” his father protested. “‘Poor Ben Jacobs. He looks like a scrawny chicken,’” he mimicked. “Then they sanction their tongue wagging by tacking the words bless his heart on the end of every juicy tidbit.”

“You may have lost a few pounds, but you look fine,” Isaiah said.

His father rested his chin on his chest. “I have my pride, son,” he said finally. The volume of his usual booming baritone was so low Isaiah strained to hear.

He swallowed hard, pushing a lump of emotion down his throat, and along with it the urge to turn his truck around and take his dad home.

“Give me ten minutes. After that if you still want to go home, I’ll be more than happy to drive you.”

Isaiah slowed the truck to the lower posted speed limit as they approached the downtown area near the waterfront. Main Street, usually bustling with tourists and traffic during summer and early autumn, unfurled before him, with only a few residents walking along it.

As his father appeared to be mulling over his offer, Isaiah continued, “Life is short for all of us. Don’t let something as trite as pride keep you from enjoying every moment.”

He caught his dad’s nod in his peripheral vision as he pulled the pickup into an open parking space in front of the bakery. The place had changed ownership in the years he’d been away. A purple awning hung over the storefront window, which boasted a red, white and blue placard asking citizens to vote Oliver Windom to the state house of representatives in the upcoming election.

Both of his parents had raved about the new baker in their emails. His mother was partial to the cinnamon rolls, while his father was wild for the cupcakes. Their enthusiastic reviews had Isaiah raring to try one.

He climbed out of the truck. His first instinct was to go around to the passenger side and help his father, but he decided not to push his luck. Instead, he leaned into the cab.

“Coming?” he asked.

“But what about your mother and that miserable diet?”

“You telling her about this?”

A blast of cold wind and the aroma of cinnamon-laced baked goods wafted through the truck’s open door. His father’s nose twitched.

“No. I don’t think I’ll mention it to her, son.”

“Good,” Isaiah said. “Neither will I.”

Ben bounded from the truck with more energy than Isaiah had seen in the few days he’d been back. His father stopped short at the bakery door. He frowned, and then grunted at the sign in the window. “I wouldn’t vote to elect Windom dogcatcher,” he grumbled.

A rush of heat and more heavenly smells greeted them inside the bakery. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d only picked at his breakfast and skipped lunch altogether.

“Ben!” A woman clad in a purple apron with the bakery’s logo etched on the front greeted his father with a warm smile. “Long time no see. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

His father mumbled something about being busy, not quite meeting the woman’s eyes.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I thought I’d lost one of my best customers to some cockamamy low-carb diet.” She turned to Isaiah. “And this must be the son you’ve told me about, because he looks just like you.”

His father perked up, any self-consciousness pushed aside by his deprived sweet tooth and the array of cupcakes on display behind the glass case. He briefly introduced Isaiah to the middle-aged woman called Carrie, before the two launched into a discussion about her latest culinary creations.

“I know you’re partial to the red velvet.” Carrie held up a cupcake heaped with white frosting and red sprinkles. “But you’ve got to try my new salted caramel and corn candy cupcakes.”

Ben pressed a finger against his lips as he glanced from the cupcake in her hand to the ones in the display.

“I’m only baking the corn candy ones until Halloween, on Friday. After that they won’t return until next year,” she coaxed.

“I’ll take two of the corn candy,” Isaiah said, not sharing his father’s indecisiveness.

Carrie put two cupcakes smothered in orange icing and topped with corn candy on a purple plate. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled again as she placed them on the counter.

“Okay, give me one of the salted caramel,” his father finally said.

“One?” Carrie raised a brow. Ignoring his request, she placed two of the oversize cakes on a purple plate and handed it to Ben.

Isaiah retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a twenty to pay.

Carrie shook her head, refusing it. “It’s on the house. Thank you for your service, son.” She glanced briefly at his father and back at him, understanding brimming in her warm brown eyes. “And for bringing one of my favorite customers back.”

Isaiah nodded and returned his wallet to his pocket.

“Have a seat,” she continued. “I’m brewing a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll bring some over when it’s done.”

He retrieved his cupcakes and followed his father. After his old man’s initial reluctance to even step inside the bakery, Isaiah was surprised to see him select a table by the window, overlooking the town’s main thoroughfare.

Not bothering with preliminaries, they immediately took huge bites out of the tower of creamy icing covering their confections.

One mouthful and Isaiah knew why his father was hooked. The rich, sugary rush of flavor was addictive.

“Mmm.” Ben closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Is this not the best thing you ever tasted?”

His own mouth stuffed with another huge bite, Isaiah could only nod.

Neither man looked up from his plate until Carrie returned with coffee and a purple box with the bakery’s logo.

“I wrapped up a cinnamon roll for Cecily.” She glanced down at their nearly empty plates and winked. “You two make sure she gets it.”

After Carrie left, Isaiah sipped his coffee and looked at his father, who was staring out the window. His face still bore the fine lines of weariness, but he sat a little straighter and the pastry appeared to have elevated his mood.

Ben took a sip of coffee. “Thanks for bringing me here,” he said, continuing to gaze out at the passing cars and occasional pedestrian. “Sorry I gave you a hard time.”

“No big deal.”

The sun made a sudden appearance, poking through the blanket of gray clouds dominating the skies. His father squinted against the beams streaming through the storefront window.

“We can move to another table,” Isaiah offered.

“No, it’s cool.” Ben faced the sun. “Other than driving back and forth to Boston for my treatments, I’ve been holed up at the house.”

Isaiah figured as much. It was why he’d insisted on bringing him here.

His father turned away from the window. Wrapping his hands around his coffee mug, he looked down at the still-steaming brew before focusing his attention on Isaiah. “You haven’t said what your plans are now that you’re out of the military,” he said. “I don’t suppose they include staying in Wintersage permanently.”

They didn’t. He’d intended to spend only the next month with his folks. The day after Thanksgiving, he was booked on a flight bound for London.

He shook his head. Although his father’s prognosis was excellent, the cancer diagnosis had shaken Isaiah. He didn’t want to think about leaving. Not yet. Not until after his father completed his course of radiation therapy this week, and they’d gotten a follow-up report from his doctors.

“I’m here now,” he said.

Ben smiled, sunlight washing over his drawn face.

“Then how about doing your old dad a favor?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

His father rubbed a hand over the stubble along his chin.

“As you know, Martine’s Fine Furnishings still sponsors the children’s Halloween party at the recreation center. This year, I’d like you to stand in for me and your mother.”

The tradition had started with Isaiah’s maternal great-grandfather, a Halloween night nearly a half century ago, when the town’s residents had taken shelter in the basement of the recreation center as a late-season hurricane battered the Massachusetts shoreline. It went on to become an annual event and a Wintersage institution.

Isaiah speculated that his father was more exhausted than he’d let on if he’d consider missing it.

“No problem. You just take it easy and rest up for next year.” Isaiah drained the last of the coffee in his mug with one gulp.

“Rest?” Ben laughed. “I can rest when I’m dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve been sitting here thinking about what you said about life being short. Cancer has hung over me like a dark cloud the past few months. Even before my diagnosis, life for your mother and I revolved around the company,” he said. “I can’t think of the last time either of us has done anything unrelated to the company and now illness.”

Isaiah listened as his father continued.

“I plan to remedy that. Starting this Friday with Halloween,” Ben said. “My last radiation treatment is Friday morning. Afterward, I’m going to persuade your mother to take off work and spend the day in Salem for some good, scary fun. We can take one of those corny ghost tours, visit the House of the Seven Gables and the Salem Witch Museum and then spend the night at a local bed-and-breakfast.”

Isaiah couldn’t help wondering if his father was moving too fast. Four more days of treatments would leave him more fatigued than he was now.

Isaiah looked down at his empty coffee mug and searched his brain for a diplomatic way of saying so without offending him.

“Our first date was on Halloween, you know,” his father said. “I took her to see one of those gory slasher films that were all the rage back then. Somewhere between the on-screen screams and Cecily spilling an entire tub of popcorn on me, I fell in love.”

His father’s reminiscence caught Isaiah off guard. It was the first time he had heard that story.

While Isaiah was growing up, Ben’s references to the past had focused exclusively on stories of the Jacobs men who’d come before him, and Isaiah’s duty to follow in their footsteps to Annapolis and then the navy.

Isaiah credited the uncharacteristic sentimental recollection to the cancer diagnosis.

“Perhaps you should give your body a little recovery time before playing tourist and considering an overnighter. Who knows how you’ll feel come Friday?”

Ben opened the box Carrie had left on the table, pulled out the cinnamon roll earmarked for his wife, and took a bite out of it. He appeared to mull over Isaiah’s concerns as he chewed. “Salem’s right down the road, and a shorter drive from here than Boston. If I get tired, we’ll check into the bed-and-breakfast early.”

“How about renting a scary movie and chilling out at home?” Isaiah suggested.

“I’m not asking your permission, son. All I’m asking is for you to stand in for us at an event sponsored by our family business.” Picking up a napkin, Ben wiped white icing from his fingertips. “Will you do that for me?”

Isaiah nodded.

He wanted to spend his short time in Wintersage helping his folks, and if that meant playing host at a children’s party, so be it.