Marion Ekholm - Forget Me Not

Dear Trish, someday I want to marry you...

Craig Cadman has proposed to Trish Lowery at least a dozen times. Of course, he started when he was nine and kept at it until her parents moved away when they were both teens. Clearly, she didn’t take him seriously. Because now, after ten years, she’s back...and engaged to someone else. He has to remember that. Just do the job, help her renovate her gram’s Victorian house and keep a professional distance. But Craig can’t forget those old feelings. Is working together just stirring up nostalgia...or is this something more?

“Don’t you go up there again.”

Trish turned so they faced each other only inches apart. “Listen. This is my house, and I plan to check out any and all repairs. How else can I know everything is done correctly?”

Craig held up his iPhone. “Pictures.” They were close enough that he felt her warm breath against his face, caught the scent of perfume. That was something new. She never wore perfume back when they were kids. “I guarantee my work.” He paused, diminishing the space between them so they were nearly nose to nose. “Don’t go up on the roof unless someone’s here. Namely me. You understand?”

“All right, already.” She stepped onto the ground. “When did you get so bossy?”

Trish’s cheeks were bright pink in the cold. Why hadn’t he kissed her when he’d had the chance? Every part of his being had wanted to. Still did. But...

They weren’t kids anymore. She was spoken for, committed to someone else. So was he. There would never be any Trish and Craig together.

Dear Reader,

It’s a sad time for Trish when she returns to Riverbend, New Jersey, after a ten-year absence. She just lost a grandmother who was so special, and now she’s back to collect the house her grandmother left her. She loved this place while growing up, as well as all her childhood friends. And of course Craig, the friend who’d wanted to marry her from the time he was nine.

I raised my family in northern New Jersey in a town similar to Riverbend and spent countless hours completing projects on our hundred-year-old farmhouse. Many of the windows had been painted shut decades before we bought it. Although our home wasn’t as spacious or as attractive as Trish’s inheritance, it did provide me with numerous projects, some of which I could include in her story. I became skilled at plastering, painting and repairing, and I can appreciate why someone wouldn’t want an old house.

I love hearing from readers and can be reached through my website, marionekholm.com, or heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com.

Marion

Forget Me Not

Marion Ekholm

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARION EKHOLM was writing stories and reading them to her friends back in fifth grade, in Plainville, Connecticut. She always wanted to be either a writer or an artist. Neither one seemed like a possibility in her day, when most women became either teachers or secretaries. But she had determination on her side and a mother willing to help with her dreams. She earned her BFA at Rhode Island School of Design and became a lace designer in New York City, met her husband and moved to New Jersey. Years later, she took stock of her life. She had a career, two children, a beautiful home and opportunities to travel extensively—but she’d never written anything other than letters. She began writing for real and eventually became an editor of a newspaper and sold numerous short stories and magazine articles. Thanks to Harlequin Heartwarming, she’s now a novelist. Her third novel, Forget Me Not, follows Just Like Em and An Act of Love. She’s found signing her books and talking to people who’ve read them an absolute delight.

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This book is dedicated to Shelley Mosley, my critique partner, mentor and friend. Her encouragement over the years has been a driving force in my career. Thank you.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to the many people who helped me gather all the information for this book.

To my friend Fran Deming, who interviewed volunteer firemen at the Company No. 1 Fire Department in Mahwah, New Jersey. Although both of our husbands had belonged to that organization, I couldn’t remember all of the details. She managed to get answers to all my questions. Even so, my book is fiction, and a few artistic liberties may have been taken.

To my nephew Matt Suess, a fabulous photographer who told me what kind of camera Craig would use.

To Glenda Chagolla for her technical knowledge. I’ve enjoyed working with her at Glendale Community College, where she teaches CAD (computer-aided design) programs.

I learned about scissor lifts and knuckle booms from my son, David, a skilled electrician and handyman who answered any questions relating to DIY work.

Additional thanks go to Harlequin’s Dana Grimaldi, my personal editor, who provided directions for the story.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“ARE YOU GOING to marry me now that I’m all grown up?”

Trish placed her hand on the door frame and leaned closer to the storm window for a better view of the man on the front porch. Marry him? What on earth was he talking about?

“Do I know you?” There was something familiar about the grin that spread so quickly across his face. His deep blue eyes held an unmistakable twinkle.

“How’ve you been, Trish?” He chuckled. When she still couldn’t make a connection, he added, “You were the best babysitter I ever had.”

Trish sucked in her breath. “Butch?” she yelled. “Butchy Cadman? Look at you! Last time I saw you...”

“I was a good foot shorter.”

Trish pushed open the door, came onto the porch and stood next to him. She looked up and laughed. “Not quite that, but you sure have grown.” He had to be four or five inches taller than her five foot eight. She took a few steps back to get the full view of him while he watched her with equal interest.

“I always told you I’d catch up with you one day,” he said. “Don’t I get a hug for old times?” She held out her arms, and he enfolded her in a bear hug.

She reached up and ruffled his dark wavy hair. “I didn’t recognize you. Little Butchy Cadman.” With a sigh, she stepped out of his embrace, then caught his smirk.

“You blushing?” he asked.