Karen Young - Never Tell

Dear Reader,

What would you do if everything you held dear in the world was suddenly gone? Would you have the courage and sheer grit to pick up the pieces and build a new and different life for yourself?

Intriguing questions like this seemed to fuel my creative engine when I began to think about the plot for this book. In Never Tell, as always, I’ve plunged my heroine into a kind of hell where she’ll need courage, self-reliance and, yes, sheer grit just to survive. I promise that her plight will touch your heart, and her struggle to overcome the truly dreadful hand she’s been dealt will leave you feeling that there is always hope after tragedy. There are enduring friendships to be treasured. And there is always love to be found in the world…if we just open our hearts to receive it.

I hope you enjoy this book as much as I enjoyed writing the story. I would love to hear from you! If you would like to be part of my mailing list, please write me at P.O. Box 141, Pearland, Texas 77588-0141. Or visit my Web site at www.authorkarenyoung.com.

Happy reading!

Karen Young

Also by KAREN YOUNG

IN CONFIDENCE

PRIVATE LIVES

FULL CIRCLE

GOOD GIRLS

Never Tell

Karen Young

www.mirabooks.co.uk

I owe thanks to several people for their generous support and suggestions during the development of this book. To Emilie Richards and Erica Spindler for the brainstorming session in Santa Fe. To Joanna Wayne and Gloria Alvarez for one of those “why-didn’t-I-think-of-that” ideas. To Barbara Colley for keeping me focused. To Jon Salem for…well, he knows why.

Warm and loving thanks to Alison Simmons for her generous donation of time and ideas on a part of this business of writing that seems to come naturally to her, but not to me. Thank goodness she works cheap! And finally, to my editor, Valerie Gray, whose thoughtful insights are always right on.

In loving memory of Linda Kay West

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

The telephone shrilled the fourth ring, but Erica Stewart resisted coming fully awake. Let it go to voice mail, she thought, while a part of her still struggled to finish the dream. The phone rang again and Willie, her cat, nudged her hand with his head. Purring loudly, he climbed on her chest and pawed at the blanket. With a sigh, she raised herself on one elbow and looked at the caller ID, then groggily reached over and picked it up. “What?” She knew she sounded grumpy, but she wasn’t at her best before coffee and all her friends knew that.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“This had better be good, Jason,” she grumbled, falling back against her pillow. “It’s Sunday. You know it’s the only day I can sleep in.”

“You’ll forgive me when you hear this,” her business partner and quintessential morning person said. “Have you seen the Sunday Chronicle?”

“You woke me from a sound sleep, Jason. I’m still in bed. And thanks to you, Willie’s now meowing to be fed. So, no, I haven’t seen the newspaper.”

“Wait’ll you see the article in Zest, sugar. It’s fantastic. It’s gonna mean success with a big S for us. Get dressed,” he told her. “I’m coming over.”

“Can’t you just—” She stopped, realizing the line was dead. Grumbling, she threw off the covers and glared at Willie, who was wailing now. “I’m up, I’m up.”

When Jason knocked on her door fifteen minutes later, she’d barely had time to brush her teeth and throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He had a bakery box in one hand, a newspaper under his arm and a cardboard tray holding two cups of Starbucks coffee in the other. “Here, straight house blend, no frills, just the way you like it,” Jason said, thrusting the coffee at her. Then, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, he offered the box. “Kolaches. Mixed varieties.”

He knew she had a weakness for the delicious pastry stuffed with everything she shouldn’t eat. Why was it some people preferred to skip breakfast altogether when for her it was the best meal of the day? And irresistible. With a sheepish groan, she grabbed the box, turned and led the way into her kitchen.

The table in her breakfast nook was littered with fabric scraps, scissors and parchment-paper patterns. Sitting in the midst of that was her laptop. She remembered looking at the clock around 2:30 a.m. and thinking she should shut down and go to bed. She did, finally, about an hour later, knowing it was Sunday and she would be able to sleep in.

“Whoa, somebody’s been busy,” Jason said, looking at the mess on the table.

“Until the wee hours,” Erica said, setting the coffee and kolaches on a countertop nearby. She collected the material scraps and dropped them into a box, tossed the paper patterns into a tall trash can she’d placed beside her chair and shoved the computer to the opposite side of the table. “But it was worth it. I finished the design for Jill McNeal’s evening jacket. I’m really happy with it, Jason. I think she’ll be pleased.”

“Have your coffee first,” he told her. “And sit down. We’ll look at the design and pig out after you look at this.” With a flourish, he snapped the fold from the newspaper and spread it out on the table.

Erica removed the plastic lid from her coffee cup and sat. Then, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear, she turned her attention to the paper. Her gray eyes went wide. The first thing she noticed was her own photo on the cover of Zest, the Houston Chronicle’s Sunday magazine. Small but prominently displayed at the top, it was a teaser for a feature article inside.

“Wait’ll you see the article,” Jason said. “It’ll blow your mind. We couldn’t pay enough for advertising like this, Erica.” Not waiting for her to find it, he leaned over and flipped the pages until he located it. He straightened and stood back to gauge her reaction. “Have a look at that, partner.”

He was right about one thing. They could never afford to pay for advertising at this level. She was pictured arranging the display in the front window of the shop in the Village. She remembered the day she’d worked on the display. She’d wanted the fabric she’d used in the jacket to coordinate with the quilt, another of her original designs. She’d draped the quilt over an antique chair, which she’d borrowed from a shop located a couple of doors down. On the floor beside the chair was a tall urn containing a few gnarled and leafless limbs she’d collected on the side of a country road. River stones had been strewn over the floor to look as if they’d been cast out carelessly, adding a last artful touch to the oddly eclectic grouping. She’d had some doubt about the photographer’s request to shoot her at work in the window, but the result was more than interesting.

Jason grinned with delight. “Is it great, or what?”