Janice Macdonald - Suspicion

Ava looked up to see Scott standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” he said, not moving into the room. “I didn’t realize this was your studio. I was just walking by and I saw you working. Then I remembered what you’d said about questions.”

“Questions?”

“About the tile-making process.” He took a notebook from his pocket. “How do you actually make them?”

She glanced at him long enough to tell that he wasn’t here to talk about tiles. He wanted to know more about her mother’s disappearance. Fine. If he wasn’t going to come clean, she’d make him pay the price. She launched into a detailed explanation of paint pigments, moved on to glazes and anything else she could think of to throw into her monologue. When she saw his eyes start to glass over, she began a dissertation on firing techniques.

“That’s the short, simplistic answer,” she said twenty minutes later.

“Interesting,” he said.

“You stopped taking notes about fifteen minutes ago,” Ava said. “And interesting is one of those words people use when they can’t think of anything else to say.”

He looked at her for a full five seconds. “Interesting.”

Dear Reader,

I’m sure most of you have felt that tug of nostaglia when you return to places you knew as a child. I know I have. For me, it’s a wistful feeling, a yearning to recapture something that seems as elusive as smoke. I’ve found that it’s equally impossible to explain. No one but me really understands exactly how magical the lights along the seafront in Ramsgate, Kent, seemed when I was fifteen and in love—or imagined I was. Or, except for my sister, the specific taste of ice cream from Stonelees, a dairy that opened only during the summer. A few years ago, I went back to England and took that same walk—the ice cream parlor had long gone. Some things had changed, others were as I remembered them, but the magic wasn’t there. I couldn’t—no matter how hard I tried—feel the way I had at fifteen.

For Ava, the heroine of Suspicion, the childhood that she and her twin sister, Ingrid, spent on the island of Santa Catalina, twenty-two miles off the Southern California coast (didn’t the Beachboys say it was twenty-six?—they were wrong) was an enchanted time full of wonder and promise. After her husband dies early in their marriage, and a few years later her mother mysteriously drowns, Ava begins to wonder how much of her past was truly as idyllic as she recalls, and to what extent her memories have been colored by what she wants to believe….

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site at janicemacdonald.net and let me know how you enjoyed this book.

Janice Macdonald

P.S. If you ever visit Southern California, take the Catalina Express over to Avalon. It truly is a magical place, no matter how old you are.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Carolyn, who always lets me sing “Pineapple Princess.”

I’d like to thank Deanna Shiew of C & S Ceramics & Crafts in Muskogee, Oklahoma, for all the details she provided on the tile-making process. If there are any errors in description, they are mine alone. Deanna was truly a tireless and invaluable source of information.

Thanks also to www.cataromance.com. The e-mail loop and the willingness of its members to offer their expertise on an absolutely amazing range of topics is truly a writer’s boon.

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

“I KEEP HAVING this dream. I’m looking down into the water and I can see my mother’s face staring up at me….” Ava Lynsky held the fingertips of her left hand in the palm of her right and squeezed hard. Her skin felt numb and icy-cold, her chest hurt. “And then it isn’t her. It’s me or my sister, and every time we come up to the surface, something pushes us down again.”

“Something?” the therapist asked.

“A hand.”

“Do you know whose hand it is?”

Ava didn’t answer. Through the tinted windows she could see the small square structure of Avalon Municipal Hospital through a clearing of eucalyptus trees. Her father was one of two Catalina Island physicians on staff there. She imagined him looking through the windows to see her sitting in a psychologist’s office. Could imagine the mixture of incredulity and contempt on his face. Neurotic, he would say. Can’t stand neurotic women.

“Ava.”

She looked at the therapist. “Hmm?”

“Whose hand is it?”

Ava shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“When did you start having these dreams?”

“They started after my mother…” She couldn’t seem to finish.

“After your mother died,” the therapist said.

The word reverberated in Ava’s head, clanged like a bell, louder and louder. She hugged herself, hands tucked under her arms, pressing down hard. Her heart felt swollen in her chest. “It’s been three months now. I stay up most of the night because I dread going to sleep. I can’t work. I’ve started a dozen different things and they’re all awful and I’ve got this new commission and I’m scared to death.”

“What do you think the dream represents?”

She looked at the therapist, a cool, thin-faced woman from the mainland sitting upright in her chair, hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore brown linen slacks and a cream silk blouse.

“Ava, whose hand is pushing you down?”

Ava shook her head. The silence lengthened, began to feel unbearable. She had an insane urge to scream. An ear-shattering scream like a siren, bouncing off the walls, bringing everyone outside to see what had happened. The therapist had brown hair, cut close to her head. She seemed so… Ava tried to think of a word. Controlled. Yes, that was it. Ava glanced around the room. Two of the plastic slats on the miniblinds were twisted, the framed print on the wall was a Matisse, a bridge and trees, all green and wavery like an underwater scene. God, she couldn’t stand the silence. Her chest was bursting, the scream welling up inside her. Help me.

“Ava, our time’s up.” The therapist stood and moved to her desk. “I’ll be here on the island again next Monday.” She opened a black appointment book and smiled at Ava. “Does this time work for you?”

“Yes,” Ava said, then, “Uh, actually, no.” She smiled so that the therapist wouldn’t take this personally. “I think I just need to figure things out for myself.”

The therapist eyed her for a moment. “Well, you have my number.” She took a business card from a black plastic holder on the desk. “My after-hours number is there, too.”

SCOTT CAMPBELL sat under one of the woven umbrellas at the Descanso Beach Club and tried not to feel irritated that Ava Lynsky was now ten minutes late for their ten-thirty interview. There were worse places to wait for someone to show up. He glanced around the sun-splashed patio just to make sure he hadn’t missed her. He’d never met Ava Lynsky, but she’d described herself when she called to set up the interview. “Long black hair and…” She’d laughed. “Some people say I look kind of like Andie MacDowell.”