I Call Your Name

By Virginia Young

College text book editor Breeda Flynn lives with her deceased aunt's cat in an inactive bed and breakfast on Martha's Vineyard. Along with the house, she has inherited memories of incidents which happened sixteen years earlier, including the disappearance of Breeda's first love and the brutal death of his mother. When TV producer Joe Pedersen asks to live at her home while writing a book about those incidents, Bree is not happy about the intrusion but allows the attractive man to move in with exciting and mysterious consequences.

This title is published by Mainly Murder Press and is distributed worldwide by Untreed Reads.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988781641

Book preview

I Call Your Name

by

Virginia Young

Mainly Murder Press, LLC

PO Box 290586

Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

www.mainlymurderpress.com

Mainly Murder Press

Copy Editor:  Paula Knudson

Executive Editor:  Judith K. Ivie

Cover Designer:  Karen A. Phillips

All rights reserved

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Copyright © 2013 by Virginia Young

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9887816-3-4

Ebook ISBN 978-0-9887816-4-1

Published in the United States of America

Mainly Murder Press

PO Box 290586

Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

www.MainlyMurderPress.com

Dedication

For my cheerleaders,

Ed and Stephanie

One

She slipped her arms into the aqua, white and black plaid flannel sleeves of his old shirt. The essence of him was still there, and wearing it was as if he had his arms around her, all of him warming and protecting her. Bree had uncaringly thought how peculiar some might believe her to be, not washing another person’s garment over so many years. She wore it often over a short-sleeved jersey when the island’s wind delivered a chill.

Where was he? Why did he not come back after the incident? Into his twentieth year he’d adamantly talked of how he’d live right there in the center of Martha’s Vineyard. It had been sixteen years without a sign or word from Dylan.

Bree sipped hot tea as she stood at the kitchen sink, staring out at the meadow filled with thin and thick trees and golden grass more than three feet high. She could have cried oceans of tears for her feelings of loneliness, but she swallowed her emotions with her black tea and forced herself away from the window and the memories.

With the large porcelain mug in her hands, she was startled when she heard the sound from the front door. The three knocks were firm – let me in. In ten steps she was at the large solid oak structure, her face turned and her right ear slanted toward the entrance.

Yes? she called.

It’s Joe Pedersen. I called you from New York about renting a room here for a few weeks.

Bree turned the lock and opened the door. Joe Pedersen was a tall man with a slight beard, dark brown eyes and hair. There was a familiarity about him, but she wasn’t sure from where. She moved aside and allowed him to step in carrying a navy blue duffle bag over his right shoulder and a smaller bag in his large left hand.

Closing the door against the autumn chill, Bree pulled her shirt closer together and looked at her guest. You do understand that this is not really a bed and breakfast anymore. It hasn’t been for years. She knew her tone of voice was not friendly, but no matter how attractive he was, having Joe Pedersen living in her home was going to be an imposition.

I understand. This is just what I wanted. I need solitude; writing a book and staying in a thin-walled motel wouldn’t work. I’m grateful that you agreed to my stay.

And you understand that I don’t cook. You’ll have to manage your own food. The only thing I can offer you is the comfort of your room. Of course, you may use the kitchen if you choose to make yourself coffee or a sandwich.

He left his bags on the floor at the foot of the stairs and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. That’s fine, thank you, he said, his gaze fastened to Bree’s sea-blue eyes. He looked from her slim throat to her worn jeans, then allowed his eyes to scan the long and loose-fitting man’s shirt.

Okay, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll unpack and get settled.

It’s the first door on the right. The bathroom is directly across the hall. You’ll have the second floor to yourself. The vacuum is in the hall closet; I’m afraid I won’t be doing the housekeeping up there. I work and sleep down here.

Joe nodded and said, I’m familiar with a vacuum, and with the two bags in his hands ascended the carpeted stairs. Bree watched him go, then turned and walked back to the kitchen. This would be an intrusion. As compatible and charming as he appeared to be, beard, mustache and all, it was still going to alter how she lived her life. She would have to talk to him about not disturbing her while she was working at the computer; that was key. She gave a last glance to the stairway, then walked back to the kitchen.

Excuse me, he said as his tall form filled the doorway.

Bree jumped. Her fingers had been flying across the keys of her laptop, and she hadn’t heard or noticed him there.

Any chance I could make that coffee you mentioned? I’ll hit the grocery store later for a few things, but a cup of black would hit the spot.

Bree looked at him, her fingers a fraction of an inch elevated above the keys. Dylan used that phrase, hit the spot, every time he gulped down a bottle of grape soda.

Joe gave her a tentative smile. Okay if I make that coffee?

Sure. It’s in the blue canister over in the corner. Do you know how to use a French press? That’s all we have here.

No problem.

Bree turned back to her computer, her fingers moving like snails, if at all. It was distracting having someone in her space.

Joe scooped three portions of coffee into the glass cylinder, then boiled water on the stove. He watched her, her back to him as he worked. His eyes traveled over the too-large-for-her man’s shirt as he asked, Will you have coffee?

Bree took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. I don’t do coffee much, I’m more a tea drinker.

Joe smiled. Then why the coffee stash?

Bree switched off her computer. Because I have coffee-drinking friends who visit over the summer, and I do have a cup once in a while.

Ah, he said as he poured the black brew into a cup, Martha’s Vineyard devotees.

Bree closed her computer and pushed it a few inches away from her as she reached for her cooled tea. Her eyes followed his moves. This was a man familiar with a kitchen. She also took note of his broad shoulders and slim hips. He had the body of a swimmer, but she decided not to inquire about his personal interests.

May I join you for a few minutes? I won’t linger, I promise. I can see you’re working.

Sit down, Bree invited. This was new. She couldn’t recall sitting at this small table with anyone ever before. Sadie had always insisted on using the dining room, and when friends came Bree had followed suit.

Joe pulled a kitchen chair from the table and angled it toward her. I understand you live here alone.

This was my aunt’s place. I moved in to help her when her health failed. She died about a year later, leaving this house to me.

Joe nodded. Sorry for your loss. It’s pretty nice, though, inheriting a place on the Vineyard.

Bree rolled the sleeves of the soft shirt back close to her elbows. I guess so. My brother was hopeful that I’d give him half the value, but I simply couldn’t afford that. It was a gift that came with a measure of stress.

Joe sipped his coffee and looked at the way the aqua blue color in the shirt emphasized her beautiful eyes.

Did your brother share in your aunt’s care?

No, he had the privilege of spending summers here with me when we were young, but he and my aunt were not close. Even if he’d been willing, my Aunt Sadie would not have appreciated him being here involved with her care.

Bree looked from her tea to the window and then directly at Joe. When Ken Blakely called from New York to tell me about you coming here, I had the impression you might be familiar with the island.

Joe’s eyes moved from the missing button on the collar of her shirt to her eyes. Yeah, he said, I spent time here as a kid.

Summers? she asked.

Yes, summers.

Bree allowed her eyes to scan his handsome face. The light beard gave him a rugged look, and his dark brown eyes complemented the dark color of his hair. She wondered why she felt as if she knew him from someplace and considered that it could have been New York.

You’re a New Yorker, she stated more than asked.

Joe shifted in the chair and placed the porcelain mug on the table. Yes, for several years. I feel fortunate that Ken is not only a friend of yours but of mine. When I talked about the Vineyard and what I wanted to do about writing the book, Ken told me about you. For me it was a perfect fit. I understand you lived in New York.

Bree sipped her tea and placed her cup across from his on the table. Yes, for about five years. I’d probably still be there if it hadn’t been for my aunt needing me here.

Any thoughts of going back?

Not really. I can work here as easily as there. I own this, she gestured with one palm toward the ceiling, and it’s pretty expensive in New York. I had a tiny apartment; I like the space here.

It’s not too quiet for a young woman on her own?

Bree smiled for the first time, and he took note of her beautiful lips. I like the quiet.

Joe picked up his coffee mug and took a slow swallow. So, goodbye to New York?

Bree shrugged. No, I still love that city. It’s an amazing place. I’d go back to visit anytime, although I haven’t done that in a few years. Some of my friends from New York like coming to the island. This is home now; I’m pretty content here.

Joe nodded. "This is a great place. Wisterianna House at the end of Black Creek Lane has a nice ring to it."

Bree stood and walked to the sink with her empty cup. My Aunt Sadie’s name choice for the B & B. It’s a little dramatic, but guests liked it, and there is wisteria growing on the arbor on the east side of the house.

Joe smiled and rubbed his beard. Black Creek Lane doesn’t hurt either.

The road out front was Black Creek Lane years ago, but when it became a more heavily traveled area, the town changed the name to Black Creek Road.  Some of the island people still refer to it as a lane, and my aunt never accepted the new title.

Joe took his mug to the sink and rinsed it out, turning it upside down to dry.

Bree moved back toward her computer and flipped the switch so that the screen was once again illuminated. Joe took the hint that she was ready to get back to work.

Thanks for the coffee. I’ll pick up a few groceries later today. Anything you need?

No. Do you know how to find the nearest store?

I’m all set, he said.

When Joe Pedersen walked down the hall toward the stairway, Bree allowed her eyes to follow his steps. As he moved out of sight, she glanced at her computer screen and resolved to get back to work.

Late that afternoon when the skies were filled with dark clouds and night was approaching, Bree walked to her refrigerator and thoughtfully examined the contents. There was a partial loaf of bread, a wedge of sharp cheddar and some leftover Chinese noodles swimming in a brown sauce. She wrinkled her nose at the prospects and decided to walk a quarter of a mile to The Clam Shack. There she could have her favorites, an order of clam strips and a dish of coleslaw.

Slipping her arms into a knee-length jacket from the front hall’s closet, she nearly punched Joe in the arm as he entered the house with his bag of groceries.

Sorry, she said.

Going out? he asked.

Yes. I’m heading out for a bite to eat.

Where are you going?

Bree thought she’d explained all that, but she said the name of the small restaurant.

Joe nodded. I ate there sometimes as a kid.

Bree looked at him for a longer period of time than she had intended. She wished she could figure out why she felt so acquainted with him. Have you eaten? she asked. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.

I haven’t, he said. Let me put these things in the kitchen, and then The Clam Shack it is.

Bree waited for a few moments, wondering if she should have left well enough alone. When he reappeared from the kitchen, he smiled, and it sent a chill through her body.

Cold? he asked as he opened the front door for her.

I’m fine, she said.

Joe headed for the car and opened the passenger door for her.

We could walk, she said, it isn’t far.

It’ll be dark when we return. Let’s drive.

Bree climbed into the soft seats of his ample vehicle and hitched the seat belt into place. Joe did the same, and then they drove to the restaurant. Inside, they were told to sit where they’d like. Bree chose a window table with a view of a small pond, and Joe sat across from her.

With their orders taken, Joe looked at his companion and told her that he was glad she’d chosen this place. He was in the mood for some good fried scallops.

I’ve always favored this place over some others, she said. Sadie liked it here. She brought me for clam strips at least once a week when I was little.

Did you summer here later, into your college years? he asked.

Bree looked out to the darkening pond area, almost unable to distinguish the water from the land now. Yes, I always wanted to be here. I helped Sadie with the guests. It was a wonderful change from being at home where no one seemed particularly happy, and I had lots of time to read.

Where was home?

Willow Brook, south of Boston. As a child I begged to be with Sadie when school was out. My parents both worked. Summers could be lonely, and my brother and I were too young to be left on our own. Bree took a sip of water, then asked, What about you? You told me you spent summers here. Where was home?

Here, he said.

Bree looked at him with questions in her eyes.

I considered this home, he said. I came from the Cape, but everything I cared about was here.

Bree thought he seemed a bit evasive, as he hadn’t mentioned a town, but she nodded, then unbuttoned her jacket and slipped her arms out of its long sleeves.

How did you end up in New York? she asked.

I’m not sure how much Ken told you. I work as an investigative producer. I’m working on a book at this point. My career planted me in the city; I like it there. He looked at Bree and continued, I like it here, too.

So where in New York do you make your home?

Joe took a sip from his just-served glass of white wine. Are you familiar with Washington Square Park?

Bree smiled. I walked there every day.

Are you kidding?

No, I cut through there on my way to work, and I also had an elderly friend with a little Jack Russell. I often took him there for an evening stroll.

I lived across the street from the park. An elevator down three floors, about thirty feet across the street, and I was in the park.

Bree smiled. She was certain now that accounted for the familiarity she felt in his presence. Very small world, she commented. That’s my favorite area in New York. I often haunted the little bookstores in Greenwich Village.

Joe drank more of his wine and watched as she sipped water. I spent many an hour in those bookstores, he said. My apartment is brimming over with the results.

They ate their dinner in silence, each of them looking outside or around at other patrons. When Bree had consumed all she could, she asked the waitress for a hot coffee.

I’ll have one, too, Joe said.

Bree dabbed at her lips with a napkin and tried to see more of the little restaurant’s landscape. It was completely dark now, and Joe caught her look.

Aren’t you glad we drove? he said. It would have been a dark walk home.

I guess so, she said. I’ve done it a few times though.

You don’t typically walk around on your own in the dark, do you?

Bree shook her head. Not typically. Sometimes.

Joe pursed his lips, then said, I don’t think you should. Not on your own.

Bree looked into his dark eyes and thought how her single friends would envy her sitting across from this very attractive man. Then she thought about his advice that she not walk alone in the dark. Was he going to be assertive with his opinions?

Bree changed the subject. How is your writing coming?

It’s okay. I started in New York and then realized I really needed to come here to finish the work. I have questions, and I feel inspired by the ambience. I’m very appreciative of your sharing your home. I’ll be happy to do chores. I’m not bad with a hammer and a vacuum.

Bree gave him just the hint of a smile. I’ll keep that in mind, she said.

So, the work on your computer, what’s that about?

Nothing exciting, she said. I edit college level textbooks for a New York publisher.

Sounds interesting.

It can be unless it’s material on nuclear physics.

Joe smiled and finished his wine.

On the short drive home they said nothing. In fact, Bree thought that their silence was slightly uncomfortable. Once inside, while hanging their jackets in the closet, Joe asked if she was returning to her work or relaxing.

I usually work until eight or nine, she said. After that I watch a bit of TV with Harriet.

Joe raised his dark brows. Harriet?

Sadie’s cat. She spends most of her time on the back porch where she can watch the birds. At night she saunters in, eats and then gives me the privilege of her company.

I didn’t see any sign of a cat, he said.

Does having a cat change your interest in living here?

Nope, I like cats. Just didn’t know there was one here.

"Harriet was kept in the kitchen and porch area when my aunt had guests for the bed and breakfast. She’s not used to seeing strangers.