Woman in Red

By Eileen Goudge

A novel of a shattering loss, an act of revenge, and a quest for redemption from the New York Times–bestselling author of Garden of Lies.

Alice Kessler has lived through a mother’s worst nightmare. While riding his bike, her eight-year-old son, David, was killed by a drunk driver. Out of her mind with grief and rage—especially after losing the wrongful death suit—Alice runs down the driver, Owen White, crippling him. After serving nine years in prison, she returns to Grays Island in the Pacific Northwest, divorced and destitute, to reunite with her surviving son, Jeremy.

But the child she has not seen in almost a decade has become an angry teenager, and when Jeremy is falsely accused of rape, White, who is now mayor, seizes his chance for revenge.
 
To defend Jeremy, Alice seeks the help of former Manhattan DA Colin McGinty, who lost his wife on 9/11 and returned to Grays Island after the death of his grandfather—an artist famous for his haunting portrait Woman in Red. As the story of the painting is revealed, the past becomes intertwined with the present, and Alice and Colin discover that they are bound together by a deadly wartime secret on the verge of being exposed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504015615

Eileen Goudge

Eileen Goudge (b. 1950) is one of the nation’s most successful authors of women’s fiction. She began as a young adult writer, helping to launch the phenomenally successful Sweet Valley High series, and in 1986 she published her first adult novel, the New York Times bestseller Garden of Lies. She has since published twelve more novels, including the three-book saga of Carson Springs, and Thorns of Truth, a sequel to Gardens of Lies. She lives and works in New York City.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

NINE YEARS AGO

All rise!

A rustle of movement around her, the scrape of chairs and feet. Alice was slower to react, her senses dulled, as if by blunt instrument, by two days of testimony: dry, reasoned discourses on skid patterns, blood-alcohol levels, and degree of vehicular damage in relation to bodily injury, all of which seemed to have as much to do with her son, with David, as a chalk outline on pavement with the living, breathing person brought to such a cruel end.

With her palms flat against its surface as leverage, she pushed herself up from the table at which she sat. Her lawyer, Warren Brockman, shot her a look, his gray eyes kind and concerned, and she nodded almost imperceptibly to let him know she was okay. In fact, she was anything but. The blood was draining from her head, and she felt unsteady, a faint, persistent buzzing in her ears, the muscles in her legs quivering like after a mile run.

Lies! she had screamed silently as her son’s killer sat up there on the stand, visibly remorseful, as only an innocent man would be—or one who was going out of his way to appear so—giving his distorted version of events. She’d listened and she’d screamed in her head, biting down on the inside of her cheek until it bled to keep her mouth from flying open, her outrage from spewing out into the courtroom.

Now the jury was back with a verdict.

She glanced to her right. Owen White’s attorney, a boxy, graceless woman in an unflattering chartreuse dress, stood beside her client, a hand resting lightly against the small of his back. Her strategy had been to paint him as the victim, an innocent man relentlessly hounded by a mother unhinged by grief. He even looked the part: soft and harmless, with his pale, forgettable face and blameless blue eyes, his thinning hair the same flesh tone as his skin, and off-the-rack suit that belied his wealth. He might have been any of the nameless, faceless, middle-aged men you came into contact with out in the world, in banks and insurance offices and rental agencies, the ones who smiled at you and chatted easily as they pushed a form across their desk for you to sign.

On the witness stand, he’d answered her lawyer’s questions in a quiet, respectful tone. She’d detected no gleam of sweat on his brow, and his eyes behind the wire-rim glasses he wore had been clear as a baby’s conscience, only turning sorrowful as they’d come to rest briefly on Alice from time to time, as if he weren’t unsympathetic to her plight.

But she knew the real story. Which was why she’d spent the past eighteen months and nearly all of her and Randy’s savings trying to bring the man responsible for their son’s death to justice.

If only Randy were here now! Her husband had scarcely left her side through the dark tunnel of days following David’s death. But once the criminal investigation had been put to rest, he’d grown increasingly impatient with her as the months had dragged on and her pursuit of justice showed no sign of flagging. When she’d insisted on filing a wrongful death suit, he’d gone along merely to appease her and had attended the subsequent court proceedings only sporadically, using the excuse of not being able to miss any more days of work.

In a way she didn’t blame him. All he had wanted was to mourn their son in peace. Randy wasn’t even convinced they had a case. Wasn’t it possible she’d been mistaken? he’d asked, challenging her. The light would have been fading at that time of day and David was all the way down the block, a distance of at least a hundred yards. A little boy they both knew had been prone to taking risks, he could easily have darted out into the road on his bike, just the way Owen had told it.

But she knew she wasn’t mistaken. And now, suddenly, she found herself despising Randy almost as much as she did the man responsible for all this. Why wasn’t he as outraged as she? What kind of a father would allow his son’s murderer to walk free? Randy’s glaring absence might even have swayed some of the jurors in Owen’s favor. How must it look to them? A crazy lady who couldn’t convince her own husband.

Do I look crazy? Alice wondered. No, she thought, taking a mental inventory of herself. She’d chosen her dark gray suit with the navy piping and a pair of low-heeled navy pumps for today’s court appearance. Her brown hair was pulled back, fastened at the neck with a tortoise-shell barrette, her only jewelry a simple pearl necklace and the tiny diamond studs in her ears.

Throughout the proceedings she’d been a model of restraint as well, someone of whom her parents could be proud. She hadn’t indulged in any outbursts, and except for the one time she’d wept silently into her hands at the coroner’s description of David’s injuries, she hadn’t given in to tears. It was as if she’d been training all her life for this; it was what she did, what she was good at. Even at the funeral, she had felt it was her job to provide solace to others. Grieving was something you did in private, with a minimum of fuss.

She looked over her shoulder at her parents. Her mother wore a bright, expectant look as she gazed up at the bench, as if confident that the judge, a large, fleshy-faced man now settling into his seat, would make sure the jury did the right thing. Lucy Gordon believed that anything could be overcome with the right attitude. Like when Alice had been little and prone to car sickness; her mother, convinced it was a case of mind over matter, would press her to join in on sing-alongs and play games like I Spy on long trips to distract her until the nausea passed. (Though, if Alice had managed to keep from throwing up those times, it had had less to do with positive thinking than with a deep-seated terror of making a mess.) Now, with her perpetual schoolgirl’s face, framed by a ruffle of graying auburn hair, tipped up in a firm, fixed smile, Lucy was once again refusing to let pessimism get the upper hand.

In contrast, Alice’s father stood rigidly at Lucy’s side, his austere face frozen in a kind of grimace. Was he angry at her, for putting the family through so much grief? Alice wondered. It was hard to know with her dad. He was a man of few words, an architect whose language was that of line and space. The only time she’d ever seen him cry was as his grandson’s coffin was being lowered into the ground, and even then she wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t seen the tears leaking from under the dark glasses he’d worn.

Denise, six months pregnant with her second child, stood beside them, a hand resting on the dark head of Alice’s younger son, Jeremy. There were those who might have questioned Alice’s judgment in having her seven-year-old here for the reading of the verdict, she knew, but Alice had felt it was important for Jeremy to be a part of this moment, one that, either way, would define the rest of their lives.

She turned around, focusing now on the ornately framed painting on the wall to the left of the bench to keep her stomach from going into free fall, as the judge banged his gavel and court was called back into session. Ironically, it was a portrait of Owen’s father, Lowell White, who’d donated the land upon which the courthouse sat—a bit of history she hoped hadn’t factored into the jurors’ decision. A handsome, florid-faced man, with thick black brows and dark, wavy hair gone gray at the temples, he bore little resemblance to his son. His eyes seemed to meet hers, dancing with bemusement as if he knew something Alice didn’t, and she was reminded of the unsolved mystery surrounding his disappearance when Owen was a small boy, a mystery, passed from one generation to the next, which had become a part of Grays Island lore.

Has the jury reached a verdict? asked the judge.

The foreman, a big man with military-issue hair and a once-muscular physique now going to seed, rose to his feet. We have, Your Honor. Like most of the jury, his was a familiar face to Alice, a manager at the bank where she and Randy had an account, someone she might have smiled at pleasantly in passing and never given a second thought to before this.

The judge instructed the bailiff to bring him the verdict. The foreman handed the folded piece of paper on which it was written to the short, heavy-set man in uniform, who carried it over to the judge. The judge glanced at it, his expression unchanging, before reading it aloud. We, the jury, find in favor of the respondent.

The words fell like a blow to some soft, unprotected part of Alice’s body. She felt all the breath go out of her. Black specks swarmed at the periphery of her vision, and for a frightening moment she thought she was going to pass out. Yet she showed no emotion; her face was as smooth as a pane of glass. Her mind, too, was glass, the full impact of those words sliding away like so many raindrops off a windowpane. She thought, If I stay very, very still, it will be as if none of this ever happened.

Warren put his arm around her shoulders and said in a low voice, I’m so sorry, Alice. We did our best. But she was unable to respond. It was like when she’d given birth, a great, heaving pressure beneath the numbness from the epidural.

Then her sister Denise was at her side, a large, moist presence, looking like a very pregnant Holly Hobbie in her smocked maternity dress. Her brown eyes, pooled with tears, seemed to fill up her whole face, a face as incapable of concealing emotion as a child’s. Denise only shook her head, wise enough to know that there was nothing she could say or do right now that would help the situation.

It was their mother who rushed in to embrace Alice, while their father hung back, still wearing that stern look, though Alice could see now that his anger wasn’t directed at her—he was staring hard at Owen’s back as if he’d like to plant a dagger in it. Oh, honey. Lucy’s voice was choked with emotion. Don’t take it too hard. Look at the bright side. Now you and Randy can get on with your lives.

As if such a thing were possible.

It wasn’t until Alice’s gaze fell on Jeremy, standing next to his grandfather, looking up at her with a pinched, worried expression, that she roused herself and spoke.

I’m fine, she said in a calm voice that seemed to be coming from outside her, that of a doctor assuring them that the patient was recovering nicely. I just need to get home.

Let me drive you, said Denise.

No, really, I’m fine, she assured her. In Denise’s present, distraught state, she appeared more at risk than Alice of getting into an accident.

For a moment Denise looked as if she were about to insist, but she let it go. Younger by four years, she’d always been the one Alice looked out for, from the time they were children. When the other kids in school had made fun of Denise for being fat, Alice had made sure the bullies knew who they were dealing with. And with her sister’s first baby, it had been Alice, not Denise’s husband, in bed with a herniated disc at the time, who’d seen her through a difficult labor. Now that the roles were reversed, they were both somewhat at a loss as to how to handle it.

Alice managed a small, bitterly resigned smile, as if to say that yes, it was a blow, but not entirely unexpected. And in a way, she wasn’t surprised. Owen White was a respected member of the community, the heir to one of the island’s great fortunes, and she … well, she’d become the resident crazy lady. Even those of her neighbors who’d gone out of their way to show support in the days after David’s death now looked at her askance. Yes, it was tragic, their eyes seemed to say, but she’d gone too far. Was it fair to punish a man whose only crime was that he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Walking to her car, holding tightly to Jeremy’s hand, she thought that if there truly were a hell, she was in it now. The events of that terrible day ran like a film on a continuous loop inside her head, one she always hoped would have a different ending but never did.

It had been early evening and Randy had phoned to say he’d be working late, that they shouldn’t wait for him. But when she’d gone outside to call David in to supper, he wasn’t in the driveway shooting hoops, where he’d been the last time she’d checked, and there was no sign of him anywhere. Darkness had been closing in, the sidewalk in front of their house swallowed up by the shadows of the gingko trees that lined their street. Yet she hadn’t felt worried, not then. She remembered being annoyed at him instead. At eight and a half, David was far too independent for his own good. While Jeremy was content to play in his room for hours, David had been on the move ever since he’d learned to walk; it seemed she spent as much time looking for him as looking after him.

She’d walked out onto the sidewalk still calling his name. She was halfway down the block before she spotted him, a small, fair-haired boy in a white T-shirt and jeans pedaling furiously toward her on his bike. He’d lifted a hand to wave to her, and almost at the same instant a car had rounded the corner onto their street, a silver Mercedes moving at a speed well beyond the posted limit. Alice had opened her mouth to shout to the driver to slow down, but the words caught in her throat, swallowed by the shriek of brakes and the sickening thud that followed, one that had slammed through her as if she herself had experienced the impact.

David, she’d thought, breaking into a run.

She’d found him sprawled facedown on the pavement, not moving. His bicycle, an old Raleigh that had belonged to Randy and that David loved above all things, had been flung into the middle of the road by the impact, twisted into something resembling bent coat hangers. Later, Owen would claim the boy had darted out into the middle of the road and that he’d been unable to brake in time. But that wasn’t what Alice had witnessed. David had been in the bike lane that she herself, along with those of her neighbors with young children, had campaigned for; she’d had a clear view of him from where she’d stood.

But it had been her word against Owen’s; by the time the neighbors had stepped outside to see what the commotion was about, it was all over. When Alice reported that the driver had been drunk, no one believed that, either. Owen White had a reputation as a churchgoing man, nothing like his flamboyant father, who’d been known to tip back a few in his day. Yet Alice had smelled alcohol on him even from where she’d knelt, clutching her son’s broken body to her chest. She’d screamed at Owen to get help, but he’d just stood there wearing a stupefied look, as if not quite grasping what any of this had to do with him, before he’d finally stumbled to his car and driven off.

It was several hours before the police finally caught up to him, by which time Owen had sobered up and gotten his story straight. If his behavior had seemed erratic at the time, he’d explained, it was only because he’d been in shock. As to why he’d left the scene of the accident, it was only to find a phone to call for help. After a cursory investigation that was more a formality than anything, the official cause of death was ruled accidental. Another tragic case of a little boy riding his bike where he shouldn’t.

Mommy, why aren’t we going?

Alice roused from her thoughts to find herself sitting behind the wheel of her car, Jeremy buckled in beside her. He was solemn-faced little boy with her dark hair and fair complexion, dressed in the suit she’d bought him for his brother’s funeral, which he was already outgrowing. He was eyeing her quizzically, wearing the deeply worried look she’d seen too often of late. Jeremy had always been the more thoughtful and sensitive of her two boys, but since David’s death he’d been so withdrawn that at times it was almost as if she’d lost both her sons.

She forced a smile. We are, honey. I just needed a minute is all.

Are we going home? he asked, when she’d started the engine.

Yes, honey. Straight home. Where else would she go? To the grocery store for a quart of milk? To pick up her mail at the post office? Mundane chores she couldn’t imagine ever doing again much less tackling now.

Will Daddy be there? There was a querulous note in his voice that sounded almost panicky.

Alice realized now that it had been a mistake bringing him with her today. But she’d wanted so much to believe the jury would see things her way, she hadn’t been thinking straight. Now she was a bad mother on top of everything else. The thought pierced her like a shot through the heart.

She did her best to maintain an even tone as she replied, Daddy’s at work, you know that. But we’ll call him as soon as we get home. Even as she spoke, anger was rising up in her again. Where had Randy been when she needed him most? Where was he now?

Alice backed out of her slot and was heading toward the exit when she saw Owen at the other end of the lot. She slowed at once, braking to a stop. He was walking with his wife, who had accompanied him every day to court. Elizabeth White, a tall, rail-thin woman, reminded Alice of a greyhound, with her narrow face and long, arched neck, her wide-set protruding eyes. They looked relaxed, smiling at their victory as they strolled along, arm in arm. They would go home to a celebratory supper and a good night’s rest, while Alice was left to pick up the pieces on her own. She watched Mrs. White step around to the passenger side when they reached their car, the same silver Mercedes that had mowed David down, while Owen paused to reach into his pocket for his keys.

Later, Alice would remember almost nothing of what came next. In that moment, though, every detail was magnified: a puddle of grease gleaming dully on the pavement near where Owen stood; the reflection of trees swimming across the windshield of a Chevy Malibu pulling out behind him; the innocent sounds of children playing in the small park adjacent the courthouse. The last signposts of the known world before it tilted on its axis, sending her spinning off into space.

Alice had no awareness of her foot pressing down on the gas pedal; it was as if the car were being propelled by a force beyond her control. Then there was only the startled face of her son’s killer as she closed in on him, and Jeremy’s high-pitched scream.

CHAPTER ONE

PRESENT DAY

The dog was waiting on the landing when the ferry pulled into the berth. Black, with white paws and a white blaze on its chest, it made Colin think of an English butler in bib and morning coat, standing in readiness to greet guests arriving at the lord’s manor for a weekend of grouse hunting. A border collie, from the looks of it, a breed more common to sheep farms than the wilds of the Pacific Northwest. Yet it looked perfectly at home, sitting there on its haunches in the late afternoon sunlight that slanted over the sun-bleached asphalt.

Old McGinty’s dog, volunteered the man at Colin’s elbow.

Colin turned toward him. The man was no youngster himself, with his rheumy eyes and thin white hair luffing in the stiff breeze. McGinty, the artist? he inquired.

The man gave a somber nod. Sad about his passing. It was all over the news. Around here, though, we knew him just as Old McGinty. Him and his dog, you never saw one without t’other. He shook his head, eyeing the collie. Poor thing. Ever’ day, rain or shine, he’s here to meet the four-forty from Anacortes. Colin must have looked puzzled, for he explained, The old man went to the mainland once a month or so, and he always took the same ferry back. Except this last time. When he didn’t show, that’s how we knew something must’ve happened to him. Weren’t nothing would’ve kept him from that dog, not as long as he had breath in him.

Poor Dickie, Colin almost muttered aloud before realizing that it couldn’t be the same dog he recalled from childhood. Besides, it would have sparked his fellow passenger’s interest, and Colin recognized a town crier when he saw one. He wasn’t ready for the whole island to know his business just yet. If people remembered him at all it would be as the boy who used to visit his grandfather every summer. They wouldn’t recognize the tall, solemn-faced man, his dark hair prematurely flecked with gray, as that eager, fleet-footed boy all grown up, except perhaps for the faint resemblance he bore to his grandfather—around the eyes and mouth mostly, which carried the same sadness as had the man they’d known as Old McGinty. So who’s looking after him now?

Neighbor up the road took him in. The old man wore a prideful look, as if to say, Around here we look after our own. But feedin’ an animal and ownin’ it ain’t the same thing. That there’s a one-man dog. He pointed a bent twig of a finger at the border collie now rising from its haunches, ears pricked and nose held high in anticipation of his master’s arrival.

The man said good-bye and joined the flow of passengers making their way toward the exit ramp, but Colin, lost in thought, gave no reply other than to nod. He remained where he was on the upper deck, in no particular hurry to disembark, as the flow slowed to a trickle of stragglers. The chill of autumn was in the air, but it was memories of summers past that crowded his mind as he leaned into the railing, squinting toward shore, the sharp wind off the sound prying at the upturned collar of his jacket.

It had been more than a decade since his last visit, but not much appeared to have changed. Bell Harbor was just as he remembered it, with its picture-postcard marina and quaint, century-old buildings lining the waterfront—shops and eateries, like the Rusty Anchor, with its namesake anchor out front, where his grandfather would take him for fish and chips on Sundays; and the souvenir shop filled with items to fascinate a young boy. Higher up, on the hill, the commercial buildings gave way to houses and farms, then to unbroken tracts of evergreens as the island climbed toward its highest point, Mount Independence. Already, in mid-October, there was a sugar-dusting of snow on its peak. He was reminded of the time his grandfather had driven him up to the summit in his old Willys, the one year Colin had visited at Christmastime, how wondrous those virgin white tracts had seemed to a city boy used to snow plows and dirty slush clumped along the sidewalk.

I used to take your dad up here, William had remarked. He ever tell you about it?

He doesn’t talk about those days too much. Colin had felt keenly the awkwardness of the moment. He’d been fourteen at the time, his voice reedy with all the changes in his body, which had sprouted a foot seemingly overnight.

I don’t suppose he would. William had squinted off into the distance, wearing a look of sad resignation. There had been only the creak of snow settling under their boots and the whiffling of wings as a cardinal swooped from the branches of a nearby hemlock.

His grandfather was often given to such silences; they’d been as much a part of him as his shock of white hair and the old leg injury that had caused him to limp. And yet they were seldom uncomfortable, even when Colin sensed an underlying sorrow; it was like the sound of the wind in the trees on the cold mountaintop, lonely and peaceful at the same time.

The years melted away, Colin’s memories of those boyhood summers sharper than of recent events. He pictured his grandfather bent over his easel, Dickie curled asleep at his feet, and saw the boy he’d been racing down to the cove with his binoculars at the sighting of a whale. Another boy might have been homesick or lonely for the company of other kids his age, but for Colin, those summers had been a welcome respite. He’d experienced a kind of freedom he hadn’t known before or since. If his grandfather had spent long hours holed up in his studio, leaving Colin to his own devices, it was just what a young boy sprung from the confines of a row house in Queens, where the great outdoors had consisted of a scrubby patch of grass out back, had needed. Grays Island, with all its nooks and crannies to explore, had been like a magic carpet at his feet, and those endless days of summer had rarely seen him indoors.

But that was Before. Before the world, quite literally in his case, had come tumbling down around his ears.

Colin’s mind closed like a fist around the thought, the chill in the air seeping into his bones. The hope that he could escape the more recent past by coming here seemed foolish all of a sudden. It would never be any further away than the nearest bottle in which to drown his sorrows.

A final call from the loudspeaker roused him from his reverie, and he made his way back inside and down the stairs. He was among the last to disembark, and as he exited onto the walkway that ran parallel to the loading ramp, where a caravan of vehicles was crawling its way toward the street, his gaze was drawn to the woman just ahead of him. Slim, dark-haired, around his age—late thirties—and wearing an expression of such intense preoccupation as she trudged along pulling her wheeled suitcase, she seemed scarcely aware of her surroundings. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Someone he’d met on the island? Or maybe it was just that she reminded him of someone he knew. These days, every woman who bore even the slightest resemblance to Nadine brought a tug of painful recognition, of yearning.

The thought that earlier had attempted to surface—the part of his past he’d just as soon forget—thrust its way into his consciousness with such startling suddenness he had to pause to catch his breath, reeling with more than the swaying motion of the ramp. He was gripped by a deep terror. What if he were to discover that he’d traveled all this way only to find he couldn’t escape his demons?

When he finally caught up to her, the woman appeared to be bracing herself against some unseen force as well. She stood poised on the landing, scanning the passenger waiting area, wearing the anxious, hyperalert look of someone not quite sure of her bearings. Her full-length wool coat that might have been purchased at Goodwill and cheap imitation leather suitcase were at odds with her refined, if somewhat worn, appearance. To the eye of an attorney practiced at spotting such telling details, it suggested someone of privilege who’d fallen on hard times.

He paused beside her, inquiring pleasantly, First visit? Normally, Colin wasn’t in the habit of making conversation with strangers, but something about her drew him to her. Even with her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and no makeup other than a touch of lipstick, he could see that she’d once been beautiful. She still was in a stark kind of way, as if whittled down by hard circumstances, like a granite peak by the elements. Her wide-set eyes, an indeterminate shade that shifted from gray to green, held the shadow of some deep sadness, and her delicate features didn’t match the look of determination on her face—not that of some grand ambition, but of a woman reaching into herself for the simple courage to take the next step.

She cast him a startled, almost frightened, glance, then her expression smoothed over. No. It’s just that it’s been a while. I can’t get over how little it’s changed, she replied, gesturing around her. Her tone seemed that of someone whose own life had altered so drastically, it hardly seemed possible that time had more or less stood still here on the island.

That was something he understood all too well. Hers could have been any one of the faces he’d looked upon in countless AA meetings, those for whom despair had become a way of life and the effort it took to simply go through the motions was almost more than they could manage. Yet they kept going somehow, just as he had, one day, one step, at a time.

I used to come here as a kid, he remarked. It’s been a while for me, too.

She glanced up at the sky, where a thick, gray cloud cover had moved in, bringing the threat of rain. Not exactly tourist season.

As if on cue, a sudden chill blast of wind sent a loosely tied tarpaulin nearby rattling. She pulled up her collar, holding it tightly about her neck as she hunched inside her coat, shivering. Actually, I’m here on business, he informed her. Family business.

That makes two of us. Her lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She obviously hadn’t had much practice at it lately.

Colin McGinty. He put out his hand.

She hesitated before taking it. Alice, she said, not giving her last name. Her hand, narrow and long-fingered, might have seemed elegant, that of a pianist or a ballerina, if not roughened in a way that told of hard manual labor.

Someone coming to meet you? If she had family on the island, it was more than likely, he thought.

No, she said simply, not offering an explanation.

I’d offer you a ride, but mine doesn’t look to be here yet, said Colin, scanning the cars along the curb for the white Chevy Suburban Clark Findlay, his grandfather’s lawyer, had told him to look out for.

Thanks anyway, but I don’t have far to go. After a moment, in which she appeared to have forgotten he was there, she straightened her shoulders and tipped her suitcase onto its wheels. Well, I guess I should be off. It was nice meeting you. Enjoy your stay.

As he watched her walk away, he continued to wonder about her. Had she taken a wrong turn somewhere? Hooked up with the wrong guy? Or merely gotten hooked, like him? Before Colin could ponder it further, she’d turned the corner and was out of sight.

He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder. That was when he noticed the border collie he’d spotted earlier. It was standing half a dozen feet away, its intelligent brown eyes fixed on him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. Colin sank into a crouch and extended a hand. Here, boy. It’s okay. I won’t bite.

The collie—a male, he saw—edged closer. Despite looking well-cared-for, he was skittish in the way of pets left to fend for themselves. It was a good minute or so before he’d crept close enough to take a tentative sniff. Good dog, Colin murmured encouragingly. See? Nothing to be afraid of. He patted Dickie’s head—for he couldn’t stop thinking of him as Dickie—which was black except for the softly folded tips of his ears and the patches of white around his eyes and on either side of his nose. The dog allowed it, but it was clear he was only tolerating it out of politeness. Either that, or he thought Colin might know something about his master’s whereabouts. When it became clear that Colin wasn’t going to be of much help in that department, he retreated, sinking onto his haunches to regard Colin with a look almost of reproach.

Colin drew himself up. I’d take you with me, but I’m guessing you know the way. The dog cocked his head, eyes fixed on Colin as if in comprehension. How much longer would he go on waiting for his dead master? The thought wrenched at Colin. But was it any better knowing there was no hope? When he dreamed of Nadine, with her smile as wide as the world in which she’d lived—a world in which everyone had a good side and every bad thing its shades of gray—he would invariably awake with a fresh sense of loss, knowing that was all he would ever have of her from now on: memories.

When several more minutes had passed with no sign of Findlay’s SUV, Colin fished from his pocket the scrap of paper with the lawyer’s number on it. But he was unable to get a signal on his cell phone, and when he went off in search of a pay phone, there were none to be found. On Grays Island, the lack of modern conveniences seemed a conspiracy of sorts, a gentle reminder to slow down, not be in such a rush. Here, people moved at their own pace, not by your timetable, and if you couldn’t reach someone by phone you’d run into him or her eventually.

His grandfather’s lawyer proved no exception. Moments later a mud-spattered Suburban that might once have been white pulled up to the curb. The driver, a very un-lawyerly looking man in a fisherman’s hat, stuck his head out the window. You must be Colin, he said, with a grin. Hop in.

Colin climbed into the passenger seat. Thanks for coming to meet me. He stuck out his hand, which was seized in a firm, dry grip. Clark Findlay looked to be in his late forties, early fifties, gangly as a late-summer plant that’s bolted, and freckled all over.

No problem. Sorry I’m late. The lawyer spoke casually, as if it were the norm. I got tied up at the office. Missus Brunelli. Her husband, Frank, passed on a few months back. She’s lonely and likes to talk. I didn’t have the heart to cut her off. How was your trip?

Long, Colin replied, with a weary smile. The flight from JFK had been delayed, and he’d had to stay the night in Seattle, followed by the four-hour ferry ride.

That all you brought? Findlay jerked a thumb at the backpack Colin was tossing into the backseat.

I travel light, he said.

Smart man. Anyway, you won’t need much. Couple changes of clothing, warm jacket, boots, that’s about it. As if Colin needed to be reminded of the island’s dress code, or lack thereof. ’Course, it depends on how long you plan on sticking around. Findlay darted a curious look in his direction as he edged his way back into traffic.

Colin offered no response. He didn’t know any more than Findlay what his plans were.

They turned off Harbor and began the climb up Crestview. At the summit stood the Queen Anne—style mansion that had once been the home of shipping magnate Henry White, since converted into a bed-and-breakfast. However many times it had exchanged hands throughout the years, it would always be known to the townsfolk as the White House, a place as firmly fixed in the local firmament as the lore surrounding its original owners, Henry’s son, Lowell, in particular. Now, seeing its windows lit up and its gingerbread strung with fairy lights, casting a welcoming light in the gathering dusk, Colin wondered briefly if he wouldn’t have been better off getting a room there rather than facing the cold, shuttered cottage where his grandfather’s presence would be so keenly felt.

Findlay turned left at the top of the hill, headed in the direction of Ship’s Bay. I had Edna give the place a thorough cleaning. It’s in pretty decent shape, all things considered. There was some damage with the last storm—some off the roof, a couple of trees down—but Orin took care of that. Orin Rayburn and his wife, Edna, Colin recalled, had worked for his grandfather. That reminds me, he wants to know if you plan on keeping him on once everything’s settled. Findlay was referring to the fact that the probate period was almost up. You didn’t say whether or not you were planning to sell.

I haven’t decided yet, Colin replied.

For whatever it’s worth, property values have gone way up in the past few years. Fifteen acres of prime waterfront could set up a man for life, the lawyer went on.

Or save his life, Colin voiced silently.

The idea that had been growing in his mind ever since he’d learned of his inheritance. The bulk of the estate had gone to his father, never mind that Daniel hadn’t even attended the funeral. (Nor had Colin, for that matter, but that was a

Reviews for Woman in Red

[carlathelibrarian · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a multi-generational story with two timelines. It is easy to follow the two time periods and see how the story fits together, even though the characters themselves never know.

Alice Kessler is a strong woman who is dealing with one of the worst things that can happen to a mother. She sees her young son hit and killed by a drunk driver while he is riding his bike. She then witnesses the driver get off without even a slap on the wrist. Of course the fact that he is wealthy and one of the pillars of the community help with that. As she is leaving the trial, she sees the driver walking with his wife and loses control, running him down and injuring him so that he ends up in a wheelchair. She ends up in prison for nine years.

Nine years later, Alice is released from prison and heads home to Grays Island, Washington. To some she is a pariah, others try to help her. It is not easy and her son wants nothing to do with her. The story is about family, forgiveness, making things right and power. There is alcohol addiction discussed, rape, peer pressure and making the right decisions. Colin McGuinty has come to the island after the death of his grandfather, an artist. He is trying to make a new life for himself and is actually in the same boat as Alice to some degree. The second story line takes place in the 1940s. It is the story of Alice's grandmother, Eleanor and Colin's grandfather. Again, a strong woman trying to do right by her daughter, Lucy, while her husband is off fighting in the war.

This story has wonderful characters. There stories are real and are shared with the reader that you get to know them well. The setting of a small town on a small Island shows how people take sides, and power coupled with money runs the town. I really enjoyed both story lines as well as the unexpected twists that this family takes. I enjoyed Eileen Goudge's writing style. She was very descriptive and the text flowed very nicely. I am so glad I finally read this book.

[judithdcollins · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Another favorite author! Dynamic writer. A must read! Tale of about love, family, honor, justice, set in two separate eras. The interlocking mysteries of how these three families touch each other's lives unfold skillfully. Goudge takes time to carefully develop her major characters and you fall in love with them! Would love to see a movie based on the book! "

[jrepman_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

International family histories, San Juan Island type setting

[msbaba · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Woman in Red by Eileen Goudge is a tender tale about love, family, honor, and justice. The story is set in two separate eras on a popular summer resort island within the gorgeous San Juan Island group near Seattle. The novel focuses on the interlocking lives of three families. In the present is the awkward lurching-toward-the-inevitable romance of Alice Kessler and Colin McGinty—both barely-hanging-on survivors of life's cruel injustices. In the past, some 60 years earlier during World War II, is the tender tragic love affair between Alice's grandmother, Eleanor, and Colin's grandfather, the famous American realist painter, William McGinty. Eleanor is the rapturous Woman in Red in William McGinty's best-known masterpiece—this is a painting made famous by unmistakably capturing the true face of all-radiant love. In both eras, these two families are shattered by events with mysterious ties back to a third family. Here corruption runs deep, power is all-important, and greed is the name of the game. For decades, they have been one of the richest and most powerful families on the island—this is the family of the current mayor, Owen White. The interlocking mysteries of how these three families touch each other's lives unfold skillfully. Goudge takes time to carefully develop her major characters. I never lost interest, or stopped caring about them. The device of two parallel and interlocking love affairs kept me reading even when I knew I should have been doing other things. The ending is satisfying, although perhaps too neatly resolving the many threads of conflict—but it is an ending that is, nonetheless, unexpected and original. Goudge is an artful storyteller; she knows how to keep her readers' attention at all times. If I find any fault with her writing, it is that there is little sparkle and uniqueness to her prose, but I can forgive that in a good storyteller.I recommend the book as a mature, realistic, and enduring romance. I can visualize this book as a blockbuster movie with the same strikingly beautiful actress playing both Alice and her grandmother. If it does, I'll probably be one of the first to see it!

[thereaderscove · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

No matter how hard you try, people hold the past against you. When Alice Kessler stepped off the ferry, she could feel the ill will. It penetrated her skin, like the chilling fingers of the relentless wind. Grays Island, located in Puget Sound, Washington, held many wonderful recollections for Alice. But they were overshadowed by dark, vivid memories, full of pain, anger, and injustice. One desperate act had left her young son, Jeremy, without his mother. That was nine years ago. The complete emptiness she felt was devastating, like the fear now pumping through her heart. Slowly she climbed the hill, seeking refuge from the cold and her fears. Questions assaulted her mind. Will Jeremy, now a teenager, even talk to her? Could they start over? Where should she begin? Being open and honest with her family was a hard choice for Alice. A few relations attempted to hide their feelings, some pretend it never happened, others honestly want to help. Can she regain a place of belonging, or will she be labeled an outcast forever?It was bad enough to have the whole town against her, but when Jeremy is swept into the drama, it is overwhelming. Falsely charged with a criminal offence, the powers of the past swoop down like a vulture, threatening his future. In the midst of her struggles she finds support in unlikely persons, but dare she trust a stranger? Offers of help sound innocent enough, but what underlying agendas go unspoken?Sometimes, there are just no breaks. Unlikely chances often become the threads, on which the future hangs. Will Alice seize the moment, or will she play it safe? Does she have enough confidence to rise against the town’s powers, or will they pull her down?When the past and the present entwine, forbidden secrets are reveled. Will they transform the future or just add to the pain? Lady in Red is a sensitive yet harsh look into the lives of those who have struck out. But back at the plate once again, it is still the top of the ninth.

[nyiper · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful story, from beginning to the very last sentence.