Family Bonds: On Geneva Shores, #1

By Kate Vale

At Jane Collins' five-year high school reunion party in small town Evergreen, Washington, bad boy and law school wanna-be Chet Barton surprises Jane by rescuing her from a would-be rapist. Although she is intrigued by Chet, her guardian Bert doesn't trust the young man with the bad reputation.

In spite of their differing upbringings—she from a working-class family and he from one of the wealthiest families in town—Jane and Chet become friends.

Jane's life becomes even more challenging when Bert is diagnosed with stomach cancer. Through his long decline, Chet and Jane begin to plan a life together, hoping for Bert's and his parents' blessings. But when Jane finds her mother's diary and discovers dark and disturbing secrets her dreams for the future are shattered.

How can Chet convince Jane that they can still marry, despite past evils that haunt both their families?

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Cascades Press
• Release date: Jan 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9780985638917

Kate Vale

Kate Vale writes and publishes contemporary women’s fiction and contemporary romantic fiction. Most of her titles center in the Pacific Northwest or the Western United States.She has lived or visited nearly every state, several provinces in Canada and other countries, too. When she isn't writing, check her garden or look for her on nearby bike trails.

Book preview

C:\Users\Kathy\SkyDrive\Documents\NOVELS\5 - Family Bonds E-PUBBED!\Cover Art\FamilyBonds_SM.jpg

In this sweet and wholesome tale of true love, two college students must endure a gauntlet of family confrontations and secrets that test their belief in each other before they emerge smiling. It wasn’t easy... Family Bonds is a big-hearted tale with an old-school... sensibility. This is your mother’s romance novel, and aficionados of traditional love stories will find that refreshing. - Chanticleer Book Reviews

Chapter 1

Jane Collins pushed her shoulder-length hair to one side, and retied the dark blue ribbon matching the piping on her dress. You’d think by age twenty-two, I’d be able to control my own hair, she murmured. Even if the rest of my life is a mess.

Let me tie it. Bert, a second father to her for more years than she could count, secured the hair ribbon around her brown tresses. The mirror caught his proud smile as he stood behind her. You’re looking real pretty, and you’re going to a party. Don’t be mopin’ around here. Your ma wouldn’t want you to. Will, neither.

Her mother had died almost a year ago. Jane sighed quietly. She knew her mother’s drinking had more to do with her death than the pneumonia. Her late stepfather’s life insurance had paid for her first three years of college, but she’d had to quit. She’d used the rest of the money to cover bills after her mother stopped working.

Is your date picking up you and Marty?

Jane nodded and brushed her hands down her dress to still her nervousness. She’d dated only a few times in college and not at all in high school. She’d opted to study, intent on getting good grades, something that pleased Will. Her mother, too, on days when she wasn’t drinking herself into a stupor. 

Maybe I’ll meet someone nice. She wasn’t sure if Sean, her blind date, qualified. It might be nice to meet someone who lived in Evergreen, Washington, her—working, who wasn’t going to school.

A car horn sounded. Jane pulled back the curtains on the living room window.

He’s here. See you later, Bert.

He didn’t come to the door? Bert’s frown told Jane what he thought of Sean.

It’s okay. I told him I’d be ready, and he’s later than he said. She reached for her coat.

Bert pressed a tightly-folded bill into her palm. In case you need a cab or something.

I won’t need it.

Take it. Don’t argue, have a good time. Tell Martha Joy hello. I’ve missed seeing her.

I will.

When did you say you’ll be home? He looked out the window. That his car with the scrape on the side?

She shrugged. Probably around midnight. We might go out for something to eat afterward. You don’t have to wait up, Bert.

Have a good time, he repeated. The furrows on his forehead told her he would probably be up, reading, pretending that’s why he hadn’t gone to bed.

~ ~ ~

At the dance, Jane scanned the crowd, surprised she remembered so few of the people walking in the door.

Just think, Jane: Our five-year high school reunion. Hard to believe it’s been so long since we graduated. Look at her! Marty, her best friend, pointed to a woman in late pregnancy. Jim told me Carole already has a kid at home. She looks ready to drop this one any minute. You’d think she’d have got married first. There’re the guys with our drinks. Let’s grab a table. Marty led the way to a table decorated in the school colors. Sean took a seat near Jane and handed her a drink before dropping a hand to her thigh.

You said you just wanted soda, but I had them give you a little drop of something extra. For the holidays, he leered. 

Jane sipped her drink gingerly. It tasted like it had more alcohol than soda and she set it back on the table. I guess I’m not as thirsty as I thought.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. Then let’s dance.

Sean was looking for a good time. He boogied enthusiastically, coaxing her to do the same. When she decided to return to their table after one dance, she said, Go on and have fun. I’ll make sure no one takes our seats. She gave him a quick smile that broadened when Marty returned to the table, holding a plate of hors d’oeuvres. 

You look great, Marty said. Wish I had your figure. Is the dress new?

No, I haven’t worn it in ages. She’d tried to recall classmates’ names as couples strolled by or stood near the food tables. She leaned toward Marty. Who’s that guy, the really tall one? He just came in. I know I’ve seen him before.

Chet Barton—remember? He got kicked out of school when we were juniors. In his senior year. Good thing his father has money. He ended up at some fancy prep school and then went to Whitman. Jim said he left school and worked at some lumber camp last year. I think Frannie brought him. Remember her—the cheerleader? Wonder if she slept her way through the Whitman football team. Or soccer. I think Chet played soccer at Whitman. She went there, too. Jim said she’s in grad school now. On the east coast somewhere. Who’d have guessed?

Jane watched Chet saunter across the floor, chatting with several people until Frannie caught up with him. The redhead placed a possessive hand on his arm before Chet swung her around and headed for the dance floor.

His wavy black hair fell nearly to his shoulders. A scruffy beard called attention to his face. He carried himself with confidence, his long legs in those sharply creased Dockers, his shirt just snug enough to show off what Jane imagined to be a muscular chest. When he passed by their table with Frannie in his arms, his brown eyes held her gaze. Chocolate fudge, Jane thought when he smiled in her direction. Wonder if he’s as sweet. But he’d been kicked out of high school and then college? Must be bad news. Bert would never approve.

Sean ambled over to the table, holding two more drinks. You two want some good stuff?

Marty accepted a glass, took a sip and wrinkled her nose. Rum and Coke. Yuck. Couldn’t you come up with something better?

Jane shook her head when Sean offered her the other glass. I’ll stick with punch.

Suit yourself. He walked toward the cluster of guys standing around a large cooler, their laughter occasionally overheard above the music.

He doesn’t listen, does he? I told him I didn’t want any booze.

Marty sipped from her water glass. I guess not.

Jane rose from the table. I think I’ll get some air. Jane headed toward the main doors.

Halfway across the room, Sean joined her and reached for her hand. I’m glad Marty and Keenan suggested we double-date. Except you’re not in much of a holiday mood. Is it me?

She wanted to agree, but chose to be polite. My mom died about a year ago. She’s been on my mind.

Sorry to hear that, he mumbled. When Jane stopped near the entrance, Sean pointed. You’re under the mistletoe. That means a kiss—for the holidays.

She looked up. Before she could stop him, he deposited a sloppy kiss on her lips.

Her pulse jumped. Hey, I didn’t ask for that.

But I did. Then he pushed her into the alcove, out of sight of the crowded dance floor. He pinned Jane’s arms to her sides. Been wanting to get close to you all night. He kissed her again, harder.

Her heart pounded and she opened her mouth to scream.

But he took that as an invitation to push his tongue into her mouth, even as he slid a hand toward her breast.

She managed to angle her head away from his mouth and his boozy breath, and squirmed. He felt like an octopus, so many hands, so much groping. Stop it! she hissed. Her heart raced, her fear changing to anger. Let me go!

Hey, now, he said, his breath coming faster. Never figured you for someone who wouldn’t put out. Don’t you take after your mother? Or maybe you want it rough, He pressed his arm across her collarbone, pinning her to the wall as he pressed his body closer. You’re pretty hot. His other hand grabbed her small breast and squeezed. "I’m right. You do want it." Sean pressed a leg between her knees, pushing her legs apart.

No, , she managed to rasp before his head descended again.

She jerked her face to the side and his whiskers scraped her cheek. Stop! She opened her mouth to scream when Sean suddenly released her. He was abruptly swung around and Jane heard a low voice. 

Playing doctor, Sean? A shadow loomed behind her date.

Oh, God. Not another guy. Jane pushed her dress down to cover her knees.

Leave her alone.

Sean was pressed against the wall, his feet barely touching the ground. Whoever held him there seemed to be using only one hand. Her rescuer shook Sean like an overgrown ragdoll.

Why do you care? Sean wheezed. Or did you want her, too? I’ll share. Frannie told me all about you and Ken—at Whitman.

Old news. Not applicable. Chet Barton poked Sean’s chest. Hard. Can’t you find a girl who wants your paws all over her? Chet shoved Sean against the wall again.

He squeaked in protest.

Lots of girls here wouldn’t mind a kiss from you, Chet continued. Why bother with someone who isn’t interested?

Sean slid to the floor. He rubbed his neck, rose from his impromptu seat, and sidled away.

Chet half-turned toward Jane. You okay? Before Jane could reply, he gave her arm a light pat.

Jane nodded, her face heating with embarrassment. The restroom. I have to ... I must be beet red.

Thanks. Jane couldn’t look at Chet. She gave him a barely discernible shrug, and scuttled toward the well-lighted ballroom, her legs wobbly, her breath coming in small gasps. After getting her bearings, she escaped to the women’s room. When she returned to Marty’s table, she looked around for Sean. He was across the room laughing with his buddies, swaying off-rhythm to the music.

After the band announced a break, Jane waited for Marty to come off the dance floor. I’m going home.

Marty peered at her. You look kind of funny. Feeling okay? Want me to get Sean?

For an instant, she debated telling Marty about Sean then decided against it. After all, he was Keenan’s cousin. No. He’s busy. She pointed in the direction of the drinks table, where Sean was chatting with a woman in a red dress. He won’t miss me. She rubbed her skin where masher Sean—he was no kisser—had squeezed her arm. I’ll take a cab. Talk to you later.

She retrieved her coat, reached into her purse for her cell phone, and walked outside. Who knew I’d need Bert’s money?

What was it about guys who thought they could get what they wanted, even if the girl wasn’t willing? Jane’s junior year in high school, two basketball players had come up to her when she was at her locker at the end of lunch period. One had spun her around and pinned her arms while the other felt her chest and tried to put his hand down the front of her jeans. She was so surprised her voice came out in a frightened squeak as she tried to fend them off. She remembered trying not to cry when one of them fondled her breasts. Then Mr. Manning had intervened.

What are you guys doing? You okay, Jane?

She’d looked up and pulled her blouse straight. The boys had backed away, mumbling something before their laughter followed them down the hall.

You boys get back here. We’ll have a talk. Jane go to your classroom. I’ll talk with you later. The teacher gestured for her to leave.

She’d practically run to class and taken her seat in the back corner, near the windows. She spent almost the entire period waiting for her heart to stop jumping. She’d worried the rest of the day that the boys might bother her again, but they never did.

A sixteen-year old scaredy-cat then. Guess I haven’t changed much. But neither had the guys. Was that why she dated so little, because she didn’t trust boys? Her mother had warned her so many times with oblique little comments—statements that inferred guys only wanted one thing.

She might be six years older, but she felt no more confident than when she was in high school. She should have screamed, maybe even kicked Sean in the groin. She hadn’t needed to after Chet intervened. So embarrassing. He must think I’m a wimp.

Jane Googled the number of the local taxi company, made her call and stood on the porch peering into the misty rain coating the streets. Frannie opened the reception hall door, followed by Chet.

Oh, no. Maybe if I don’t look at him, he’ll keep going.

He glanced her way. Waiting for a cab? he asked.

Jane nodded, averting her eyes.

Frannie reached for Chet’s hand. Come on. I don’t want to get wet.

Just a sec. He turned in Jane’s direction. We’ll give you a ride.

She waved him away. I already called a cab.

He gave her a quick smile, grasped Frannie’s hand and headed for the parking lot.

A few minutes later, Jane jumped into the cab and gave the driver her address. But she couldn’t forget Chet’s eyes. And those cute dimples when he smiled. His hair. Dark, wavy, thick. He seemed nice, even though Marty said he had a bad rep, that he went out with a different girl every week. Jane’s heart did a jig in her chest. But he couldn’t be all bad, if he’d stepped in to help her when he didn’t even know her. Maybe someday, she’d have a boyfriend like Chet, someone nice, someone who didn’t try to take when she wasn’t ready to give.

Let me off at the corner, she instructed.

The cabbie opened the door for her. Even though the cost wasn’t that much, she gave the man the twenty dollar bill. Merry Christmas!

She picked her way between the puddles. Frannie, you have the best boyfriend. I wish I knew someone like him instead of that creep who tried to feel me up. She made a mental note to tell Marty about her boyfriend’s cousin. So much for blind dates. No way was she going on another one. She walked toward the duplex in the middle of the block where the porch light shone.

At the far end of the building, Bert emerged, his thick thatch of gray hair shining in the light. He must have been talking with Loren, their tenant. You’re home early. He followed her into their side of the duplex.

Jane went into her bedroom and flipped on her computer to check for messages about job openings she’d emailed earlier that day. No replies.

She glanced at the picture of her mother and Will on her dresser. Her first Christmas without them. It was just her and Bert now. And he had to find a job, one that paid enough so she could go back to college. The warehouse where she’d been working had given her notice. As of the New Year, she’d be unemployed.

When she snuggled under the covers, Sean’s boorish behavior haunted her. Other girls seemed to attract nice guys. Why couldn’t she? But she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. She needed a job.

.

Chapter 2

Chet rubbed Frannie’s neck. Did you see that girl on the steps? She looked familiar.

Jane Collins. Little Miss Mousy, we called her. Hardly ever said a word in class. Why do you care?

Just curious. In our class?

A year behind us. Her mom died last year.

Hmm. Chet debated going back to see if Jane was still waiting for a cab after he dropped off Frannie. When the redhead kissed him and skimmed her fingers across his chest, he brushed her hand away. Not while I’m driving. Can’t you wait till we get to your place?

Frannie gave him a faux-pout and contented herself with sliding her hand up his inner thigh until he frowned.

~ ~ ~

Three weeks after Christmas, Chet wandered into the drugstore for a newspaper.

The woman behind the counter gestured toward the back of the store. Unless you want the local one, they’re over there. Next to the door.

He ambled in that direction, found a copy of The Seattle Times and was about to head back to the cashier when he spied a sports magazine with a picture of the Whitman soccer team on the cover.

Has to be an old issue if I’m on the cover. He bent down to the lowest shelf to check the date. As he stood up, someone bumped into him and gave a small gasp. He turned. A young woman stared at the multi-colored papers fluttering to the floor. She kneeled down to pick them up.

Let me help. Didn’t see you—I guess you didn’t see me, either.

Her deep green eyes peered out from under thick lashes, her brown hair pulled off her face in a lopsided ponytail. Something about her was familiar. Her leg warmers lent a splash of bright color that accented her dark gray hiking shorts and her black off-the-shoulder tee, which showed one bra strap.

You don’t need to. Her mouth was a thin line as she bit her lip.

He looked over his shoulder. The woman from the front of the store headed in their direction, her heels drumming a staccato rhythm.

What’s going on here? How many of those papers did you drop, Jane?

I was going to buy some—I’ll take them all—the ones I dropped, she replied.

Chet stepped forward. Hey, doesn’t the five-second rule apply? They barely touched the floor. He grinned crookedly at the proprietor and handed her a pile of papers, in a maelstrom of random hues.

Never mind. I’ll take all of them, the young woman offered as she grabbed them from his hands and blew at a strand of hair that floated across her nose.

No way can I sell them all mixed up like that. The store owner trotted back to the front of the store.

Sorry I bumped you, Chet said. Can I make it up to you—buy you a coffee, or something?

No need, she said through pursed lips. I have to get going, back to work.

He retrieved his paper and the magazine, and left the store. Jane, huh? She was cute. Maybe he’d call her, now that Frannie had left for grad school in Pennsylvania.

Ten minutes later, he sat on a bench in the sun, having given up trying to remember where he’d seen the pretty girl in the drugstore. He pulled the pages holding the jobs section and the rental classifieds from the newspaper and tossed the rest into a nearby garbage bin. He looked up when a dark blue Volkswagen Bug with rust edging both front fenders stopped at the light, its engine idling badly, smoke spewing out of the exhaust. When the light turned green, the driver pulled into the drive-up window of the Starbucks across the street. Drugstore Girl.

Curiosity impelled Chet forward. He trotted across the street, newspaper still clutched in one hand. While she waited for her order, Chet sauntered over to the window and nodded to the barista. What’s she owe? I’ll pay for hers and could you make me one, too—whatever she’s having?

Hey, wait a minute— Jane protested.

After the barista handed Jane a cup and Chet the other one, he walked around to the passenger side of her car and opened the door. A coffee for you and one for me. I need a ride. Could you drive me home? He grinned.

She stared at him, her eyes widening as he climbed in and shut the door. Frowning, she handed him her coffee. Don’t know where you live, and don’t give rides to strangers. When a car behind her honked, she pulled out of the drive-through line and into a nearby parking spot. You can get out now.

When he didn’t move except to push the passenger seat back to stretch his legs, she added, Now—or I’m calling the cops. 

Hey, chill, why don’t you? I’m Chet. You’re Jane. Isn’t that what the drugstore lady called you? He looked at her, hoping his grin would soften her up. I remember. He took a quick sip of his coffee. You were at the reunion dance a few weeks back. The one being manhandled by that ape, Sean. He recalled her reddened face and the length of her legs.

Her cheeks flushed. Don’t remind me.

Where do you work? Here in town? Didn’t you say you were going back to work?

None of your business. Take your coffee. And get out of my car. She frowned again, her green eyes blazing.

He held her coffee cup in front of her. Look, you ordered this. I just paid for it. It’s yours. My treat.

Don’t need a treat. I need to go.

You have terrific eyes. He said, unwilling to give up.

And you’re in my space, she replied.

He decided on a different tack and lowered his voice. Look, you started it. When you bumped me. You should watch where you’re going.

He took a quick sip from the cup in his right hand. Your coffee’s getting cold.

She waited, immobile in the driver’s seat, the fingers of one hand tapping the steering wheel. When he made no move to get out of the car, she took the closer cup and sipped. Happy now? Please leave.

It’s not polite to drink coffee with someone without at least sharing your last name. He smiled. Mine’s Barton. What’s yours?

If I tell you, will you leave? I’m going to be late.

Fair enough.

Collins. She leaned across him, almost close enough for him to brush her cheek with his lips, and opened his door.

Jane Collins. He beamed at her a big smile. Your hair smells like flowers.

I told you my last name. Leave. Now.

He climbed out of her car and trotted around to the driver’s side before she could pull away. Live around here?

None of your business.  She pulled out of the parking lot and left him standing there.

Chet was surprised he’d struck out so spectacularly. She definitely wasn’t like the other girls he knew, or wanted to know. Especially not like Frannie. Frannie hung on his every word. This girl didn’t seem to care what or who he was.

Then again, what was he? An unemployed bum not even in college anymore, a bum who had almost knocked her down while she was buying art supplies. She hadn’t bought that he needed a ride home. Maybe she saw him climb out of his Mustang before he went into the drugstore.

Chet crossed the street to his car and headed home. His dad was getting nastier by the day, annoyed that Chet had no job, that he’d refused—again—to work for him in his construction business or the development office. If only he could find a job that paid better than the last one. Maybe he would take up Mr. Smythe’s offer at his law office, cleaning and filing and whatever else he could do after hours. Assuming his father’s attorney meant what he’d said months ago.

~ ~ ~

Chet was circling job ads in the kitchen when his father arrived, pulling off his tie as he came in the door.

He looked over Chet’s shoulder. Still circling? Why don’t you just pick up the phone?

That’s step two. First I have to see what’s out there. He high-lighted another prospect.

What did those other people say, the ones you called yesterday?

I decided against working in a bar. He glanced up at his father.

The man’s mouth descended into a frown. You shouldn’t have quit that other job. What about the man at the lumber yard?

He wanted to know if I had experience. When I told him the truth, he said he’d call me. Chet sighed. He’d thought it would be easy to find something else that would pay more, something in town so he wouldn’t have to work thinning trees like last year. Now he was beginning to wonder. It had been boring cutting trails in the national park. Lonely. Ear buds were banned when they were cutting trees. There was nothing to listen to while he worked, and it was hard to get local stations at night, stuck out there in the woods. Certain nights at the camp where he and the other workers bunked, he’d picked up a Sacramento station, but its distance reminded him how isolated he was, away from bars with decent beer, away from women. Not like at Whitman. Life there was easy compared to his year in the woods.

His father continued to lean over Chet’s shoulder, checking the ads he had circled. Have you tried the high school? They’re always looking for janitors.

Chet grimaced. What if he ran into people he knew? They might ask why he wasn’t at Whitman. He knew he shouldn’t care, but he did. I’ll think about it. He tucked the paper under his arm. Time to make some calls.

Don’t take too long. If you go out, be home before midnight.

Chet took the stairs two at a time and settled onto his bed. He turned up the radio, listened to some tunes and flipped open his cell phone. After making nice with the receptionist, he said, Oliver Smythe, please.

This is Oliver Smythe. The lawyer’s smooth tones sounded as if he had all the time in the world.

It’s Chet Barton. If your job offer is still good, I’d like to take it—but can I work after hours when the rest of your staff is gone?

Sure. Come over tomorrow and we’ll talk. I’m leaving at six. Can you be here before then.

Count on it. Chet put down the phone. One problem solved. Now to look for a day job. He made three more calls, one of which sounded promising.

~ ~ ~

The next day, he left the post office whistling tunelessly. The test he’d taken was easy. The pay was minimum wage, but at least it would make a dent in the money he owed. That and what the lawyer had said he would pay. He called home from the attorney’s office. I’ve got a job—working nights. Don’t wait dinner for me, Mom.

When will you be home?

Around ten. Maybe later. Depends on how fast I get it done.

What are you doing, Chet?

Cleaning offices. Tell Dad I’ve got a lead on a day job, too.

He hung up the phone and looked at the numbers he’d written down. The attorney had said he’d bonus him, in cash, for any extra chores Chet did. It was a start. 

The job at the post office began in a week. Less than what Oliver was paying, but if his hours went over eight a day, he’d get overtime. On Saturdays, too. At this rate, he hoped to have the bill for the frat house damage paid off by next summer. He sighed. Minimum wage was not how he intended to live his life. He’d never have enough left over to go out at this rate, maybe with that girl with the green eyes and long brown hair. He didn’t know where she lived. And when he’d Googled her name, nothing came up. She didn’t even have a Facebook page.

A half hour later, his sweeping was interrupted when Oliver Smythe walked into the office kitchen. You’re hard at it.

You said I could start tonight. The sooner I work, the sooner I get paid.

It’s not a lot of money, Chet. The man wore a suit Chet knew had cost more than he’d earn in a month, maybe three.

He continued sweeping. I know, but I start at the post office next Monday, sorting mail. I figure if I work both jobs, it’ll make a dent in the debt. Got it? Dent? Debt? He grinned.

What’s your plan after that? The lawyer stepped aside when Chet moved the broom under the table.

Back to school.  He sneezed from the dust raised by his sweeping. Minimum wage work isn’t for me. I’ve been thinking I’d like to go to law school. Eventually.

Because the pay’s better? Oliver smiled at him.

That, and it’s interesting. Makes me think. About all I’m thinking about right now while I’m— He sneezed again. Sorry—the dust—is how to avoid sneezing. He leaned on the broom before setting it aside and moving the container holding soapy water for wiping down the counters in the kitchen.

Oliver edged out of his way. "If you like, I’ll give you some books to take home. Case law.