Read Finding Jessie: A Mystery Romance Online
Authors: Eve Paludan
Finding Jessie: A Mystery Romance
FINDING JESSIE
A Mystery Romance
by
Eve Paludan
FINDING JESSIE
Copyright ©2012 Eve Paludan
Cover design: David H. Doucot
Custom 3D Book Images on Cover: Ron Paludan
Stock Photo Licensed from: BigStockPhoto.com
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved by the authors. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your favorite ebookstore and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Description:
Sam’s quiet life as a New England bookseller and occasional lawyer is turned upside down when a tussle over a vintage children’s book turns him into the rescuer of a much younger woman. Jessie is a mysterious beauty with dark secrets—much darker than his own.
FINDING JESSIE is an emotionally intense, heartbreaking modern gothic mystery romance about a woman’s lifetime quest for her sense of self and the man who is determined to discover the truth and save her…and their fragile relationship. If he cannot shatter the lies with facts and help her to overcome her history, she will disappear from his life.
FINDING JESSIE is about love, lies, truth, betrayal, redemption, greed, mercy, and the triumph of the human spirit. A small angelic presence convinces Sam to take one last chance on this May-December relationship. FINDING JESSIE is his most fervent hope.
Author Eve Paludan tackles a controversial real-life topic with compassion and sensitivity: How far would you go to redeem your lover from a shocking, terrifying past?
(novel length: 61,000+ words)
For JH and JH
I can be changed by what happens to me, but I refuse to be reduced by it. – Maya Angelou
Chapter One
The book’s the thing,
whispered the invisible angel on his shoulder.
As if Sam Gold didn’t already know that.
When the double doors opened at noon, the estate sale was immediately thronged with other used book dealers, as well as jewelry hoarders, classic car aficionados and the curious.
Sam walked quickly. So did his competition. The mingled aromas of vintage paper and leather-bound books were pure seduction. He lived for this.
The usual suspects flocked around the boxes of classic American literature, which was Sam’s specialty. Inwardly, he groaned at the press of humanity. He was reluctant to edge his broad shoulders into the fray for the first edition Faulkners, Weltys, Vonneguts, Updikes, and Kerouacs. Or that’s what he imagined stuffed the overflowing boxes that had been packed up from the estate of a Pulitzer prize-winning dead author whose possessions—from muscle cars to argyle socks—had been mish-mashed into a glorified indoor yard sale.
Like locusts snatching leaves, his competition swiftly descended upon the boxes of vintage literature, quickly emptying them and exclaiming softly over the treasures. Still, Sam hung back. With a passion, Sam hated touching strangers, even by accident, so he walked over to where the vintage children’s books were piled less carefully than they deserved.
A lone woman perused the vintage kids’ books. She was younger than him and very attractive. A redhead with bouncy, shiny hair that swung just past her shoulders, she looked as if she’d just stepped out from an old Breck shampoo commercial. She dressed like a 70s hippie in hand-embroidered bell-bottom Levi’s and a faded denim work shirt, worn unbuttoned and tied at the waist over a man’s sleeveless white undershirt.
His eyebrows went up.
No bra.
He noticed them right off—small, but exquisite. He looked away politely but reluctantly, tearing his gaze from the natural beauty of the tall, slender ginger woman to the man-made beauty of the books.
Redheads had always been his preference, not that he had pursued a woman for years. He was getting a little old for the chase, or so he lied to himself—his long, dry stretch without a lover was really about preventing further heartbreak. He considered himself a committed bachelor. He was married to his books, his house by the rocky breakwater and his cats, in that order.
As if she knew him,
she stared at him with expectation in her stunning turquoise eyes. He was momentarily startled by such a familiar gaze.
Suddenly, Sam picked up a vintage children’s book—one that he knew had an intriguing storyline and gorgeous illustrations. At the same moment, she grabbed it, too—he had it by the front cover, and she had it by the back. It had been open and face down on top of a box, its covers spread invitingly like the wings of a butterfly.
Without letting go of the book, the redhead said, “Excuse me, sir, but I’m buying this book.”
Sam took a firmer grip on it. “Excuse
me,
miss, I’m buying this book for my neighbor’s granddaughter,” he said calmly.
“Please let go!” she implored him.
“Could
you
‘please let go,’” he replied calmly. “
The Princess and the Goblin
is meant for a little girl named Cindy Foster, whose parents are overseas in the military.”
She looked as if she didn’t believe him. “This book is illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith, which is also
my
name—I collect books illustrated with her work. It’s the only first edition copy I’ve found.”
“Likewise. Her book illustrations are highly sought after.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I want it.”
Sam held his ground. She held hers.
Each apparently thinking the other would surely let go, Jessie tried to yank the book from him. The vintage book separated across the spine with a loud snap. She fell to the floor with a thump, sending the already precarious towers of kids’ books crashing down around them.
Alarmed, he tried to help her up. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” he asked.
She let out a sharp cry of dismay, but did take his offered hand to help her up. He was startled that she weighed so little. He was middle aged and had a bad back from decades of lugging boxes of books. That should have hurt.
A lot.
But it didn’t.
She looked at the destroyed book in her hand and like a siren winding up, wailed, “Nooooo!”
Sam thought of a proper swear word but didn’t voice it.
Drama.
Of course. What else could he expect from a woman that pretty and that young?
One of the estate sale workers ran over. “You two? You’re out of here!
Now.
And someone has to pay for that.” He took the price tag off the book cover and taped it on an inventory sheet on his clipboard. “Well, Sam?” he said to the familiar book dealer.
“My apologies. Of course I’ll pay,” Sam said gruffly. Someone had to take personal responsibility for this debacle. Standing there red-faced and close to tears, the young woman was clearly unable to do that. He handed over two twenties and a ten and quietly put away his wallet.
And then, something unexpected happened.
His eyes met hers and he foolishly smiled at her across the mess they had made. She smelled of Ivory soap and minty toothpaste. She looked contrite and shrugged humbly. She looked so darn sweet with her big blue eyes and russet-colored eyelashes. So innocent.
Oh, boy, are you in trouble,
the angel on his shoulder whispered in his ear.
And I’m not talking about the book.
They were marched to the exit like naughty schoolchildren. Sam was chagrined at being 86-ed from his favorite local indoor estate sale venue as well as having to pay fifty bucks for a vintage kids’ book that was now torn in half.
Jessie turned to him outside the building. “I don’t know what to say except…I’m completely mortified.”
“Embarrassment is overrated and overpriced,” he told her.
She giggled through her tears. “You’re very nice about this. I’m truly sorry we got kicked out.”
He shrugged, as if it wasn’t important, though it was. He was not overly chagrined at her, but at himself. He knew better than to not give into a woman, because in his experience, a woman like her—that pretty—would not give in if she really wanted something. And apparently, she wanted something.
That book.
Sam sighed. He should have let go of it.
Regret is a long walk down a short pier
, said the angel on his shoulder.
The willowy redhead fetchingly twisted strands of her hair around her index finger, gave him an apologetic look and said, “I want to make it up to you.”
“It’s fifty dollars. I was at least fifty percent at fault. Forget it. That was a lot of entertainment for twenty-five bucks.”
“No, I can’t forgive myself or forget it. I wronged you and little Cindy, for whom you wanted the book.”
She was adorable with her pouting lips. Now he was close enough to smell her shampoo. Strawberry.
Too late now,
said
the angel next to his ear.
You’re smitten.
He felt sheepish and knew his face was flushed from wrestling with her over the book.
“Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world,” he said.
“I know, but drat!” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Sam hoped to mend, at least figuratively, what he had torn. She looked like she had had a bad day, a bad week, maybe even a bad month. Her eyes were sad, as if she had the weight of something pressing deep on her soul. For a long time.
