The Way Home

THE WAY HOME

Mandrake Falls Romance

CONSTANCE KENT

Copyright 2014 Constance Kent

Writewood Creations Publishing 2021

All rights reserved.

This publication remains the copyrighted property

of the author and may not be redistributed for commercial

or non-commercial purposes.

ISBN 978-0-9937704-9-4

Cover images by Fusion Books/yupiramos/BNP DesignStudio/pavelnaumov

Cover design by Drainsignstd

Table of Contents

Copyright

From the Publisher

The Way Home

About the Author

From the Publisher

The year is 1987. The town is Mandrake Falls, Vermont. Relationship status reports are posted at the local beauty salon and the locals all have an opinion. The pace of small town life is slow until one of its citizens falls in love and that's when things get interesting. Folksy, funny screwball romance with a side of sexy times sizzle.

ALSO IN THIS SERIES

The Jilting

Lie for Me

Love Rising

THE WAY HOME

I saw three ships come sailing in

on Christmas day in the morning...

—17th Century carol

Chapter I: A Partridge in a Pear Tree

THE LONG black limousine purred through the center of town. Michael Shannon took note of the squat buildings that lined the street—a business called the Beauty Box, an antiques store, a library, the town hall, Sheriff’s office, some sort of newspaper—good God was that an actual church steeple ahead? Mandrake Falls, Vermont—exactly as it was pictured in the brochure her lawyer had given her. Very ... ah ... what was the word she was looking for? Wholesome. Yes, that was it. Mandrake Falls reeked of good living. And snow. It was everywhere. Strings of colored lights twinkled from the storefronts. And—oh my—a tree fully lit up in the center of town—in some sort of park area. That must be the town green as described in the brochure. She settled back against the black leather seat.

Christmas in Vermont—by order of the court. Three days of community service handed down by a judge with a thirst for vengeance. Apparently, the guy had been caught in the traffic jam Michael caused when she chained herself to the tree. The tree was cut down in spite of her protest and she was shipped off to Mandrake Falls where she would serve in anonymity—no photographers, interviews or entertainment news channels. What sort of service, she had asked. Community, Judge Delaney had intoned ominously.

Basically, for the next seventy-two hours, anything the good people of Mandrake Falls needed doing, she was their girl. Grace Hudson would manage her assignments, keep track of her hours and submit her final report to the court to ensure the conditions were met. Michael Shannon, daytime superstar, would be working with real people in a real community where she would learn that the laws of society applied to her too. No one—repeat—no one was to know she was here or she would be violating the conditions of her sentence. Michael sighed and stretched. We’ll just see about that. Famous people couldn’t drop off the face of the earth for three days. Not in this day and age. Someone would find her.

The limousine pulled up in front of the cabin she’d been assigned. The porch light was on but the lights inside were out. Michael peered at its dark exterior doubtfully. It’s only midnight. Don’t tell me she’s gone to bed already. Leroy, are you sure this the right address? This is Grace Hudson’s place?

Nine Larkspur Road. This is the place, Miss Shannon.

It’s a bit out of the way. Not at all what I pictured. My lawyer said she works for Vermont State Parks Department as a ranger or a forester—something to do with trees. Judge Delaney has a sense of irony at least. She turned to Leroy. My guess is Grace Hudson is an only child who doesn’t shave her legs and lives with three cats. What do you have her pegged as?

My money’s on her being a fan girl. Leroy climbed out of the limo and opened her door. One of those ladies who hang around the studio, chatting up the stars after the show finishes taping. You know the type. He went to the trunk to remove her bags. Grace has probably gone to every one of your appearances at every convention and she jumped at the chance to supervise her idol. The good news is she’ll go easy on you.

"I love my fans, Leroy. You know I love my fans. I just don’t love my fans. Not enough to spend seventy-two hours with one, she mumbled. Michael pulled her thick fur coat tighter over her body and gazed at the cabin apprehensively. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this. Not good at all. Who knew they still arrested people in this day and age for a little harmless protest."

You held traffic up for four hours. Leroy deposited her suitcases on the porch. It was a mess but you made the national news. Vickie Webber might be in a coma but the public knows Michael Shannon sure ain’t. Your contract will be picked up in no time after that stunt. And you gotta look on the bright side—this gig is an easy one. It’ll be over before you know it. It’s 12:01. Your sentence officially begins right now. Sunday morning, December twenty-first. I’ll be back at 12:01 on December twenty-fourth on the dot, in time to return to New York to spend Christmas with Mr. Shaw as planned. You want my advice? Try to enjoy yourself and forget about your career for a few days. You’ve been working flat out for ten years without a break. This sentence might turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Have fun. I’ll see you in seventy-two hours.

And in a swirl of snow, her last contact with her real life was gone.

MICHAEL SHANNON stumbled in the pitch black of the cabin, dropped her Louis Vuitton suitcases to the floor and kicked the door closed.

The air in the cabin was sweet and fresh as if a window had been left open. Not possible in this weather. Her skull throbbed menacingly. She groped her way into the living room, stumbled over a piece of furniture and debated turning on a light. The moon was bright, insanely bright, considering it wasn’t even full. There were two windows in the living room and no curtains. The wrap-around porch shadowed the room. She frowned. There had better be curtains in her room or she’d have to call her lawyer because she wouldn’t be able to sleep past sunrise.

Hah! Maybe that was the idea. The prisoners were roused at dawn. She dropped the fur to the couch and reached behind her back to tug at the zipper of her black silk cocktail dress. With one practiced motion, she lifted the designer frock over her head and dropped it to the floor. She wore a body hugging red lace slip underneath. Michael staggered a little until her eyes adjusted to the moonlit shapes in the room.

Holy crap. This place didn’t look anything like Saul said it would. Her lawyer said she would be housed in a kind of lodge with a rustic, yet spa-like atmosphere. Back in New York, perched on her wheat-colored silk sofa, this sentence had sounded like PR heaven—a daytime diva roughing it in Vermont, doing good deeds.

Proving once again that if you pump three glasses of Chardonnay into a girl on an empty stomach, she’ll sign off on anything, grumbled Michael, surveying the room critically.

The living room and kitchen made up the east end of the cabin with a huge stone fireplace separating the two rooms. The furniture was a mystery in the dim light but she had the sense that there was nothing plush or spa-like about it. Michael noticed a hall to her right that she assumed led to the bathroom and bedrooms. She eyed her luggage balefully and opted to leave it where it was rather than haul it to her room. Grace could have someone move it in the morning. Her nightly cleansing ritual would have to be postponed. Couldn’t be helped; she was too exhausted. Her skin would just have to hold up on its own.

Michael pushed open the first door she came to at the top of the hall. The deep dark of the room astonished her at first until she realized the windows were shaded with blinds. A sign of civilization at last—she’d be able to sleep in. Michael peeled off her slip and crawled into bed. She loved expensive lingerie but couldn’t bear to sleep in it; everything pulled and bunched in the wrong direction. She forgot to brush her teeth, she remembered groggily as she pulled the duvet over her. Michael mashed her face into the pillow and dropped off to sleep.

HUDSON GRACE twisted restlessly. A shift in the bed had disturbed him. In dreamless half-sleep, he flung an arm to the space beside him. Warmth. Softness. A body. Hudson moaned and drew the woman to him, buried his face in her neck and kissed the hollow there. She was naked. Hudson snuggled closer. Her breasts were so soft. He was a lucky man to have ... to have....

Wait a minute. Who was this?

Hudson snapped awake.

There was a naked woman in his bed. Snoring lightly. A woman. Naked. Hudson propped up on one elbow and stared at her in confusion. Wide awake now, he searched his memory. He had a date last night—he must have had a date—and he forgot?

His eyes adjusted to the dark. Her hair was honeyed silk, glimmering in the feeble light filtering through the window blind. A generous mouth that was very sexy. Hudson was too much of a gentleman to peek under the duvet. He was still experiencing the after effects of touching her breasts. She was a woman all right. A naked woman. A shapely naked woman—what the hell was she doing in his bed?

It’s a mistake. That’s what this is. She got the wrong house. No one locks their doors in Mandrake Falls. Poor woman doesn’t know where she is. Right, okay, Grace—sneak out of here and bunk down with Simon. In the morning, pretend like this never happened. Yes, that was definitely the best thing to do in this situation. His eyes drifted over the curve of her mouth. Damn. Why did the best thing always feel so bad? He slid a foot to the floor, gingerly shifting his hips to the far side of the bed. She rolled over, following the shift in the bed and draped a leg over his middle. He was trapped.

Hudson gritted his teeth. She was asleep. Out like a light. But his view of her was better at this angle. She snored—definitely a strike against her. Think about it, Grace. Do you really want to spend the night with a woman who snores? No wedding ring on her finger which was a relief. He didn’t do irate husbands. There could be an ex in the wings though. Best be on guard.

Where did she come from? Was she a lost skier? She wasn’t from Mandrake Falls. He knew all the women in Mandrake Falls. Why was she alone on a Saturday night? Hudson settled beside her. He was pinned by her leg after all; he couldn’t move without disturbing her. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The woman moaned or sighed—a groaning noise and then her thigh moved over his torso slowly.

Hudson’s eyes popped open. Think of something not-erotic—trees, sky, mountains—god no, not that—Christmas shopping—ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Her leg moved a fraction, placing an intolerable pressure on his manhood. It was damned unfair, Hudson griped. She can do this to him, an innocent man in his own bed and somehow he’ll wind up the bad guy. Women expect him to have complete control over that part of his anatomy when that part of his anatomy had a mind of its own. Hudson struggled to extricate himself from under the leg without waking her.

Where’re you going? she moaned in her sleep.

He froze. Um ... out.

Nooo.... She reached to stroke his chest. Kiss me first.

Hudson started to explain but she didn’t wait for a reply. The woman slid her hand up to his neck and dragged his mouth down to hers. She tasted him with those sensuous lips, dipping into his mouth with the tip of her tongue.

Aw, c’mon, give me a break. Hudson groaned. How did this become his problem? He knew he’d have to wake her up or force himself out of the bed. She pressed her body closer, murmuring a wickedly sexy invitation into the base of his neck.

There was a man in the woman’s life; obviously she thought she was in bed with her man. The realization forced Hudson into action. This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you. Hudson slid from her embrace. She whimpered and hugged the pillow to her.

You never want to make love to me anymore, Gregory, she mourned.

So Gregory was the guy. A stupid guy—no judgments—but seriously, what kind of man turns a woman like this down? You’re tired, Hudson whispered. Go back to sleep.

She rolled to her back and stretched her arms over her head, giving Hudson a glorious view of her breasts. He actually thought he heard a choir of angels singing as he stared at them. Why me? he begged the heavens. I’m the last man on earth capable of handling this kind of temptation.

Come back to bed, she moaned.

No. He cleared his throat, determinedly. Where was this resolve coming from? I’ve got to get going.

Mercifully, she rolled to her stomach and buried her head in the pillow. Don’t lie. Just go. She’s waiting.

Oho. It was like that was it? Hudson heard little squeaking sounds coming from the pillow. Was she crying? She was either crying or hiccupping. It was hard to tell. Hudson dropped down beside her. There, there, don’t cry. He patted her back stiffly. He didn’t want to touch her any more than was absolutely necessary. He was too turned on by this whole weird situation and his self-control was pitiful.

She rolled to her side and wound her arms around his neck. Their naked bodies scraped together jolting Hudson out of his skin. She found his mouth and pressed hers to it and he could taste her tears. A hot sensuous kiss coupled with her hands groping him....

What little resolve Hudson had left, shattered. He vaulted into bed—his brain was too slow to stop him. They’ll have three kids and a pony, he thought feverishly as she nibbled his ear. He always wanted a pony. She was doing something to his neck that was driving him insane.

I’ve missed you, Gregory, she wept. I’ve missed you so much...

"Damn! Damn, damn it! I can’t do it!" Hudson caught her narrow waist and tried shift her to the side of the bed. The woman responded by plastering herself on top of him.

Oh, please wake up, he begged. I’m not good with self-restraint.

She moaned, lowering her face to his, screening them both with her long blonde hair. Her hand slid down between them. She stopped. You’re not Gregory.

Hudson froze.

She sat up abruptly, her buttocks pressing down on his manhood. Luckily, he was wearing boxers. He had put them on without thinking before going to bed. Hudson willed his body parts to calm down. No, I’m not Gregory, but I sincerely wish I were.

She lunged for a pillow and swung it over her head. Hudson barely had time to protest before she brought it down, whacking him with surprising force while issuing a stream of language that he thought only truckers used. He lifted his arms to protect himself.

"Take it easy! I’m not going to hurt you. There’s been a