All Our Summers Read online




  Outstanding praise for the novels of Holly Chamberlin!

  THE SUMMER NANNY

  “A satisfying and multifaceted story that keeps readers guessing. For fans of similar works by authors such as Shelley Noble and

  Nancy Thayer.”—Library Journal

  THE SEASON OF US

  “A warm and witty tale. This heartfelt and emotional story will appeal to members of the Sandwich Generation or anyone who has had to set aside long-buried childhood resentments for the well-being of an aging parent. Fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Wendy Wax will adore this genuine exploration of family bonds, personal growth, and acceptance.”—Booklist

  THE BEACH QUILT

  “Particularly compelling.”—The Pilot

  SUMMER FRIENDS

  “A thoughtful novel.”—Shelf Awareness

  “A great summer read.”—Fresh Fiction

  “A novel rich in drama and insights into what factors bring people together and, just as fatefully, tear them apart.”

  —The Portland Press Herald

  THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE

  “Explores questions about the meaning of home, family dynamics and tolerance.”—The Bangor Daily News

  “An enjoyable summer read, but it’s more. It is a novel for all seasons that adds to the enduring excitement of Ogunquit.”

  —The Maine Sunday Telegram

  “It does the trick as a beach book and provides a touristy taste of

  Maine’s seasonal attractions.”—Publishers Weekly

  Books by Holly Chamberlin

  LIVING SINGLE

  THE SUMMER OF US

  BABYLAND

  BACK IN THE GAME

  THE FRIENDS WE KEEP

  TUSCAN HOLIDAY

  ONE WEEK IN DECEMBER

  THE FAMILY BEACH HOUSE

  SUMMER FRIENDS

  LAST SUMMER

  THE SUMMER EVERYTHING CHANGED

  THE BEACH QUILT

  SUMMER WITH MY SISTERS

  SEASHELL SEASON

  THE SEASON OF US

  HOME FOR THE SUMMER

  HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

  THE SUMMER NANNY

  A WEDDING ON THE BEACH

  ALL OUR SUMMERS

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  all our summers

  holly chamberlin

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133

  Chapter 134

  Chapter 135

  Chapter 136

  Chapter 137

  Chapter 138

  Chapter 139

  Chapter 140

  Chapter 141

  Teaser chapter

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Elise Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1922-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1922-5

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1922-0

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2020

  As always, for Stephen

  And this time, also for Veronica Donner

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks once again to the best
editor I could ever hope to have, John Scognamiglio.

  Thanks also to Kathryn and GG for bringing light into my life, all the way from Nebraska.

  This book is in memory of Joe Riillo, friend and musician extraordinaire, taken from us too soon.

  For age is opportunity no less

  Than youth itself, though in another dress,

  And as the evening twilight fades away

  The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Chapter 1

  It was a beautiful, early summer day in the town of Yorktide, Maine. The temperature was politely hovering around seventy-five, the humidity was low, and the pink and white peonies were in magnificent bloom.

  Summer was Bonnie Ascher Elgort’s favorite time of the year. It didn’t matter that she was spending the day at Ferndean House, her family’s homestead, dusting and polishing furniture, vacuuming rugs and draperies, keeping an eye out for spiders, and checking for burned-out lightbulbs. The windows were open and the cooing of a pair of mourning doves filled the air. Life was good.

  Bonnie leaned over the deep kitchen sink to scrub at a mark on the backsplash. The motion caused an ache in her shoulder. At sixty-two, Bonnie was heavier than she had ever been. She knew she had lost about half an inch in height; she could see how her shoulders were slightly hunched. It didn’t bother her; she still felt strong, and that was what mattered. Her medium-brown hair had dulled a bit over time, and since her husband Ken’s illness and death it had become threaded with gray. This didn’t trouble Bonnie. She had been told by friends that she had a youthful air about her, though she wasn’t really sure what that meant or if it was important. Probably not.

  What really mattered in life was on the inside. Unlike her sister, Carol, Bonnie had never been particularly interested in clothes. It had been years since she had worn a pretty dress and carried a fancy bag, and that had been at the wedding of a friend’s grandson. And, of course, there had been Ken’s funeral a year ago come September. As the grieving widow, form had required her to make a certain appearance and she had, in the only skirt, blouse, and jacket that still fit her. Shoes had been a problem. Her daughter, Julie, had taken her to one of the outlets in Kittery, where after a grueling hour or two they had finally found a pair of tan low-heeled pumps. Bonnie had not worn them since the funeral. Maybe she would wear them to her granddaughter’s high school graduation in a few years.

  Bonnie moved from the kitchen into the dining room, where she ran a dustcloth over the carved bits of the massive oak sideboard that held pride of place. It was one of Bonnie’s favorite pieces in the house. No one was quite sure who had brought it to Ferndean or when, but the sideboard had been there as long as Bonnie could remember. Truth be told, almost every single piece of heavy furniture, every knickknack no matter how cracked or otherwise damaged, every painting darkened with age and lack of professional care, every plate and saucer decorated with a pattern long out of fashion, held special meaning for Bonnie.

  Which was why it had not been difficult for her to come to a decision about her future. She would sell the cottage in Yorktide in which she and Ken had lived for all of their married lives and move permanently into her family home. Ferndean House had been left equally to Bonnie and Carol by their parents, Shirley and Ronald Ascher, but Carol lived in New York City and had done since she was nineteen. Ferndean meant nothing to Carol Ascher. It meant the world to Bonnie. It was a member of the family. It was alive.

  Ferndean House, located at 23 Wolf Lane, was situated on twenty acres of land that boasted a good-size pond (a stop-off for migrating birds in autumn and home to peepers in early spring); monumental oak, pine, and maple trees; and a profusion of native ferns, high and lowbush blueberry bushes, and flowering shrubs such as azalea and rhododendron. The house itself was about three thousand square feet with two floors of rooms and an attic that had formerly served as servants’ quarters. There was a big stone fireplace in the living room; a charming front porch that ran the entire length of the house; a back deck that had been added at some point in the 1940s; a large flower and kitchen garden; and the puzzling remains of a stone structure set at one end of the large lawn that stretched behind the house.

  Ferndean had been built by Carol and Bonnie’s great-grandfather for his much younger third wife. He had named the structure after the house in Jane Eyre where Jane and the blind and crippled Mr. Rochester were reunited. The novel—only recently published—had been his wife’s favorite; indeed, it was Bonnie’s favorite novel, too. Marcus and Rosemary’s wedding portrait, taken in June of 1848, still hung in Ferndean’s living room, in what Bonnie had been told was its original frame.

  After Shirley Ascher’s death some thirty years earlier, Bonnie and her sister, in a rare instance of accord, had decided to rent the big house during part of the summer season. It would be a good source of income, most of which would go toward the upkeep of the old place. What was left over was pure profit; that profit benefited Bonnie and her family enormously, but Carol, who didn’t need an additional source of income, routinely put her share back into the fund kept for the maintenance of the building and grounds.

  Taking up full-time residency at Ferndean House would eliminate the income from seasonal renters, but Bonnie wasn’t concerned. She would have cash from the sale of the cottage. Besides, she was not an extravagant person. Her needs were small, and she was used to living on a tight budget. All would be well going forward.

  It would have to be well, Bonnie thought as she left the dining room, because she thoroughly believed that she was entitled to full possession of Ferndean. She was the one who had cared for Shirley Ascher in her dying years. She was the one who had helped to raise Carol’s troubled daughter, Nicola. She was the one who had handled the management and maintenance of the family homestead for the past thirty years.

  Who had changed Shirley Ascher’s soiled sheets, prepared her meals, and taken charge of administering her medicines? Who had attended Nicola’s school events from the time she came to live with her aunt in Yorktide? Who had cleaned up when Ferndean’s pipes had burst? Who had mowed the lawn, planted the flowers, harvested the herbs and vegetables? Who had repainted the kitchen and bathrooms every ten years? Who had dealt with the summer tenants—finding them, vetting them, cleaning up after them?

  Bonnie fondly patted the curved wooden banister of the grand staircase that led to the second floor. Yes, after all these years as full-time caretaker of her family homestead, Bonnie Ascher Elgort was entitled to be Mistress of Ferndean. It was something she had been dreaming about for a long time, pushing aside Carol’s claim to the house and reigning supreme. But Ken had always held her back from making waves with her sister. Ken, the calm and reasonable husband, the broker of peace, the man who had wholeheartedly accepted Carol’s troubled child into his home. And Carol Ascher hadn’t even had enough respect for such a wonderful man to attend his funeral.

  But now that Ken was gone, there was no one to keep Bonnie from achieving her dream. That the dream was largely fueled by ancient sibling rivalry didn’t make it any less desirable. On the contrary, ancient sibling rivalry gave Bonnie’s dream its incredible power.

  In the living room now, Bonnie straightened the framed photos that were grouped on a table draped with a yellowed lace cloth. The entire family was represented, from Marcus and Rosemary to Bonnie’s granddaughter, Sophie. Bonnie was especially fond of her parents’ wedding portrait. Both looked so young and so solemn! And here was a photograph of Bonnie and Carol taken when they were quite young, three and six, Bonnie guessed. The girls were wearing bulky snow suits; behind them, Ferndean House, laced with snow, rose in its classic New England majesty. The image was a bittersweet reminder of the happy, almost idyllic childhood the sisters had shared at Ferndean, long before Carol had abandoned her home and her family for fame and fortune in New York City.

  The distinct sound of a key in the front door caused Bonnie to turn from the table of p
hotographs. It was probably Nicola, Bonnie thought, though her niece usually knocked before entering when she saw her aunt’s car in the drive.

  “Hello!” Bonnie called out as she made her way to the door. She felt a smile come to her face. She always felt like smiling when Nicola was around.

  The door creaked loudly as it opened inward and a woman’s figure stepped inside. The dustcloth Bonnie had been holding fell to the floor. She felt her stomach drop along with it. Her right hand went to her heart.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

  Chapter 2

  New York City

  Two weeks earlier

  The past few days had been unseasonably warm; heat seemed to rise visibly from the concrete sidewalks and to shimmer in waves above the busy streets. Even though she would be comfortably seated in an air-conditioned, chauffeur-driven town car, Carol was glad she didn’t have to commute from her home on the Upper West Side to her office in Chelsea and back again.

  The reason that Carol Ascher was able to avoid the steamy streets of Manhattan was because a month earlier she had sold her business—Ascher Interior Design—to her long-time, dedicated, and very talented junior partner. There was no doubt in Carol’s mind that the company she had birthed and raised would find as much success in the future as it had found in the past. Still, there were several moments each day when Carol effectively forgot that she was no longer at the helm. When she realized with a start that she was no longer needed. When she found herself worrying about things for which she was no longer required to worry.

  Carol passed through the hallway that led from her bedroom at one end of the apartment. As was her habit, she glanced at her image in the Art Deco mirror that hung over a black lacquer occasional table just outside the living room. She was pleased with what she saw. She hated that awful term sometimes used to describe a woman who appeared younger than her biological age. Well-preserved. Like a bit of dinosaur bone at the Museum of Natural History. What Carol was, in fact, was well taken care of. She got regular therapeutic massages; attended Pilates and yoga classes; had her hair professionally cut and colored every five weeks; and took her vitamin, calcium, blood pressure, and cholesterol pills as recommended by her doctor. At sixty-five, she was as tall and straight as she had been at nineteen, when she first arrived in New York City.