Dragonfly Summer (A Smith Mountain Lake Novel Book 2) Read online

  Dragonfly Summer

  Smith Mountain Lake Series - Book Two

  Inglath Cooper

  Dragonfly Summer Copyright © 2015

  Contents

  Copyright

  Books by Inglath Cooper

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  Reviews

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Evan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Evan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Evan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Evan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Evan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Evan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Evan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Evan

  Keegan

  Bowie

  Keegan

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  About Inglath Cooper

  Get in Touch with Inglath Cooper

  FREE Chapter from Nashville - Part One - Ready to Reach

  Copyright

  Published by Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

  Copyright © Inglath Cooper, 2015

  Cooper, Inglath

  Dragonfly Summer / Inglath Cooper

  ISBN – 978-0-9862825-3-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the email address below.

  Fence Free Entertainment, LLC

  [email protected]

  Books by Inglath Cooper

  Blue Wide Sky – Smith Mountain Lake Series

  Rock Her

  Crossing Tinker’s Knob

  Jane Austen Girl

  Good Guys Love Dogs

  Truths and Roses

  A Gift of Grace

  RITA® Award Winner John Riley’s Girl

  A Woman With Secrets

  Unfinished Business

  A Woman Like Annie

  The Lost Daughter of Pigeon Hollow

  A Year and a Day

  Nashville: Part Nine – You, Me and a Palm Tree

  Nashville: Part Eight – R U Serious

  Nashville: Part Seven – Commit

  Nashville: Part Six – Sweet Tea and Me

  Nashville: Part Five – Amazed

  Nashville: Part Four – Pleasure in the Rain

  Nashville: Part Three – What We Feel

  Nashville: Part Two – Hammer and a Song

  Nashville: Part One – Ready to Reach

  On Angel’s Wings

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  Get a FREE copy of Nashville – Part One – Ready to Reach by joining Inglath Cooper’s newsletter mailing list! Just click here.

  Reviews

  “If you like your romance in New Adult flavor, with plenty of ups and downs, oh-my, oh-yes, oh-no, love at first sight, trouble, happiness, difficulty, and follow-your-dreams, look no further than extraordinary prolific author Inglath Cooper. Ms. Cooper understands that the romance genre deserves good writing, great characterization, and true-to-life settings and situations, no matter the setting. I recommend you turn off the phone and ignore the doorbell, as you’re not going to want to miss a moment of this saga of the girl who headed for Nashville with only a guitar, a hound, and a Dream in her heart.” – Mallory Heart Reviews

  “Truths and Roses . . . so sweet and adorable, I didn’t want to stop reading it. I could have put it down and picked it up again in the morning, but I didn’t want to.” – Kirkusreviews.com

  On Truths and Roses: “I adored this book…what romance should be, entwined with real feelings, real life and roses blooming. Hats off to the author, best book I have read in a while.” – Rachel Dove, FrustratedYukkyMommyBlog

  “I am a sucker for sweet love stories! This is definitely one of those! It was a very easy, well written, book. It was easy to follow, detailed, and didn’t leave me hanging without answers.” – www.layfieldbaby.blogspot.com

  “I don’t give it often, but I am giving it here – the sacred 10. Why? Inglath Cooper’s A GIFT OF GRACE mesmerized me; I consumed it in one sitting. When I turned the last page, it was three in the morning.” – MaryGrace Meloche, Contemporary Romance Writers

  5 Blue Ribbon Rating! “. . .More a work of art than a story. . .Tragedies affect entire families as well as close loved ones, and this story portrays that beautifully as well as giving the reader hope that somewhere out there is A GIFT OF GRACE for all of us.” — Chrissy Dionne, Romance Junkies 5 Stars

  “A warm contemporary family drama, starring likable people coping with tragedy and triumph.” 4 1/2 Stars. — Harriet Klausner

  “A GIFT OF GRACE is a beautiful, intense, and superbly written novel about grief and letting go, second chances and coming alive again after devastating adversity. Warning!! A GIFT OF GRACE is a three-hanky read…better make that a BIG box of tissues read! Wowsers, I haven’t cried so much while reading a book in a long long time…Ms. Cooper’s skill makes A GIFT OF GRACE totally believable, totally absorbing…and makes Laney Tucker vibrantly alive. This book will get into your heart and it will NOT let go. A GIFT OF GRACE is simply stunning in every way—brava, Ms. Cooper! Highly, highly recommended!” – 4 1/2 Hearts — Romance Readers Connection

  “…A WOMAN WITH SECRETS…a powerful love story laced with treachery, deceit and old wounds that will not heal…enchanting tale…weaved with passion, humor, broken hearts and a commanding love that will have your heart soaring and cheering for a happily-ever-after love. Kate is strong-willed, passionate and suffers a bruised heart. Cole is sexy, stubborn and also suffers a bruised heart…gripping plot. I look forward to reading more of Ms. Cooper’s work!” – www.freshfiction.com

  May you touch dragonflies and stars,

  dance with fairies and talk to the moon,

  May you grow up with love and gracious hearts

  and people who care.

  – Author Unknown

  Things do not change; we change.

  – Henry David Thoreau

  Keegan

  I BELIEVE IT was architect Frank Lloyd Wright who said if you tip the world over on its side, everything loose will land in Los Angeles.

  If that’s so, then everything rooted and stable resides in Virginia. />
  At least that’s how I remember it. As well as memories formed at eight years old can be remembered. I had experienced Virginia for two weeks during a summer camp I was chosen to attend with other city-bound foster kids.

  The camp had been held on a farm at Smith Mountain Lake. That week had opened a door to another world for me, a world where people didn’t exist for the next fix, the next high. Where children had value beyond being a bargaining chip for drug money.

  That summer had provided me with amazing memories that I still draw on today as the picture of what life can look like when it’s going as it should.

  But then how long has it been since anything in my life looked as it should?

  And what if this place I’m running to has become every bit as random and merciless as the city I just left? The place where I’ve spent the past twenty years of my life working toward something I truly thought I would eventually reach, only to realize I had been there all along. And never recognized it. Never valued it.

  We still have a couple of hours to go before we reach Smith Mountain Lake. I glance across the seat at my sleeping son and wonder if I should wake him so he doesn’t miss the incredible views as we travel through Charlottesville with its Blue Ridge Mountain backdrop.

  I had considered making a stop at Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home, taking an hour or so to tour the grounds, which I have heard are beautiful.

  But Evan wouldn’t want to, and if I’m honest, we’d both simply be going through the motions. Saying words just to fill the space, maintain the appearance that we both try to maintain every day. Moving forward without looking back. Trying to take notice of what good there is in front of us. Mostly, failing miserably.

  The mountain between us is Reece. Evan’s certainty that I could have prevented her from cutting us out of her life. My guilt that he is right.

  So I let him sleep. Rolling down the window of the Range Rover and sticking my head out long enough to blow the need to sleep from my own brain.

  I’ve been driving since five a.m. Almost twelve hours. Evan has offered to drive numerous times, but I’ve insisted that I’m fine. It’s crazy not to let him relieve me and not something I can even explain, beyond the fact that I feel the need to get us to this new life on my own.

  I’m the one, after all, who kept us in a life we should have left six or seven years ago when I started to see the fallout of remaining in L.A. Continuing to work in a career that fosters the perception that problems can be recognized and resolved in forty-two minute episodes.

  I had years to recognize and process those going on in my own house. And I failed in the biggest way it is possible to fail. I failed my child.

  South of Charlottesville on 29, the road dips and curves a bit more. I pass a couple of state troopers parked in the middle of the highway and check my speed.

  The pull of the brakes rouses Evan. He lifts his head and gives me a groggy stare. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just trying not to get a ticket.”

  “How long before we get there?”

  “Less than two hours. Are you hungry?”

  “Nah.”

  “We can stop if you are.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” he says with the edge in his voice that has become more and more the norm.

  I decide that silence is the best response and reach out to turn up the music playing from my iPhone through Bluetooth.

  Evan manages to turn his back to me, even though he is six-two and wearing a seat belt. His rejection stings. But I don’t blame him.

  If I could reject myself, I would.

  The best things in life are unexpected – because there were no expectations.

  – Eli Khamarov

  Bowie

  SOMETIMES, I THINK it has to be a sin, this life I’m living.

  If not a sin, then at least something I’m probably not deserving of.

  I’m sitting on the front porch of the house my grandparents built on prime Virginia farm land in the late 1940s. It’s big, way too big for me to be living here alone. But I love its Southern two-story charm. The porches that rim the upper and lower levels. The two enormous oak trees that throw evening shade across the green yard that leads down to the dock and the edge of the lake. The 130 acres that surrounds it and provides a physical boundary from neighbors getting too close.

  I love this time of day too. Not quite dark yet, but still light enough that I can watch the boats idling across the wide stretch of Smith Mountain Lake before me. It’s the peacefulness that drew me here, that keeps me here.

  It’s the thing I crave most in life now. Peace. Hard to believe when all I used to want was the next case with all its uncertainty and conflict. The emotional noise of another criminal wrong I was determined to rectify.

  Two years of living in this house by myself have not made me lonely. Or want for regular human company.

  At my feet, Carson rolls over on his back, paws in the air. He struggles to get footing, and I wonder if he is dreaming about swimming or running, both of which he loves. I reach down and scratch his belly. He groans, opens an eye to make sure it’s me and goes back to his dreaming.

  He’s a questionable blend of Black Lab and most likely Australian cattle dog. If he’s not wanting to dive off the end of the dock forty times a day, he’s trying to temper his genetic need to herd me from one end of the farm to the other. His inner conflicts are a good deal like my own, except that he can indulge both without too much fallout.

  The same is not true for me. I had to make a choice between mine.

  Despite his bossiness, his is about the only company I care to have on a regular basis these days. I’m not sure whether this says more about my love for the canine species or my disillusion with human beings. Most likely both.

  I glance at my MacBook Air, reading the last paragraph I wrote to remind myself where I left off before my thoughts started to wander. I focus on the screen and start up with the story again.

  I write for an hour or so, forgetting about the boats on the lake in front of me, the salad I meant to go inside and fix. I even manage to block out Carson’s snoring, because I’m there in the world I’m creating out of nothing with people I force to face their obstacles and fears, instead of running away from them.

  It’s the sound of a car and the flash of headlights that pulls me back to reality. It’s completely dark now, the occasional red light of a passing boat on the lake all I can make out.

  I put the laptop on the table next to my chair. Carson gets to his feet and throws out a warning bark, trotting off in front of me with his fur raised. I follow him to the side of the house where a vehicle sits with its engine running. I can’t tell if I know who it is or not because the headlights are shining directly at me.

  I walk to an angle where I can make out the fact that it’s a Range Rover with California plates.

  The driver’s door opens, and a woman gets out. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten a little lost. My cell service is sketchy so the GPS has given up. Can you possibly tell me where Walker Road is?”

  Carson is barking full force now, doing a near-perfect imitation of a trained security dog. We both know better. Despite his herding instincts, a loud boo will send him running. “It’s all right, Carson,” I say, patting my leg. He trots over and sits up against me.

  The woman’s expression reveals concern and uncertainty. I relieve her with, “He’s harmless.”

  It’s clear she doesn’t believe me. She grips the door of the vehicle and says, “I won’t keep you. Do you know Walker Road?”

  “I do,” I say, noticing then that she’s pretty. And lost, I remind myself. “Ah, if you go back out my driveway and take a right, you’ll need to go about two miles. Hang a left when you pass the tennis court and another right at the Corner Country Store.”

  I realize I’ve turned into one of the locals whose direction-giving skills I once ridiculed. She looks more than confused, shaking her head with,
“Could you say that again, please?”

  I walk closer to the vehicle, now able to fully make out her features. Long, blondish hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She’s fairly tall and thin, her face hollowed with angles that either make her an athlete or someone who’s not a big fan of eating. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, but that’s unlikely with the California plates.

  I go over the directions again, and when I’m done, she still doesn’t seem all that sure about her ability to find her way there. “I can lead you over if you’d like.”

  As soon as the words are out, I have no idea where they came from. I do not make a habit of interacting with people in general, much less a stranger who just pulled up in my driveway.

  “If you don’t mind, that would be great,” she says, looking instantly relieved.

  I notice then that there appears to be someone in the passenger seat. I lean my head to the right for a better view, and she says, “My son. He’s asleep. We’ve been driving for the past few days.”