Kathleen is eighty years old. After she has a
run-in with an intruder, her daughter wants her to move into a residential
home. But she’s not having any of it. What she craves—what she needs—is
adventure.
Liza is drowning in the daily stress of family
life. The last thing she needs is her mother jetting off on
a wild holiday, making Liza long for a solo summer of her own.
Martha is having a quarter-life crisis.
Unemployed, unloved and uninspired, she just can’t get her life together. But
she knows something has to change.
When Martha sees Kathleen’s advertisement for
a driver and companion to share an epic road trip across America with, she
decides this job might be the answer to her prayers. She's not the world's best
driver, but anything has to be better than living with her parents. And
traveling with a stranger? No problem. Anyway, how much trouble can one
eighty-year-old woman be?
As these women embark on the journey of a
lifetime, they all discover it's never too late to start over…
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Kathleen
It
was the cup of milk that saved her. That and the salty bacon she’d fried for
her supper many hours earlier, which had left her mouth dry.
If
she hadn’t been thirsty—if she’d still been upstairs, sleeping on the
ridiculously expensive mattress that had been her eightieth birthday gift to
herself—she wouldn’t have been alerted to danger.
As
it was, she’d been standing in front of the fridge, the milk carton in one hand
and the cup in the other, when she’d heard a loud thump. The noise was out of
place here in the leafy darkness of the English countryside, where the only
sounds should have been the hoot of an owl and the occasional bleat of a sheep.
She
put the glass down and turned her head, trying to locate the sound. The back
door. Had she forgotten to lock it again?
The
moon sent a ghostly gleam across the kitchen and she was grateful she hadn’t
felt the need to turn the light on. That gave her some advantage, surely?
She
put the milk back and closed the fridge door quietly, sure now that she was not
alone in the house.
Moments
earlier she’d been asleep. Not deeply asleep—that rarely happened these
days—but drifting along on a tide of dreams. If someone had told her younger
self that she’d still be dreaming and enjoying her adventures when she was
eighty she would have been less afraid of aging. And it was impossible to
forget that she was aging.
People
said she was wonderful for her age, but most of the time she didn’t feel
wonderful. The answers to her beloved crosswords floated just out of range.
Names and faces refused to align at the right moment. She struggled to remember
what she’d done the day before, although if she took herself back twenty years
or more her mind was clear. And then there were the physical changes—her
eyesight and hearing were still good, thankfully, but her joints hurt and her
bones ached. Bending to feed the cat was a challenge. Climbing the stairs
required more effort than she would have liked and was always undertaken with
one hand on the rail just in case.
She’d
never been the sort to live in a just in case sort of way.
Her
daughter, Liza, wanted her to wear an alarm. One of those medical alert
systems, with a button you could press in an emergency, but Kathleen refused.
In her youth she’d traveled the world, before it was remotely fashionable to do
so. She’d sacrificed safety for adventure without a second thought. Most days
now she felt like a different person.
Losing
friends didn’t help. One by one they fell by the wayside, taking with them
shared memories of the past. A small part of her vanished with each loss. It
had taken decades for her to understand that loneliness wasn’t a lack of people
in your life, but a lack of people who knew and understood you.
She
fought fiercely to retain some version of her old self—which was why she’d
resisted Liza’s pleas that she remove the rug from the living room floor, stop
using a step ladder to retrieve books from the highest shelves and leave a
light on at night. Each compromise was another layer shaved from her
independence, and losing her independence was her biggest fear.
Kathleen
had always been the rebel in the family, and she was still the rebel—although
she wasn’t sure that rebels were supposed to have shaking hands and a pounding
heart.
She
heard the sound of heavy footsteps. Someone was searching the house. For what,
exactly? What treasures did they hope to find? And why weren’t they trying to
at least disguise their presence?
Having
resolutely ignored all suggestions that she might be vulnerable, she was now
forced to acknowledge the possibility. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so
stubborn. How long would it have taken from pressing the alert button to the
cavalry arriving?
In
reality, the cavalry was Finn Cool, who lived three fields away. Finn was a
musician, and he’d bought the property precisely because there were no
immediate neighbors. His antics caused mutterings in the village. He had rowdy
parties late into the night, attended by glamorous people from London who
terrorized the locals by driving their flashy sports cars too fast down the
narrow lanes. Someone had started a petition in the post office to ban the
parties. There had been talk of drugs, and half-naked women, and it had all
sounded like so much fun that Kathleen had been tempted to invite herself over.
Rather that than a dull women’s group, where you were expected to bake and knit
and swap recipes for banana bread.
Finn
would be of no use to her in this moment of crisis. In all probability he’d
either be in his studio, wearing headphones, or he’d be drunk. Either way, he
wasn’t going to hear a cry for help.
Calling
the police would mean walking through the kitchen and across the hall to the
living room, where the phone was kept and she didn’t want to reveal her
presence. Her family had bought her a mobile phone, but it was still in its
box, unused. Her adventurous spirit didn’t extend to technology. She didn’t
like the idea of a nameless faceless person tracking her every move.
There
was another thump, louder this time, and Kathleen pressed her hand to her
chest. She could feel the rapid pounding of her heart. At least it was still
working. She should probably be grateful for that.
When
she’d complained about wanting a little more adventure, this wasn’t what she’d
had in mind. What could she do? She had no button to press, no phone with which
to call for help, so she was going to have to handle this herself.
She
could already hear Liza’s voice in her head: Mum, I warned you!
If
she survived, she’d never hear the last of it.
Fear
was replaced by anger. Because of this intruder she’d be branded Old and
Vulnerable and forced to spend the rest of her days in a single room with
minders who would cut up her food, speak in overly loud voices and help her to
the bathroom. Life as she knew it would be over.
That
was not going to happen.
She’d
rather die at the hands of an intruder. At least her obituary would be interesting.
Better
still, she would stay alive and prove herself capable of independent living.
She
glanced quickly around the kitchen for a suitable weapon and spied the heavy
black skillet she’d used to fry the bacon earlier.
She
lifted it silently, gripping the handle tightly as she walked to the door that
led from the kitchen to the hall. The tiles were cool under her feet—which,
fortunately, were bare. No sound. Nothing to give her away. She had the
advantage.
She
could do this. Hadn’t she once fought off a mugger in the backstreets of
Paris? True, she’d been a great deal younger then, but this time she had the
advantage of surprise.
How
many of them were there?
More
than one would give her trouble.
Was
it a professional job? Surely no professional would be this loud and clumsy. If
it was kids hoping to steal her TV, they were in for a disappointment. Her
grandchildren had been trying to persuade her to buy a “smart” TV, but why
would she need such a thing? She was perfectly happy with the IQ of her current
machine, thank you very much. Technology already made her feel foolish most of
the time. She didn’t need it to be any smarter than it already was.
Perhaps
they wouldn’t come into the kitchen. She could stay hidden away until they’d
taken what they wanted and left.
They’d
never know she was here.
They’d—
A
floorboard squeaked close by. There wasn’t a crack or a creak in this house
that she didn’t know. Someone was right outside the door.
Her
knees turned liquid.
Oh
Kathleen, Kathleen.
She
closed both hands tightly round the handle of the skillet.
Why
hadn’t she gone to self-defense classes instead of senior yoga? What use was
the downward dog when what you needed was a guard dog?
A
shadow moved into the room, and without allowing herself to think about what she
was about to do she lifted the skillet and brought it down hard, the force of
the blow driven by the weight of the object as much as her own strength. There
was a thud and a vibration as it connected with his head.
“I’m
so sorry—I mean—” Why was she apologizing? Ridiculous!
The
man threw up an arm as he fell, a reflex action, and the movement sent the
skillet back into Kathleen’s own head. Pain almost blinded her and she prepared
herself to end her days right here, thus giving her daughter the opportunity to
be right, when there was a loud thump and the man crumpled to the floor. There
was a crack as his head hit the tiles.
Kathleen
froze. Was that it, or was he suddenly going to spring to his feet and murder
her?
No.
Against all odds, she was still standing while her prowler lay inert at her
feet. The smell of alcohol rose, and Kathleen wrinkled her nose.
Drunk.
Her
heart was racing so fast she was worried that any moment now it might trip over
itself and give up.
She
held tightly to the skillet.
Did
he have an accomplice?
She
held her breath, braced for someone else to come racing through the door to
investigate the noise, but there was only silence.
Gingerly
she stepped toward the door and poked her head into the hall. It was empty.
It
seemed the man had been alone.
Finally
she risked a look at him.
He
was lying still at her feet, big, bulky and dressed all in black. The mud on
the edges of his trousers suggested he’d come across the fields at the back of
the house. She couldn’t make out his features because he’d landed face-first,
but blood oozed from a wound on his head and darkened her kitchen floor.
Feeling
a little dizzy, Kathleen pressed her hand to her throbbing head.
What
now? Was one supposed to administer first aid when one was the cause of the
injury? Was that helpful or hypocritical? Or was he past first aid and every
other type of aid?
She
nudged his body with her bare foot, but there was no movement.
Had
she killed him?
The
enormity of it shook her.
If
he was dead, then she was a murderer.
When
Liza had expressed a desire to see her mother safely housed somewhere she could
easily visit, presumably she hadn’t been thinking of prison.
Who
was he? Did he have family? What had been his intention when he’d forcibly
entered her home? Kathleen put the skillet down and forced her shaky limbs to
carry her to the living room. Something tickled her cheek. Blood. Hers.
She
picked up the phone and for the first time in her life dialed the emergency
services.
Underneath
the panic and the shock there was something that felt a lot like pride. It was
a relief to discover she wasn’t as weak and defenseless as everyone seemed to
think.
When
a woman answered, Kathleen spoke clearly and without hesitation.
“There’s
a body in my kitchen,” she said. “I assume you’ll want to come and remove it.”
Excerpted
from The Summer Seekers by Sarah Morgan. Copyright © 2021
by Sarah Morgan. Published by HQN Books.
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan writes hot, happy, contemporary romance and women’s fiction, and her trademark humor and sensuality have gained her fans across the globe. Described as “a magician with words” by RT Book Reviews, she has sold more than eleven million copies of her books. She was nominated three years in succession for the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America and won the award three times: once in 2012 for Doukakis’s Apprentice, in 2013 for A Night of No Return and in 2017 for Miracle on 5th Avenue. She also won the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2012 and has made numerous appearances in their Top Pick slot. As a child, Sarah dreamed of being a writer, and although she took a few interesting detours along the way, she is now living that dream. Sarah lives near London, England, with her husband and children, and when she isn’t reading or writing, she loves being outdoors, preferably on vacation so she can forget the house needs tidying.
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