The Sea Keeper's Daughters Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  Lisa Wingate

  THE SEA KEEPER’S DAUGHTERS

  “Readers will delight in this compelling saga that sweeps from past to present, coastline to mountains. Compassion and forgiveness pave the road to redemption in this gem of a book. The Sea Keeper’s Daughter is a keeper!”

  MARY ALICE MONROE, New York Times bestselling author of The Summer’s End

  THE STORY KEEPER

  “Lisa Wingate’s latest novel, The Story Keeper, pays homage to all young women who dared to rise above the life into which they were born, to find the life they were destined to live.”

  CATHERINE HOSMAN, Killeen Daily Herald

  “Wingate is, quite simply, a master storyteller. Her story-within-a-story, penned with a fine, expressive style, will captivate writers and non-writers alike.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Wingate’s latest tale is beautifully crafted and has so many layers to appeal to readers—history, a contemporary love story, a bit of mystery, and details about the book-publishing industry.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Not since To Kill a Mockingbird has a story impacted me like this.”

  COLLEEN COBLE, USA Today bestselling author of Seagrass Pier

  “For anyone who enjoys master storytellers such as Adriana Trigiani and Karen White. The Story Keeper … transports readers across time.”

  JULIE CANTRELL, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Into the Free

  THE PRAYER BOX

  “A careful eye to detail and a beautiful, lyrical style reminiscent of those of Mary Alice Monroe and Patti Callahan Henry.”

  STARRED BOOKLIST

  “Journeys begin with one single step … in Wingate’s masterful exploration of the road to redemption. Relatable characters and vivid portrayals of events both current and historical create an enchanting, memorable pilgrimage into the fullness of faith and love.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “With a gift for crafting a story that digs into how a person’s past can shape their view of themselves and of hope itself, Lisa Wingate never disappoints to deliver a first-class novel.”

  USA TODAY

  “The Prayer Box is a masterpiece of story and skill.”

  DEBBIE MACOMBER, New York Times bestselling author

  “The Prayer Box is Lisa Wingate’s best work so far! Tandi’s story is an enchanting take on family ties, redemption, and allowing oneself to be swept up into a river of grace regardless of one’s past.”

  KAREN WHITE, New York Times bestselling author of The Time In Between

  OTHER NOVELS BY LISA WINGATE

  “A rising star in the world of women’s fiction.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Lisa Wingate is a glorious storyteller!”

  ADRIANA TRIGIANI, New York Times bestselling author

  “Gripping … compassionate and lyrical … reminds us that it is love that changes our world.”

  PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY, New York Times bestselling author

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Lisa Wingate’s website at www.lisawingate.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  The Sea Keeper’s Daughters

  Copyright © 2015 by Wingate Media, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph copyright © IZZ ANDREW YAW/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Published in association with Folio Literary Management, LLC, 630 9th Avenue, Suite 1101, New York, NY 10036.

  The Sea Keeper’s Daughters is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Wingate, Lisa.

  The sea keeper’s daughters / Lisa Wingate.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8690-4 (softcover) — ISBN 978-1-4143-8827-4 (hardcover) 1. Restaurateurs—North Carolina—Fiction. 2. Inheritance and succession—Fiction. 3. Hotels—North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.I53165S43 2015

  813’.54—dc23 2015014930

  ISBN 978-1-4964-0981-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8723-9 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0982-9 (Apple)

  Build: 2015-08-20 10:54:38

  For those who chased stories

  where none had gone before,

  the Federal Writers.

  May history remember you kindly.

  But most of all,

  may history remember you.

  The one story you didn’t tell

  was your own.

  I hope this tale does you justice.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

  Preview of The Prayer Box

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Writing fiction is the strangest of professions. Here is a job in which your task each day is to listen to the voices of people who don’t exist and describe events that never were. It’s the adult version of Let’s Pretend.

  Yet even games of Let’s Pretend are better when friends are involved—real friends, not the type you conjure up in your head. Many kind people contributed to the making of this book, so I’d like to take a moment to offer my undying thanks.

  First and foremost, I’m grateful to the Federal Writers, whose work was far-reaching, revolutionary, fascinating, and sometimes dangerous. They probed the corners of a hidden America, knowing that even when we have little else, our stories still have value. I am so very grateful for all the stories they saved from extinction.

  As always, I am incredibly thankful for my family. Thank you to my husband and my sweet boys for supporting me through late nights and crazy schedules, and to my mother for being my official assistant and helper, but also my mama. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a helper who will honestly tell you when your hair looks bad … or when a manuscript needs work. Thank you to my sweet mother-in-law for helping with address lists and for loving my grown-too-soon boys and to Paw-paw for making sure the next generation knows the family stories. Thanks also to relatives and friends far and near for loving me and helping me and hosting me as I travel. You’re the best. I’m grateful to my favorite digital designer, Teresa Loman, for beautiful graphics work, to Ed Stevens for constant encouragement and help with all things technical, and to my wonderful Aunt Sandy (also known as Sandy of Sandy’s Seashell Shop) for help with early readings and for contributing beautiful sea glass jewelry for book giveaways and gifts. Thanks to Duane Davis for book tour help and for incredible proofreading. Thanks to Virginia Rush for lending an eye to the manuscript. Enormous gratitude to talented author friend Julie Cantrell for being an amazing critique partner.

  To the people of the Outer Banks, thank you for not only a warm
welcome each time we visit, but for your patience in answering questions. A special thanks to Jamie at Duck’s Cottage Downtown Books in Manteo for always making our visits there a joy and for help with the research on the history of Roanoke Island. A more charming town than Manteo can’t be found anywhere. Everyone should come for a short stay … or a long one.

  In terms of print and paper, deep gratitude goes out to the talented folks at Tyndale House Publishers. To Karen Watson, Jan Stob, Sarah Mason, Maggie Rowe, and Cheryl Kerwin, thank you for being a fabulous publishing team. To the crew in marketing, publicity, art, and sales, thank you for using your talents so well. You are the ones who help these stories fly to the hands of readers.

  Lastly, I am grateful to reader friends everywhere. I love the connection we share across the miles. Thank you for recommending the books to friends, suggesting them to book clubs, and taking time to send little notes of encouragement my way via e-mail, Facebook, and Twitter. I’m indebted to all of you who read these stories and to the booksellers who sell them with such devotion. Thank you for joining in my games of Let’s Pretend.

  May this journey bring you as much joy as you have given me.

  Perhaps denial is the mind’s way of protecting the heart from a sucker punch it can’t handle. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe denial in the face of overwhelming evidence is a mere byproduct of stubbornness.

  Whatever the reason, all I could think standing in the doorway, one hand on the latch and the other trembling on the keys, was, This can’t be happening. This can’t be how it ends. It’s so … quiet. A dream should make noise when it’s dying. It deserves to go out in a tragic blaze of glory. There should be a dramatic death scene, a gasping for breath … something.

  Denise laid a hand on my shoulder, whispered, “Are you all right?” Her voice faded at the end, cracking into jagged pieces.

  “No.” A hard, bitter tone sharpened the cutting edge on the word. It wasn’t aimed at Denise. She knew that. “Nothing about this is all right. Not one single thing.”

  “Yeah.” Resting against the doorframe, she let her neck go slack until her cheek touched the wood. “I’m not sure if it’s better or worse to stand here looking at it, though. For the last time, I mean.”

  “We’ve put our hearts into this place… .” Denial reared its unreasonable head again. I would’ve called it hope, but if it was hope, it was the false and paper-thin kind. The kind that only teases you.

  Denise’s hair fell like a pale, silky curtain, dividing the two of us. We’d always been at opposite ends of the cousin spectrum—Denise strawberry blonde, pale, and freckled, me dark-haired, blue-eyed, and olive-skinned. Denise a homebody and me a wanderer.

  “Whitney, we have to let it go. If we don’t, we’ll end up losing both places.”

  “I know. I know you’re right.” But still a part of me rebelled. All of me rebelled. I couldn’t stand the thought of being bullied one more time. “I understand that you’re being logical. And on top of that, you have Mattie to think about. And your grandmother. We’ve got to cut the losses while we can still keep the first restaurant going.”

  “I’m sorry,” Denise choked out. With dependents, she couldn’t afford any more risk. We’d already gone too far in this skirmish-by-skirmish war against crooked county commissioners, building inspectors taking backroom payoffs, deceptive construction contractors, and a fire marshal who was a notorious good ol’ boy. They were all in cahoots with local business owners who didn’t want any competition in this backwater town.

  Denise and I should’ve been more careful to check out the environment before we’d fallen in love with the vintage mill building and decided it would be perfect for our second Bella Tazza location and our first really high-end eatery. Positioned along a busy thoroughfare for tourists headed north to ski or to spend summer vacations in the Upper Peninsula, Bella Tazza 2, with its high, lighted granary tower, was a beacon for passersby.

  But in eleven months, we’d been closed more than we’d been open. Every time we thought we’d won the battle to get and keep our occupancy permit, some new and expensive edict came down and we were closed until we could comply. Then the local contractors did their part to slow the process and raise the bills even more.

  You’re not the one who needs to apologize, I wanted to say to Denise, but I didn’t. Instead, I sank onto one of the benches and surveyed the murals Denise and I had painted after spending long days at Bella Tazza 1, in the next county over.

  I felt sick all over again.

  “The minute we have to give up the lease, they’ll move in here.” Denise echoed my thoughts the way only a cousin who’s more like a big sister can. “Vultures.”

  “That’s the worst part.” But it wasn’t, really. The worst part was that it was my fault we’d gone this far in trying to preserve Tazza 2. Denise would’ve surrendered to Tagg Harper and his hometown henchmen long ago. Denise would’ve played it safe if only I’d let her.

  Yet even now, after transferring the remaining food inventory to the other restaurant and listing the equipment and fixtures we could sell at auction, I still couldn’t accept what was happening. Somehow, someway, Tagg and his cronies had managed to cause another month’s postponement of our case with the state code commission. We couldn’t hang on that long with Tazza 2 closed but still racking up monthly bills. This was death, at least for Tazza 2, and if we weren’t careful, the financial drain would swallow Tazza 1, leaving our remaining employees jobless.

  “Let’s just go.” Denise flipped the light switch, casting our blood, sweat, and tears into shadow. “I can’t look at it anymore.”

  The click of the latch held a finality, but my mind was churning, my heart still groping for a loophole … wishing a white knight would ride in at the eleventh hour, brandishing sword and shield.

  Instead, there was Tagg Harper’s four-wheel-drive truck, sitting in the ditch down by the road. Stalker. He was probably scratching his belly while sipping a brewski and smiling at himself.

  “Oh, I hate that man.” Denise’s teeth clenched over the words. “I’d like to …”

  I couldn’t help myself—I took a step in Tagg’s direction.

  “Whitney, don’t get into it with him. There’s no telling what he’s capable of.”

  My despair morphed into a feverish anger. I’d never hated anyone the way I hated Tagg Harper.

  Denise’s hand snaked out and grabbed my jacket. “Don’t give him any more satisfaction. It’s bad enough that he’ll see our equipment on eBay as soon as we post the listings. Jerk. Honest competition with his restaurant, I can handle, but this …”

  “I’d just like to … walk down there and nail him with a kick to that great big gut of his.” The past few months’ drama had driven me to think about refresher courses in Tang Soo Do karate, a pastime I’d given up after leaving the high school bullies behind, twenty years ago. I hadn’t told Denise, but someone had been prowling around my cabin at night.

  As usual, my cousin was focused on the practical, on achieving containment. “We need to concentrate on digging out financially and keeping the first store alive.”

  “I know.” The problem was, I’d been adding things up in my head as we’d made our auction list in the mill building. What we’d get for the supplies and equipment wouldn’t even take care of the final utility costs here, much less the legal bills we’d amassed. With the flagging economy and the need to absorb as many Tazza 2 employees as possible into the other restaurant, I wasn’t even sure we could make payroll. And we had to make payroll. Our employees were counting on it. They needed to pay their bills too.

  Guilt fell hard and heavy, settling stone by stone as we crossed the parking lot. If I hadn’t moved back to Michigan five years ago and convinced Denise to start a restaurant with me, she would’ve still been in a nice, safe teaching job. But I’d been sailing off a big win after quitting an upper management job, opening my own bistro in Dallas, proving it out, and selling it for a nice chunk of
change. With four hundred thousand dollars in my pocket, I’d been so sure I had the perfect formula for success. I’d told myself I was doing a good thing for my cousin, helping her escape the constant struggle to single-handedly finance a household, take care of her aging grandmother, and pay for Mattie’s asthma care on a teacher’s salary.

  Denise, I had a feeling, had been hoping that our starting a business together would somehow defeat the wanderlust that had taken me from culinary school to the far corners of the world, opening top-of-the-line kitchens for a multinational restaurant conglomerate.

  “See you in the morning, Whit.” A quick shoulder-hug and she disappeared into her vehicle, cranking the engine, then crunching across the leftover ice runoff of a polar-vortex winter. Rather than disappearing down the driveway, she stopped at the curb, near Tagg’s truck. Through the cold-smoke, I could feel her watching, waiting to be sure I made it to the road without spiraling into a confrontation.

  It was so like Denise to look after me. Since her long-ago days as my after-school babysitter, she’d always been fiercely protective. Like the rest of Mom’s family, she’d worried that I was stuffing down the aftereffects of my father’s death, and that Mom was making a mistake by exposing me to my grandmother on faraway Roanoke Island. It was no secret that Ziltha Benoit held my mother responsible for the untimely loss of her son.

  Denise had silently understood all the things I couldn’t tell my mom, or anyone—the painful inadequacy that had haunted my childhood, the sense that I could never be good enough, the ridicule in the exclusive private school across town, where Mom’s music teaching job came with free tuition for me. The awkwardness of not fitting in with the silver-spoon kids there, even though my last name was Benoit. Denise had always been my oasis of kindness and sage advice—the big sister I never had.