A New Leaf Read online

  Contents

  A Letter from Thomas Kinkade

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A New Leaf

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by Thomas Kindade, The Thomas Kindade Company

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-2065-8

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: February, 2005

  The Cape Light Titles

  CAPE LIGHT

  HOME SONG

  A GATHERING PLACE

  A NEW LEAF

  A CHRISTMAS PROMISE

  A LETTER FROM THOMAS KINKADE

  A NEW LEAF: THE TITLE OF THIS CAPE LIGHT BOOK SUGGESTS a fresh start, a new beginning. As a painter, I love new beginnings. One of my favorite moments is when I put my brush to a blank white canvas to begin a new painting. The precious newness of the moment is a thrill that is difficult to describe, but when people hear me say that, they often ask, “Don’t you feel daunted by the blank canvas in front of you? Doesn’t the task ahead ever seem too difficult, even frightening?” Truthfully the answer is no, for one simple reason: I have learned that no canvas is ever really blank. Every painting, every stroke of my brush, every glowing dot of light carries with it a little bit of me, everything that has come before. My task, and my joy, is to not hold back, to let the canvas fill with everything I have learned and seen and felt. My raw materials are not the paint and brushes and canvas cloth. My raw materials are my family, my friends, my joys, my sorrows, my faith in God, everything that makes up the color and form of my life. If I can embrace all of that, I know the painting will emerge.

  For me, all of life is like that—a painting that we create and change and shape for all our years on earth. As you will soon see in A New Leaf, several of Cape Light’s residents are facing a new white canvas. Some will feel the elation of love and others the sadness of parting. Some are hesitating to pick up a brush to let their new paintings take form. New relationships are begun and old relationships undone. Others are looking back on the canvases they have already filled and hoping to make sense of what they have created. But as they turn their new leaves and begin to allow their new paintings to emerge, they will certainly come to understand and appreciate anew the fullness that is a life lived on God’s earth.

  So join us now. Jessica and Sam, Dan and Emily, Sophie and Gus, and Molly are ready to welcome you to Cape Light. And I welcome you, too, with my thanks. Thank you so much for saving a small corner of the canvas of your life for the people of Cape Light.

  —Thomas Kinkade

  CHAPTER ONE

  MOLLY WILLOUGHBY RAN DOWN THE HALLWAY, A RADIO tucked under one arm, a bucket of cleaning supplies dangling from the other. The vacuum followed like a dutiful pet, coming to a sudden stop beside her in the middle of the empty room.

  She checked her watch. Nearly four and she had the whole second floor to finish: three bedrooms and two baths. Large rooms, too. And dirty. She’d never expected the place to take this long. The kitchen had been a nightmare. Scouring the stove and refrigerator had taken hours and worn out two sets of gloves.

  She propped the radio on a window ledge and turned up the volume loud enough to be heard over the vacuum. The station was her daughter Lauren’s favorite, one Molly usually avoided. But it was good cleaning music; the frantic beat kept her moving.

  She covered the room in big strides, shoving the vacuum in all directions over the blue carpet, thinking how she’d never even wanted this job. She wanted to give up housecleaning altogether, but here she was, once again breaking her neck to finish on time.

  Why do I let myself get talked into these things?

  Because you need the money, a small, familiar voice answered.

  True enough. Sometimes she felt like a hamster in a cage, racing endlessly on its wheel but never making any progress. There was the housecleaning, errand jobs, cooking for private clients, baking for restaurants. If someone offered her work, she couldn’t afford to refuse. She took the job first and figured out how and when she would do it later. She worked hard to support her girls, though ironically, she knew they sometimes felt neglected. As if she didn’t give them enough of her time and attention.

  Well, maybe I don’t, she admitted. If her ex-husband, Phil, would just grow up and help support his children in some consistent fashion, maybe she’d have some extra time to spend with them.

  She hoped when they were older they’d understand. She thought she was doing a good job so far raising them. Hopefully, she’d send them to college someday. That was her real goal.

  So they won’t end up like me, racing from job to job, just to make ends meet, constantly juggling work and their needs, not to mention the often complicated child-care arrangements.

  Her parents helped a lot, watching the girls while she worked. But Molly came from a large family, and her five other siblings needed help at times as well. Her parents were in Florida now with her younger sister Laurie who had recently given birth to twins. Her mother had called with a full progress report the other night, adding that she and Molly’s dad planned to stay a few more weeks. Even though the babies and her sister were doing well, two infants at once were quite an adjustment. Molly remembered making some appropriately cheerful reply. She couldn’t blame her parents for spending more time with their new grandchildren. And who wouldn’t want to escape the New England winter? Though it was the last week of February, the cold and snow hadn’t let up one bit. It felt positively endless. Still, Molly was unhappy to hear she’d have to get by without her mother for a few weeks longer than expected.

  Her older brother Sam had always pitched in with the girls and still did, even though he had married a few months ago. Sam’s wife, Jessica, had the girls now. Molly knew Jessica wouldn’t mind if they stayed until she finished here. But Molly had promised her daughters pizza and a movie at the mall, and she didn’t want to disappoint them.

  I’ll work until five, then come back real early tomorrow and finish up, she decided. That should give me plenty of time to be in and out before the tenant arrives. Fran Tulley, the real estate agent who’d handled the rental, had mentioned that the tenant wasn’t due until noon.

/>   Dr. Harding’s arrival had been a hot topic around town. The village had been without a general practitioner since Dr. Elliot had retired last spring, almost a year ago now. Molly had heard Dr. Harding was a widower and a friend of Ezra Elliot’s, and she pictured the new practitioner cut from the same mold, an elderly Yankee with a dry wit and a pragmatic manner.

  She had never been a huge fan of Dr. Elliot, not like some in Cape Light. He was kind enough, in his way. But something about him had always intimidated her. He moved in a different circle, with the Warwicks and the rest of them, the kind of families in the grand old Victorians who might hire her to cook or clean but rarely acted as if she were their equal.

  The window molding was coated with dust. She would need the brush attachment to get at that. The window panes needed to be sprayed and wiped down, too. Molly shut off the vacuum and looked for her spray bottle. Now the radio volume seemed deafening, and she rushed over just as the song was ending.

  “. . . Our love’s down the drain. Ain’t it a shame? You call to complain. . . .”

  Molly clicked off the radio, relieved at the sudden silence. “Give me a break. I’d complain, too, if I had to listen to you all the time.”

  “Me, too,” a deep voice agreed.

  Molly spun around to face the doorway. A man stood there, staring at her. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she took a sudden step backward. She had taken a self-defense course once, and her mind raced to remember the helpful tips. Don’t scream? Or was it, scream your head off?

  Hey, pal, I have a vacuum cleaner attachment here, and I’m not afraid to use it!

  “I’m sorry. . . . I didn’t mean to startle you,” the intruder said gently.

  “That’s okay. I’m fine.” Good move. A stranger just broke into the house, and I apologize to him.

  “I called up the stairs to you, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

  “Apparently not,” she agreed.

  He had nice eyes, dark brown, and thick brown hair with a few silver-gray strands blended in, though he didn’t look much older than she was.

  Why was she even noticing this?

  “I’m just bringing in some boxes. I know it’s the country out here, but you shouldn’t leave the doors unlocked.”

  “I thought I locked it,” Molly replied.

  Okay, he’s a delivery man. Or at least, that’s what he says. Jeans. Work boots. A sweatshirt and a down vest. That’s what they wear, right?

  He wasn’t exactly brawny, she noticed, but he did look fit.

  He smiled again, then stepped back, raising both hands in a gesture of surrender.

  “I’ll back out slowly now, if you promise to lay down your weapon.”

  Molly didn’t understand him at first, then realized she’d been brandishing the vacuum attachment in a menacing fashion.

  “Oh, sorry.” She slowly let it slip down to her side but didn’t let go altogether. She glanced at him again, still feeling uneasy at the way he was looking at her.

  “Are you finished down there, yet?” she asked.

  “Hardly. But don’t worry. I can handle it.”

  She suddenly got it. Since the doctor was older, he probably needed help with items he didn’t trust to the movers, which explained this guy. Well, that wasn’t her problem. She already had enough on her plate cleaning up the place.

  “I wasn’t offering to help. I have plenty left up here to do, and it’s almost five.”

  He looked surprised at her answer, then showed a neutral expression. “Sure, I understand. But maybe you can keep the music down a few decibels?”

  “No problem,” Molly returned, echoing his tone. “Would you mind wiping your feet as you go in and out? I just finished down there. I don’t want to do it all over again.”

  He gave her a surprised look again, then nodded. “The place looks great. I’ll be careful to keep it that way.”

  “I hope you’re through soon. I need to lock up before I go.” Molly turned and sprayed cleaner on the window. “The tenant won’t be here until tomorrow, and I’m responsible for the place until then.”

  “The tenant?”

  “Dr. Harding, from Worcester. Those are his boxes you’re delivering, aren’t they?”

  He paused a moment, his expressive features warming with a slow smile of understanding.

  “I am Dr. Harding.”

  Molly opened her mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it. Then she said, “Oh, I thought you were a delivery man. Actually I didn’t know who you were.”

  He looked as if he were about to laugh, but he was too polite to embarrass her. She felt her cheeks grow warm and red. Then she felt like laughing at herself, too.

  “One false move and I was going to brain you with the vacuum-cleaner pipe.”

  “I had a feeling that was your plan.” He smiled again and then leaned forward to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Matt Harding.”

  “Molly Willoughby.” She met his gaze as they briefly shook hands, and she felt her knees get rubbery. She quickly looked away.

  He’s either really good looking, or I don’t get out much, Molly thought, clearing her head.

  “The real-estate agency hired me to clean the house for you,” she said in a more professional tone.

  “Right. They said they were sending someone over. You must have been working hard. It looks a lot better than when I was here last time.”

  “That’s my job.” She forced a smile. “I’m sorry for the mix-up. Someone told me you were a friend of Dr. Elliot. I guess I pictured you . . . differently.”

  He laughed. “Old and cranky, you mean?” When Molly didn’t reply, he added, “I’ve known Dr. Elliot since I was a boy. He and my father are good friends.”

  “I get it.” Molly nodded, feeling silly.

  “I guess I’ll go down and get the rest of the boxes.”

  “Sure. See you later.” Molly looked away, suddenly engrossed in the contents of her cleaning bucket. But once she heard his footsteps disappear, she ran into the small bathroom that adjoined the bedroom and shut the door.

  She stared at her reflection and gave a silent shriek. Her ponytail had exploded, and long, dark curls sprung out in all directions. A streak of oven grease marked her cheek and the tip of her nose. The mess trailed down her worn-out sweatshirt, which would not have been an entirely bad thing, Molly thought, if only the stains had blocked out the ridiculous saying printed across her chest: Save a Chicken’s Life. Eat a Lobster.

  Unfortunately, they did not.

  For heaven’s sake, he must think I’m a complete idiot, she thought mournfully. And why did I wear these jeans today? They look terrible. She surveyed her rear view and yanked the sweatshirt down over her hips, only to watch it immediately rise up again.

  I’ve got to lose some weight. Get back in shape. I just never seem to have the time. . . .

  A long dark curl flopped across her face, and she blew it away like a feather.

  Oh, well. What’s the point? He’s a doctor, not a delivery man. He isn’t going to be interested in someone like me.

  Molly wearily pulled out her hair clip and quickly combed out her hair with her fingertips, then rinsed the grime off her face and patted it dry with some tissues.

  That will be enough primping for Dr. Harding, she decided.

  The room had darkened with late afternoon shadows. She couldn’t wait for spring to come. She was so tired of the short, dark winter days. Molly checked the time. A quarter past four. She considered staying longer, but her surprise meeting with the new tenant had thrown her off. She decided to ask if she could finish the rest of the work tomorrow and hoped he wouldn’t mind.

  As she came downstairs, she saw Matthew struggling through the front door with a stack of boxes. She ran down the last few steps and plucked a package from the top of the pile to help him.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” He set down his load and looked up at her.

  “That’s all right. It looked like it was about to s
lip. Is there anything else out there?”

  “That’s the last of it.” Molly followed his glance to an impressive stack of boxes piled against one wall of the living room.

  “The movers have the rest. There were some fragile things I didn’t trust in the truck. Some medical instruments. And some family china that my daughter Amanda already has her eye on. I’d never hear the end of it if any of that turned up broken.”

  The tender note in his voice made her smile. “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen . . . going on forty,” he noted with a wry smile.

  “I have one of those at home myself.” He looked surprised, but Molly was used to that reaction. She had Lauren less than a year after graduating high school, and some people said she looked even younger than her age, which was now thirty-two. She kept talking, hoping he wouldn’t make the usual comment. Gee, you look too young to have a teenager. . . .

  “Lauren is my fourteen year old, and I have another who’s eleven, Jill.”

  “Amanda is my one and only. I have it easy, I guess.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I think in some ways one is harder. With two, they have each other for company, so they go off on their own, and they’re not always bugging you. And you have the older one to practice on, so you know what to do when the second one acts out.”

  He nodded. “A practice child. That’s an interesting theory. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before.”

  He seemed amused, and the way he kept gazing at her made her feel nervous again. She smiled, controlling the urge to tug on her sweatshirt.

  “I guess I would have liked more kids myself,” he admitted, “but life doesn’t always turn out the way you plan.”

  “I know what you mean.” She remembered he was a widower and guessed from his serious tone that his thoughts had suddenly turned to his loss. She glanced away, thinking of her own disappointments. “I hope coming to Cape Light works out for you. We’re a little off the beaten track. But it’s a nice place once you get used to it.”