May 12, 2020

Secrets from a Happy Marriage

New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates’s new novel introduces the women of the Lighthouse Inn B&B. They might not have it all together, but this summer, they’ll discover that together, they might still have it all…

Rachel Henderson’s family is falling apart. Becoming a widow—especially at this age—is heartbreaking. With her teenage daughter, Emma, leaving soon for college, Rachel needs a friend—but local diner owner Adam is the last person she ever thought she’d lean on.

From the outside, her little sister, Anna, has a picture-perfect marriage. But the weight of it is suffocating her. The only way for her to breathe again comes at a high price, one she’s not so sure she can pay.

After raising two daughters on her own, their mother, Wendy, knows just how hard life can be. She’s done things she’s not proud of, things she desperately wants to keep from her girls—until keeping quiet is no longer an option.

As long-held secrets bubble up and their old lives unravel, this family will need all their strength to start again and open their hearts up to the possibility of more. But most of all, they’ll need each other…

Praise for SECRETS FROM A HAPPY MARRIAGE:

Secrets From a Happy Marriage is a beautiful, emotional, tender story with a gorgeous setting and characters I adored. Maisey Yates always writes stories that stay in your heart long after you read the last page. - New York Times Bestselling Author RaeAnne Thayne

Excerpt

Chapter One

Dear Mr. Hansen,

I am writing to accept your offer of marriage. I will arrive in Newport by train on Saturday, 6 January. I have in my possession only one small bag. I have put all of the resources left to me by my late husband into the purchase of this ticket and will not have the funds to acquire a return. I pray we will make a harmonious match.

—From a letter written by Jenny Hansen, to Olaf Hansen, chief lightkeeper of the Cape Hope Lighthouse, December 20, 1899, now posted in the parlor of the Captain’s House at the Lighthouse Inn, Sunset Bay, Oregon

Rachel

Rachel Henderson had known she would be a widow for a number of years now. Knowing that still hadn’t prepared her for the day it would happen. For watching the light that made her husband who he was drain away.

This slow unwinding of their lives from each other.

Where he would go on, and she would remain.

“I really did want to see her graduation.” His voice was weaker now, even more than it had been a few hours earlier.

He laid back his head on the stark white pillow, his eyes fluttering closed. A few months ago, when he’d started spending more time in bed than out, she’d changed the angle of it. Panting and sweating as she strained to move the king-size piece of furniture on her own. But she’d wanted him to be able to see the ocean without having to move too much.

She’d moved all the pictures into a cluster on that wall, as well—all the photographs he’d taken that they’d had framed, right in his line of sight.

The twenty short years they’d spent as husband and wife, captured in those photos. Frozen. Perfect and happy. At the center of them was a photograph with their hands all together that they’d taken when Emma was a baby.

The three of them.

Her family.

Rachel closed her eyes. “Of course. I’m not going to…pretend we didn’t want you to.”

There was no easy thing to say. She wouldn’t lie and say it was okay.

This old Queen Anne house had stood since 1894, and in those years the one constant had been change. From the age when three lightkeepers had been required to live on site to keep the kerosene lantern lit and prevent passing ships from being dashed on the rocks.

To when times had changed and innovation had meant only one keeper and a backup were needed.

To the years when bunkers had been built into the landscape during World War II, men ready to defend the country from enemies that might storm the rocky, windswept beaches.

The years when the lighthouse was automated, and the keepers had no longer been needed. When the houses had been used as dormitories and the property an extension for a university.

Then for nearly a decade when the houses and buildings on the property had been empty. Quiet.

Until Rachel’s mother had taken over and life had started again in these walls.

Change. New life. Loss of life. Laughter. Fear.

It had all existed here.

And the houses, the lighthouse itself, remained through it all.

Rachel could feel it now. As if the years were layers, rather than a timeline. As if it all existed at once, here in this room.

She and Jacob were simply part of it. One row of stitches in a vast quilt.

Rachel found some comfort in that—in this moment where her life felt large and her present pain felt bigger than what she could manage.

That in the fullness of time, she was small. They were small.

But this moment, this time, was all she had. And that moment’s relief she felt fell away. Each second on the ticking clock louder, the sound of his rattling breath echoing in her.

Her husband. The only man she’d ever loved.

They’d been hand in hand, all this time. They’d found new ways to stretch a bond, commitment, over the years.

As his needs had changed, her place in his life had changed, and his in hers.

Changed, but not become less important.

She’d been a wife, and a companion, and a caregiver.

More wife than caregiver at first. But that had changed, too. Like a tide, rolling in and out.

His expression, which had been flat for the past few hours, changed. A small smile touched his lips, and he closed his eyes. For a moment she knew a kick of terror. That this might be it. She knew that it was. But just a few more minutes. That was all she wanted.

She had accepted that she would be a widow. But now she was at the stage where she was happy to delay it five more minutes.

Not that anyone asked her about timing.

“Remember when Emma was born?” His voice was thin.

She looked at him; his eyes were still closed. “I remember.”

It was like he could read her thoughts, and honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

“That was one of the happiest days of my life.” He opened his eyes. They looked glassy now, distant, like they were seeing something else. “The other one was when I married you.”

A tear slid down Rachel’s cheek. Because her husband was a good man. And forty was too young to die. Thirty-nine was too young to be widowed.

Being so aware of the history all around, of the ages and generations of time contained in these walls, all the people who had walked across these wooden floors, these years felt all that much shorter.

Far, far too short.

Her eyes skimmed across the orange-and-white bottles of prescription medication that cluttered the top of the nightstand, to the photo of their wedding day. When they’d been eighteen and blissful, totally unprepared for what lay ahead.

Meningitis, which was terrifying on its own. But she’d had no idea—they’d had no idea—of the side effects that were possible.

For that first seizure that would come only a year later. Followed by brain bleeds. Brain surgeries. Endless clotting complications.

Finally, this.

Cancer.

How had this man who had been through so much, who had already had a rare illness with rare side effects—? It didn’t make sense.

He looked so different now than he had before. Than he had on their wedding day, or when Emma was born.

For every year she’d aged, she’d watched him age two. The ravages of illness were cruel. It had cost him to keep on living all this time, and he’d done it. Brilliantly.

She knew that people felt sorry for them. For him. For her.

As if loving him had been a burden. As if his love hadn’t been sufficient to carry them through this moment.

He had never been a burden.

The love between them had only ever been a gift.

And it was so hard to give up such a beautiful gift.

“I like these pictures,” he said. “But you should have hung up the ones I took of you.”

Her heart went tight. “The ones you took of me in my underwear? I was not going to hang those on the wall.”

His eyes were open again. “But I’d have enjoyed staring at them. I like the ocean but…it’s nothing compared to you.”

She couldn’t speak. Not around the lump in her throat.

She lay down beside him, gripping the edge of the blue-and-white quilt that had been pushed down to the foot of the bed. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Yes.” His eyes fluttered closed again and she smiled.

She looked at him, and his familiar profile. And she watched as his breathing became more and more shallow. She didn’t want to close her eyes, because she didn’t want to miss one more rise-and-fall of his chest.

“I love you,” she whispered, the lump in her throat going sharp, painful.

He didn’t answer.

She started to get tired, the weight of the moment overwhelming her. She fought closing her eyes for a moment, fought sleep. But then some part of her whispered in her ear.

That falling asleep wasn’t a bad thing.

That she should enjoy the chance to go to sleep with her husband of twenty years one last time.

She did.

And when she opened her eyes an hour later, his chest was still.