Northpointe Chalet (The Jane Austen Series) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - White Smith Debra

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156 pages

English

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Northpointe Chalet: A Contemporary Retelling of Northanger AbbeyWhen a lively group of customers visit Kathy Moore's cafŽ, new friendships--and romance--ensue. When she learns of a mystery in their past, Kathy takes on the role of amateur detective, but will her digging do more damage than good?

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	05 juin 2018
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493414208
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2005 by Debra White Smith
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Bethany House edition published 2018
Previously published by Harvest House Publishers
Ebook edition created 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-1420-8
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
Author is represented by Alive Literary Agency
Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Cast
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
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About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Cast

Alaina Tilman: Based on Eleanor Tilney from Northanger Abbey. The sister of Ben Tilman, Alaina meekly lives from day to day under the thumb of her overbearing father.
Ben Tilman: Based on Henry Tilney from Northanger Abbey. Ben is as gifted a pastor as he is charming. A true gentleman, he enjoys a strong relationship with his sister, Alaina, and a strong attraction with Kathy Moore.
Caleb Manley: Based on Eleanor Tilney’s boyfriend from Northanger Abbey. Caleb is Alaina Tilman’s secret love and the son of Thurston Manley.
Dory Thaine: Based on Mrs. Thorpe from Northanger Abbey. Dory is the high school friend of Gloria Avery and Ron and Liza Thaine’s mother.
Gloria Avery: Based on Mrs. Allen from Northanger Abbey. Mrs. Avery is a longtime friend of the Moore family. She is Kathy Moore’s godmother.
Jay Moore: Based on James Morland from Northanger Abbey. A high school coach, Jay is Kathy Moore’s beloved elder brother.
Kathy Moore : Based on Catherine Morland from Northanger Abbey. Kathy, a delightfully charming scatterbrain, spends her days working in her new bookstore and her nights reading thrillers.
Liza Thaine: Based on Isabelle Thorpe from Northanger Abbey. The sister of Ron Thaine, Liz has a charming personality as captivating as her beauty.
Michelle Moore: Based on Mrs. Morland from Northanger Abbey. Kathy Moore’s mother, Michelle has everything she’s ever dreamed of in life: happy children and a doting husband.
Raymond Moore: Based on Richard Morland from Northanger Abbey. Kathy Moore’s father, Raymond, enjoys his life as a successful pastor in west Texas.
Ron Thaine: Based on John Thorpe from Northanger Abbey. The brother of Liza Thaine, Ron is enchanted with Kathy Moore.
Sigmund Avery: Based on Mr. Allen from Northanger Abbey. Mr. Avery is a longtime friend of the Moore family. Like his wife, Gloria, he serves as a parent figure to Kathy Moore.
Thurston Manley: The father of Caleb Manley (Alaina Tilman’s boyfriend), and Zachariah Tilman’s enemy.
Zachariah Tilman: Based on General Tilney from Northanger Abbey. Zachariah, a retired army captain, rules his family with as much zeal as he once did the military men assigned to him.
One

It might have been midnight, or perhaps earlier, or later, for I had taken no note of time, when a sob, low, gentle, but very distinct, startled me from my revery. I felt that it came from the bed of ebony—the bed of death. I listened in an agony of superstitious terror—but there was no repetition of the sound. I strained my vision to detect any motion in the corpse, but there was not the slightest perceptible. Yet I could not have been deceived. I had heard the noise, however faint, and my whole soul was awakened within me. I resolutely and perseveringly kept my attention riveted upon the body. . . . I felt my brain reel, my heart cease to beat, my limbs grow rigid where I sat . . .
Kathy Moore relished the tremors penetrating her soul. She’d read everything Edgar Allen Poe had written so many times she’d lost track of the number. But each time she read this passage from Ligeia , delightfully creepy goose bumps spanned her body. The flickering candle on her nightstand provided the only light in the shadowed bedroom. She’d promised herself years ago she’d never read Poe unless the lights were off and a candle was on. The effect was beyond exhilarating.
To make matters even more gratifying, an unexpected boom of thunder rattled the dilapidated apartment’s windows. Kathy jumped and yelped as a flash of lightning extinguished the room’s thick darkness. She blinked and, in the aftermath of momentary blindness, was almost certain her drapes billowed with the imprint of a person, hidden and waiting . . . an invader, fumbling to free himself from the curtain’s bondage.
Just like Ligeia , she thought. Kathy scooted deeper under the sheets and bit the fresh-smelling linens to stop the scream. Her eyes wide, she clutched her book and commanded herself to scramble to the other side of the bed, away from the intruder. But her body refused to cooperate. She was stranded in the clutches of living rigor mortis.
A gust of wind whistled around the aging building. The apartment, nestled atop Kathy’s bookstore, groaned like a soul tormented from ancient days. The drapes fiercely surged.
I must have left the window open. The practical thought both disappointed and comforted. Then Kathy remembered shutting and locking the window before donning her satin pajamas and crawling into bed. Both comfort and disappointment plummeted.
Kathy glanced toward her cell phone sitting on the nightstand on the other side of her bed. The shadowed distance between her and the phone stretched into an insurmountable chasm, too difficult to span for a terrified soul trapped by rigid terror.
For but a second the drapes halted their activity, only to shiver through the final throes of the captive’s determination to reveal himself. Kathy released her copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s Complete Works , gripped her throat, and lunged for the phone. Nothing could stop her calling for help now . . . nothing . . . except the phone was dead.
Panting, Kathy glanced around the room in desperate search for any sign of the charger. Her frenzied mind conjured no memory of what she’d done with it. She glanced toward the curtains again, fully expecting a menacing hand to extend from the folds.
A scream erupted through her terror. In response, a faint, questioning “Meow!” floated from the curtains.
Kathy whipped around and gazed into the inquisitive, golden stare of her furry roommate, Lucy. After flopping her hand against her chest and collapsing onto the bed, she stared up at the watermarked ceiling. A shaky giggle accompanied another of Lucy’s feline queries.
“That was a good one, Lucy!” Kathy cheered in her heavy Southern accent. “You got me good, girlfriend! I haven’t been scared like that in absolutely ages. Ha! I love it! What a riot!”
Kathy crawled back to her side of the bed. She blew out the candle and flipped on the brass-plated lamp. “Come on, sugar,” she crooned and patted the side of the bed. Lucy stretched her golden striped torso, jumped onto the bed, and trotted toward her owner. Purring, she nudged her head against Kathy’s waiting hand and shamelessly drank up the fond affection.
“You need some kind of an award for that one,” Kathy claimed. She slid her feet out of the bed and wiggled her bare toes against the worn taupe carpet. When she stood, the floor planks creaked. A new boom of thunder sent a shock through her body. Kathy jumped again and released a yelping giggle.
She stooped to pick up the cat and said, “Too much more and I’ll have five years off my life by ten o’clock.” Kathy glanced at the clock and noted that was only five minutes away. She’d been on her own here in Northpointe, Colorado, for a whole month, and her mother had called her exactly thirty times. Every night between nine and ten, Kathy’s phone rang. And every night Kathy stopped herself from reminding her mother that she was twenty-two and could take care of herself. Now she realized that, with her phone dead, she was missing her mom’s call tonight, and her mom was probably worried sick.
“Where is that charger?” she mumbled and plopped Lucy on the end of her bed’s rumpled eyelet comforter. Picking up a framed black-and-white poster of Lucille Ball on the kitchen table, and pawing through a pile of bills mixed with three of last week’s blouses, Kathy found the charger, plugged in her phone, and saw six missed calls.
“Phooey!” Kathy fretted just as the phone started ringing. When she placed the receiver to her ear, her mother’s concerned voice came through the line.
“Hi, honey! Are you okay?” Michelle Moore nearly shrieked.
“Hi, Mom. I’m sorry, I guess my phone died. How was your day?”
Her mother sighed relief, then immediately began chatting about the new chicken casserole she’d cooked for the church board members’ luncheon, as Kathy stepped toward the haunted drapes. She pulled the drape cord and double-checked the window lock. As she remembered, it was tightly secure.
“And how was your day?” Michelle questioned.
“It was great!” Kathy imagined her mother’s ginger-eyed stare, penetrating and analytical. She squirmed. Kathy didn’t bother to add that she had only sold twenty-five dollars’ worth of merchandise in the last two days.
At the age of fifty-four, Michelle Moore looked like she was in her early forties, but at times Kathy thought her mom had an eighteenth-century mindset. Michelle had