More Than a Memory

More Than a Memory
Roz Denny Fox

More Than a Memory

Roz Denny Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u9048d877-de28-5a44-9407-14d2fb8f4dba)

Title Page (#u978fe716-5988-52b3-b795-790e251e0d65)

About the Author (#u58696d55-d5bb-5d73-94f2-87b85c87d357)

Chapter One (#u4322461f-4f65-56df-a85e-f2d99e619f95)

Chapter Two (#u18e7ca62-949d-540c-9435-35427402eed7)

Chapter Three (#u6379da98-f6f8-574b-8eca-e87ac65d3fe6)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Roz Denny Fox has been a RITA

Award finalist and has placed in a number of other contests; her books have also appeared on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. She’s happy to have received her twenty-five-book pin and would one day love to get the pin for fifty books. Roz currently resides in Tucson, Arizona, with her husband, Denny. They have two daughters.

Chapter One

JO CARROLL TAPED UP the last of her moving boxes and set it by the door. Only her mother’s room remained for her to deal with. Jo had put it off until last. It didn’t seem possible that a month had passed since Sharon Drake had been laid to rest next to Jo’s dad, Joseph, in the cemetery not far from the apartment she and Jo had shared. Sharon’s death had been as unexpected as the car-train accident that had claimed Joe Drake’s life seven years earlier.

One morning Sharon woke up complaining of a bad headache. In the blink of an eye she’d collapsed—and was gone before the paramedics arrived. The doctors told Jo it was a brain aneurysm, and she tried to take comfort in the knowledge that her mother hadn’t suffered.

Now Jo was on her own. She wasn’t a child. At twenty-five she could take care of herself. Since her dad’s death, an accident that Jo herself had been lucky to survive, her life had revolved around her career as a concert violinist.

Hesitating at the threshold of her mother’s bedroom, Jo nervously brushed her palms down her denim jeans. Sharon had been an intensely private woman, and a controlling one. Jo had put off this task as long as she could, but she’d crunched the numbers and she knew that moving was an economic necessity. Her monthly stipend as lead violinist with the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra, and the little she earned working odd shifts at a coffeehouse, wouldn’t cover the rent on this two-bedroom unit in a renovated brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue.

Her mother had insisted they needed to live where they could rub elbows with symphony patrons who could help advance Jo’s career. But Jo wondered how her mom had made ends meet.

Determined to be done with it, she opened an empty box and started sorting her mother’s belongings. She set aside a cameo pin to save. Jo planned to donate the rest to a women’s shelter. The lack of anything of real value drove home the sacrifices her mother had been willing to make for Jo’s profession.

Guilt welled up as she folded a worn, blue crepe dress—the last piece of clothing in the closet. Now, a final check to make sure she’d gotten everything and she’d be ready to call in the movers.

Wait! What was that on the top shelf? Whatever it was had been stuck behind a winter bedspread. She had to stretch, but Jo managed to get down a wooden box. Not too heavy, but it was wedged in tight. Her dad’s name was carved on the lid. Jo’s hands shook. She had no memories of him. The box was cedar, she realized as she sank to her knees and opened the lid, releasing a pungent scent.

Inside she found books and papers. High-school yearbooks along with news clippings and gilt-edged certificates.

Jo felt momentarily disappointed. She’d been hoping for a will or an insurance policy. But this was strange. The yearbooks were from a high school in Tennessee. White Oak Valley High. Jo didn’t know anyone in Tennessee.

As she inspected a couple of the awards, a knot formed in her stomach. The name Colleen Drake was stenciled on each. All were first- and second-place wins from the Smoky Mountain Music Festival.

Breathing became difficult as Jo sifted through two dozen yellowed newspaper articles. A girl pictured in one bore an uncanny resemblance to her own few childhood photographs, which she’d already packed. Here was this Colleen Drake again. A gifted violinist with the same last name as Joe’s family…Fumbling, Jo dropped the clippings. Out slithered a thin gold chain. Hanging from it was some kind of pendant—a gold oak leaf. The leaf was inscribed on the back, Jo saw as she turned it over. Ornate script read Forever Love. Under the words were entwined letters that could be a G and a C, or perhaps two Gs.

Jo curled her fingers around the pendant. All the items in the box were puzzling. Actually they were a little frightening, she thought, absently tracing a threeinch scar along her hairline. A throbbing pain grew after she opened one yearbook and paged through class photographs. She would’ve been a high-school sophomore that year. There was her smile on the face of a stranger named Colleen Drake. Cold prickles ran up Jo’s spine. Her first inclination was to put everything back in the box and pretend she’d never found it.

Curiosity made her open the second book—her junior year. That picture of Colleen Drake resembled her uncannily. It could almost be her—except she never wore her hair pulled back away from her face the way it was in this photo. And Jo’s birth name had been Drake, too, until she’d changed it for professional reasons.

The question was unavoidable. Who was Colleen Drake? Could this be her? Lights flashed behind Jo’s eyes, warning of an impending migraine. She fended it off by sheer will. A cousin—maybe this was a cousin.

A spot in the third yearbook where a graduation photo should have been was blank. But Colleen Drake’s name was typed there along with credits listing activities such as track, band and girls’ chorus. What had happened to the girl with her face?

Unable to think clearly for the pounding in her skull, Jo cradled her head in her hands. Neatly layered rustred hair fell forward, veiling the damning evidence.

After a minute, she felt calm enough to begin reviewing what she did know. There wasn’t much. The severe injuries she’d sustained in the accident that had killed her father had erased her memory. When she woke up in the hospital following surgery, she’d panicked at her inability to recall anything. But then her mother had appeared at her side. Sharon patiently sat by Jo’s bedside and painstakingly reconstructed her past, one story at a time. Some details bubbled up now. According to Sharon, Jo had led a privileged childhood, attending private schools and studying with music tutors. Master violinists. Sharon repeated these stories so often Jo felt as if she remembered living them. Everyone at the hospital considered it a miracle that she’d retained the ability to play her violin. They consulted doctor after doctor who’d all said that sometimes it happened like that following a head trauma. Maybe her memories would return, but maybe they wouldn’t.

Why—why would her mother lie to her? Why hadn’t she said anything about this cousin or whoever she was? After all, she’d kept these yearbooks…Fear crept in.Who was left to confirm her mom’s accounts of her history?

Scrambling to her feet, Jo found her cell phone and punched in Jerrold Cleary’s number with shaking fingers. A longtime patron of Boston’s symphony, Jerrold was Jo’s mentor and her mother’s staunch friend. Jo suspected her mother and Jerrold had a loose romantic relationship, but she had no proof of it, except—

“Jerrold? It’s Jo.” She broke off her erratic thoughts and found herself babbling. “I thought I’d emptied Mother’s closet, but I found a cedar box I think belonged to my dad. This is going to sound bizarre, but…did Mother ever mention me having family? Maybe a cousin, Colleen?” A sigh slid out, but Jerrold’s assurance was a relief. He and her mother often huddled together in the kitchen talking while Jo practiced for six or eight hours every day.

“Not that I know of, Jo,” Jerrold said. “Are you all right? You aren’t making much sense.”

“I know. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll dig deeper.” Jo hastened to say goodbye, but Jerrold cut her off. “You sound funny. I’ll be right over.”

“There’s no need. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for this stuff. This must be a long-lost cousin from Dad’s side of the family,” she said, trying to believe it. The other possibility was too devastating to consider.

After she’d healed, on a rare outing to a mall, Jo openly envied the young women her age. She’d seen them holding hands and laughing with their handsome boyfriends. Her mother used to hurry her along or divert her attention. Was that significant?

“Don’t come over, Jerrold. I’m about to call the movers. I have everything in the apartment packed.” Except for the items from the cedar box. Jo scowled down at the phone gone dead in her hand.

She didn’t call the movers, but returned to her mother’s bedroom and sat down to read the news clippings.