That Summer Place: Island Time / Old Things / Private Paradise

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Private Paradise

Debbie Macomber

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Island Time

Susan Wiggs

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Old Things

Jill Barnett

Dear Reader,

Have you ever visited a place you’ve never been to before and found that you felt as if you were home? That’s what happened to me the first time I came to the Pacific Northwest. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I stepped off a ferry and found a paradise.

A few months later I’d bought a house overlooking a lovely harbor where the eagles fly and the sailboats drift by, where there is a sense of utter peace and quiet. Although I was born and raised on the West Coast, for me, my small chunk of this wonderful island is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived.

Writing about an area that has captured my heart so completely has been very special for me. Oh, I’ve written about islands before. I’ve set four books on small islands and have even joked that I must have been an island in a past life. But this is my first contemporary work of fiction, and it’s set in a place where I live.

I feel so fortunate to have the opportunity to write for a collection with two fabulous and talented Northwest writers, who are now my good friends. Both Susan and Debbie welcomed me here with open arms and graciousness.

So I hope, as you read the stories, you will see a little of what we get to see every day—trees so lush and tall they can block out the sunshine, water so still you are afraid to breathe, and sunrises so perfect you think you must have dreamed them.

Enjoy!

Jill Barnett

c/o Rowe Enterprises

P.O. Box 8166

Fremont, CA 94536

To the readers who wanted an older couple,

particularly to Barbara,

who wrote and sent me one of the

funniest poems I’ve ever read.

One

San Francisco, 1997

Catherine Wardwell Winslow spent a week last winter at a time management seminar where the experts stood up on a big stage and told her that Wednesday was the slowest day of the work week.

They lied.