{"product_id":"whiskey-beach-isbn-9780515154290","title":"Whiskey Beach","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Nora Roberts weaves together passion and obsession, humor and heart, in a novel of two people opening themselves up to the truth—and to each other.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor more than three hundred years, Bluff House has sat above Whiskey Beach, guarding its shore—and its secrets. But to Eli Landon, it’s home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Boston lawyer, Eli has weathered an intense year of public scrutiny and police investigations after being accused of—but never arrested for—the murder of his soon-to-be ex-wife.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe finds sanctuary at Bluff House, even though his beloved grandmother is in Boston recuperating from a nasty fall. Abra Walsh is always there, though. Whiskey Beach’s resident housekeeper, yoga instructor, jewelry maker and massage therapist, Abra is a woman of many talents—including helping Eli take control of his life and clear his name. But as they become entangled in each other, they find themselves caught in a net that stretches back for centuries—one that has ensnared a man intent on reaping the rewards of destroying Eli Landon once and for all.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWhiskey Beach\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Roberts delivers another dazzler.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A perfect synthesis of romance and suspense, guaranteed to keep Roberts' fans up long past their bedtimes.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Spellbinding...Roberts enthralls the reader with enigmatic characters and effortless plotting from the first page of this masterfully crafted novel.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sweet, sexy romance with an intriguing historical family mystery that bleeds into a modern-day crime spree.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A must-read for Roberts' fans.”—Romance Junkies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWhiskey Beach\u003c\/i\u003e has everything a reader could want: a compelling mystery, engaging characters, a charming setting, snappy dialogue, wit, warmth, passion, a cool title and an endearing dog.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Frederick News-Post\u003c\/i\u003e (MD)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Buried treasure ramps up the suspense in this can't-miss beach read.”—\u003ci\u003eFort Worth Star-Telegram\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eNora Roberts\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than 200 novels. She is also the author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print.One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the chilly curtain of sleet, in the intermittent wash of the great light on the jutting cliff to the south, the massive silhouette of Bluff House loomed over Whiskey Beach. It faced the cold, turbulent Atlantic like a challenge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI will last as long as you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding three sturdy and indulgent stories above the rough and rugged coast, it watched the roll and slap of waves through the dark eyes of windows, as it had-in one incarnation or another-for more than three centuries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe little stone cottage now housing tools and garden supplies spoke to its humble beginnings, to those who'd braved the fierce and fickle Atlantic to forge a life on the stony ground of a new world. Dwarfing those beginnings, the spread and rise of golden sand walls and curving gables, the generous terraces of weathered local stone sang to its heyday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt survived storm, neglect, careless indulgence, dubious taste, the booms and the busts, scandal and righteousness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin its walls, generations of Landons had lived and died, celebrated and mourned, schemed, thrived, triumphed and languished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had shone as bright as the great light that swept the water off Massachusetts's rocky and glorious north shore. And it had huddled, shuttered in the dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had stood long, so long now it simply was Bluff House, reigning above the sea, the sand, the village of Whiskey Beach.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor Eli Landon it was the only place left to go. Not a refuge as much as an escape from everything his life had become over the past eleven horrible months.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe barely recognized himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe two-and-a-half-hour drive up from Boston over slick roads left him exhausted. But then, he admitted, fatigue cozied up to him like a lover most days. So he sat outside the house, in the dark, sleet splatting off his windshield, his roof, while he debated the choices of gathering enough energy to go inside or just staying put, maybe sliding into sleep in the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStupid, he thought. Of course he wouldn't just sit there and sleep in the car when the house, with perfectly good beds to choose from, stood only a few feet away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut neither could he drum up the enthusiasm for hauling his suitcases out of the trunk. Instead he grabbed the two small bags on the seat beside him, ones holding his laptop and a few essentials.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSleet slapped at him when he climbed out of the car, but the cold, that whistling Atlantic wind, cut through the outer layers of lethargy. Waves boomed against the rock, slapped against the sand, combining into a constant hissing roar. Eli dragged the house keys out of his jacket pocket, stepped onto the shelter of the wide stone portico to the massive double entrance doors hewn more than a century before from teak imported from Burma.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo years, he thought-closer to three-since he'd been here. Too busy with his life, with work, with the disaster of his marriage to drive up for a weekend, a short vacation, a holiday visit with his grandmother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd spent time with her, of course, the indomitable Hester Hawkin Landon, whenever she'd come to Boston. He'd called her regularly, e-mailed, Facebooked and Skyped. Hester might have been cruising toward eighty but she'd always embraced technology and innovation with curiosity and enthusiasm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd taken her to dinner, to drinks, remembered flowers and cards, gifts, gathered with her and his family for Christmas, important birthdays.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that, he thought as he unlocked the door, was all just rationalization for not taking the time, making the time, to come to Whiskey Beach, to the place she loved most, and giving her real time, real attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe found the right key, unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he flicked on the lights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd changed some things, he noted, but Gran embraced change even as she managed to embrace traditions-that suited her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSome new art-seascapes, gardenscapes-splashing soft color against rich brown walls. He dumped his bags just inside the door, took a moment to just look around the glossy spill of the entrance hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe scanned the stairs-the grinning gargoyle newel posts some whimsical Landon had commissioned-and up where they curved gracefully right and left for the north and south wings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlenty of bedrooms, he thought. He just had to climb the stairs and pick one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut not yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead he walked through to what they called the main parlor with its high, arching windows facing the front garden-or what would be once winter opened its claws.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis grandmother hadn't been home for over two months, but he didn't see a speck of dust. Logs lay in the hearth framed by the gleam of lapis and ready to light. Fresh flowers stood on the Hepplewhite table she prized. Pillows sat fluffed and welcoming on the three sofas ranged around the room, and the wide planked chestnut floor gleamed like a mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd had someone come in, he decided, then rubbed his forehead where a headache threatened to bloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd told him, hadn't she? Told him she had someone looking out for the place. A neighbor, someone who did the heavy cleaning for her. He hadn't forgotten she'd told him, he'd just lost the information for a moment in the fog that too often crawled in to blur his mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow looking out for Bluff House was his job. To tend to it, to, as his grandmother had asked, keep life in it. And maybe, she'd said, it would pump some life back into him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe picked up his bags, looked at the stairs. Then just stood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe'd been found there, there at the base of the steps. By a neighbor-the same neighbor? Wasn't it the same neighbor who cleaned for her? Someone, thank God, had come by to check on her, and found her lying there unconscious, bruised, bleeding, with a shattered elbow, a broken hip, cracked ribs, a concussion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe might've died, he thought. The doctors expressed amazement that she'd stubbornly refused to. None of the family routinely checked on her daily, no one thought to call, and no one, including himself, would have worried if she hadn't answered for a day or two.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHester Landon, independent, invincible, indestructible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWho might have died after a terrible fall, if not for a neighbor-and her own indefatigable will.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow she reigned in a suite of rooms in his parents' home while she recovered from her injuries. There she'd stay until deemed strong enough to come back to Bluff House-or if his parents had their way, there she would stay, period.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wanted to think of her back here, in the house she loved, sitting out on the terrace with her evening martini, looking out at the ocean. Or puttering in her garden, maybe setting up her easel to paint.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wanted to think of her as vital and tough, not helpless and broken on the floor while he'd been pouring a second cup of morning coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he'd do his best until she came home. He'd keep life in her house, such as his was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEli picked up his bags, started upstairs. He'd take the room he'd always used on visits-or had before those visits stretched out fewer and farther between. Lindsay had hated Whiskey Beach, Bluff House, and had made trips there into a cold war with his grandmother rigidly polite on one side, his wife deliberately snide on the other. And he'd been squeezed in the middle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo he'd taken the easy way, he thought now. He could be sorry about that, sorry he'd stopped coming, sorry he'd made excuses and had limited his time with his grandmother to her trips to Boston. But he couldn't turn back the clock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stepped into the bedroom. Flowers here, too, he noted, and the same soft green walls, two of his grandmother's watercolors he'd always particularly liked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe put his bags on the bench at the foot of the sleigh bed, stripped off his coat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, things had stayed the same. The little desk under the window, the wide atrium doors leading to the terrace, the wingback chair and the little footstool with the cover his grandmother's mother had needlepointed long ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt occurred to him that for the first time in a very long time he felt-almost-at home. Opening his bag, he dug out his toiletry kit, then found fresh towels, fancy seashell soaps. The scent of lemons in the bath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stripped down without glancing at the mirror. He'd lost weight, too much weight, over the last year. He didn't need to remind himself of it. He turned on the shower, stepped in, hoping to burn some of the fatigue away. He knew from experience if he went to bed exhausted and stressed, he'd sleep fitfully, wake with that dragging hangover.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he stepped out he grabbed one of the towels from the stack, again caught the whiff of lemon as he scrubbed it over his hair. Damp, it curled past the nape of his neck, a mop of dark blond longer than it had been since his early twenties. But then he hadn't seen his usual barber, Enrique, for nearly a year. He hardly had the need for a hundred-fifty-dollar haircut, or the collection of Italian suits and shoes packed in storage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was no longer a sharply dressed criminal attorney with a corner office and the fast track to full partner. That man had died along with Lindsay. He just hadn't known it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe tossed back the duvet, as fluffy and white as the towel, slid in, switched off the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the dark he could hear the sea, a steady growl, and the sizzle of sleet against the windows. He closed his eyes, wished as he did every night for a few hours of oblivion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA few was all he got.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003et\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod damn, he was pissed. Nobody, absolutely nobody, he thought as he drove through the hard, freezing rain, could trip his switch like Lindsay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bitch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer mind, and apparently her morals, worked like no one else's he knew. She'd managed to convince herself, and he was sure any number of her friends, her mother, her sister, and Christ knew, that it was his fault their marriage had deteriorated, his they'd gone from couples counseling to a trial separation to a legal battle in preparation for divorce.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd his fucking fault she'd been cheating on him for well over eight months-five more than the \"trial\" separation she'd campaigned for. And somehow it was on him that he'd found out about her lying, cheating, conniving ass before signing on the dotted line so she could walk away with a fat settlement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo they were both pissed, he decided-he that he'd been an idiot, and she that he'd finally clued in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo doubt it would be his fault they'd had a bitter, vicious and public fight about her adultery that afternoon in the art gallery where she worked part-time. Bad timing, bad form on his part, he admitted, but right now? He didn't give a shit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wanted to blame him because she'd gotten sloppy, so sloppy his own sister had seen his estranged wife and another man all over each other in a hotel lobby in Cambridge-before they'd gotten on the elevator together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe Tricia had waited a couple days to tell him, but he couldn't blame her. It was a lot to tell. And he'd taken another couple to absorb it before he'd manned up, hired an investigator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEight months, he thought again. She'd been sleeping with someone else in hotel beds, in B\u0026amp;Bs, God knew where else-though she'd been too smart to use the house. What would the neighbors think?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe he shouldn't have gone, armed with the investigator's report and his own fury, to the gallery to confront her. Maybe the two of them should've had more sense than to start a shouting match that carried through the place and out to the street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut they'd both have to weather the embarrassment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne thing he knew: the settlement wouldn't be so sweet for her now. All concept of clean and fair, and no need to stick hard to the prenup? Done. She'd find that out when she got home from her charity auction and discovered he'd taken the painting he bought in Florence, the Deco diamond that had been his great-grandmother's and had come to him, and the silver coffee set he had no interest in but was another family heirloom he'd be damned if she'd throw into the community property pot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was going to find herself batting in a new ball game.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe it was petty, maybe it was stupid-or maybe it was right and just. He couldn't see through the anger and betrayal, and simply didn't care. Riding on that anger, he pulled up in the driveway of the house in Boston's Back Bay. A house he'd believed would serve as a solid foundation for a marriage that had begun to show some cracks. One he'd hoped would one day house children, and one that, for a short time, had plastered over those cracks as he and Lindsay had outfitted it, chosen furnishings, debated, argued, agreed-all of which he considered normal-over little details.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow they'd have to sell it, and both likely walk away with half of little to nothing. And instead of renting a condo for what he'd hoped would be the short term, he'd end up buying one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor himself, he thought as he climbed out of the car and into the rain. No debates, arguments or agreements necessary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, he realized as he jogged to the front door, that came as a kind of relief. No more holding time, no more maybes, no more pretense his marriage could or should be saved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe in her lying, deceitful, cheating way, she'd done him a favor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe could walk away now without guilt or regret.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he'd damn well walk away with what was his.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe unlocked the door, stepped into the wide, gracious foyer. Turning to the alarm pad, he keyed in the code. If she'd changed it, he had his ID, listing his name and this address. He'd already worked out how to handle any police or security questions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe'd simply say his wife had changed the code-true enough-and he'd forgotten it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut she hadn't. The fact that she hadn't was both relief and insult. She thought she knew him so well, was so sure he'd never enter the house that was half his without her permission. He'd agreed to move out, to give them both some space, so he'd never intrude, never push too hard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe assumed he'd be fucking civilized.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was soon to discover she didn't know him at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood a moment, absorbing the quiet of the house, the feel of it. All those neutral tones serving as a backdrop of splashes and flashes of color, the mix of old, new, cleverly quirky adding style.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300292776165,"sku":"NP9780515154290","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515154290.jpg?v=1767744109","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/whiskey-beach-isbn-9780515154290","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}