Meg and Jo Read online

  PRAISE FOR VIRGINIA KANTRA AND HER NOVELS

  “Virginia Kantra delivers.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “It’s always a joy to read Virginia Kantra.”

  —New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross

  “Hums with the rhythm of life . . . I loved it.”

  —Mariah Stewart, New York Times bestselling author of At the River’s Edge

  “Intimate and inviting. . . . Contemporary romance at its most gratifying.”

  —USA Today

  “If you have not yet visited Virginia Kantra’s Dare Island, I enthusiastically encourage you to do so. . . . Learn why many readers, myself included, have fallen in love with these wonderful characters and the island they call home.”

  —The Romance Dish

  “A wonderful love story.”

  —Fiction Vixen

  “Her wonderful characters . . . engage and inspire me. . . . I love this series, and if you’re looking for solid romance with a generous helping of steam, Dare Island is a great place to get lost in.”

  —The Bookish Babes

  “A sizzling good time. Kantra’s story building is excellent.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kantra is a sensitive writer with a warm sense of humor, a fine sense of sexual tension, and an unerring sense of place.”

  —BookPage

  Berkley titles by Virginia Kantra

  Home Before Midnight

  Close Up

  Meg & Jo

  THE CHILDREN OF THE SEA NOVELS

  Sea Witch

  Sea Fever

  Sea Lord

  Immortal Sea

  Forgotten Sea

  THE DARE ISLAND NOVELS

  Carolina Home

  Carolina Girl

  Carolina Man

  Carolina Blues

  Carolina Dreaming

  NOVELLAS

  Midsummer Night’s Magic

  Carolina Heart

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Virginia Kantra

  Excerpt from Beth & Amy copyright © 2019 by Virginia Kantra

  Readers guide copyright © 2019 by Virginia Kantra

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kantra, Virginia, author.

  Title: Meg and Jo / Virginia Kantra.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019022562 (print) | LCCN 2019022563 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593100349 (paperback) | ISBN 9780593100356 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PS3561.A518 M44 2019 (print) | LCC PS3561.A518

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022562

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019022563

  First Edition: December 2019

  Cover design and illustrations by Colleen Reinhart

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To my mother, Phyllis S. Kantra, with thanks for everything you taught me.

  And in loving memory of Robert A. Kantra. I miss you, Dad.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First off, I owe an enormous debt to Louisa May Alcott, whose Little Women has inspired me in so many ways.

  Huge thanks to my editor, Cindy Hwang. I’m so glad we got to do this together. It is a joy, always, to work with you. And thank you to Danielle Keir, Angela Kim, Jessica Plummer, Colleen Reinhart, and all the wonderful team at Berkley!

  At Writers House, I’m so grateful to my agent, Robin Rue, who believed in this story from the beginning. Thank you and Beth Miller for reading it (over and over) and making it a better book.

  To my sister, Pam Archbold. Because whatever happens, we have each other.

  To my sisters-in-law, Mary Keefer and Ginny Grisez, for letting me be part of the Rockettes chorus line.

  To my sisters of the heart, Carolyn Martin Buscarino, Kristen Dill, and Brenda Harlen, who persist in thinking I can do things.

  Thanks to Mary-Theresa Hussey, for your insights and for sharing the story of your mother, Sheila Hussey, with me. To Kathy Hamilton and Lisa Jackson, for being at the bottom of the driveway when I had a question about soccer or needed a sympathetic ear. To Kristan Higgins, who told me to shut up and write the book (but much more nicely than that, because she is the nicest person) and Eileen Rendahl; to my Fiction From the Heart pals—Jamie Beck, Tracy Brogan, Sonali Dev, Kwana Jackson, Donna Kauffman, Sally Kilpatrick, Falguni Kothari, Priscilla Oliveras, Barbara O’Neal, Hope Ramsay, and Liz Talley—for your fellowship; and to Suzanne Brockmann and Ed Gaffney, for taking me to Orchard House.

  Thank you Jean, Andrew and Celia, and Mark and Katie, for the privilege of watching you become the people you were meant to be. And to Katerina Abigail, who I hope will one day take this book from the shelf and see her name.

  To Michael. Tell your story, you said. You are my hero. There are no stories without you.

  And finally, thanks to you, dear readers, for sharing your time with me. You are the best.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Virginia Kantra and Her Novels

  Berkley Titles by Virginia Kantra

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Readers Guide

  Questions for Discussion

  Excerpt from Beth & Amy

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Christmas Eve, Then

  Bunyan, North Carolina

  Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

  White Ch
ristmas was playing on the TV, but this year the scenes of soldiers far from home made her throat ache. It felt weird to be watching the movie without Dad. Everything felt wrong this year.

  Meg sighed. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we were home.”

  Jo propped her chin on her hands to look around the old frame farmhouse—the wide-plank floors imbued with the smell of woodsmoke and tobacco, the faded hydrangea wallpaper their grandmother had hung before they were born. “We are home,” she said.

  “You know what I mean,” her older sister said.

  Jo did. It wasn’t fair to lose Dad and the house at the same time. Their father was in Iraq. “Called,” he’d said, to give up his congregation to serve as an army chaplain.

  Jo understood that Daddy was doing good work, important work, serving their country far away. But that didn’t change the fact that the new minister and his family were living in the girls’ house now, and Momma and Meg and the rest of them had been forced to move to the farm.

  When the girls were all little, they’d loved to visit their grandparents’ farm. There were woods to roam, if you weren’t particular about ticks and poison ivy. A long slope down to the river, with a tire swing over the water and a splintery old dock where you could fish or swim or simply lie on your back and stare at the clouds.

  But it was different actually living here. Like moving to another planet.

  Jo ran cross-country, so she didn’t mind walking the extra mile to the bus stop. But Amy whined that she missed her friends, and Meg complained because their parents couldn’t afford to buy her a car like Sallie Gardiner’s parents had done.

  Of course, just about any boy in high school would be happy to give Meg a ride anywhere she wanted to go. But Momma was strict about things like that.

  “At least we don’t have to share a bedroom anymore,” Jo pointed out.

  She had begged to be allowed to move into the converted space in the attic, to have what Virginia Woolf called “a room of one’s own” to write in. Their mother worried the attic would be too cold. But Daddy had intervened. “Let the girl have her privacy. It’s not like she’s entertaining boys up there,” he’d said. So eventually Momma relented and agreed.

  The attic was cold. Especially in December. But Jo liked the funny peaked window with its view of fields and trees. She loved having her own space.

  Ten-year-old Amy looked up from the coffee table, where she was making something out of the scraps she’d begged from Miss Hannah’s quilting bag. “We still have to share a bathroom. That’s worse. Your hair clogs the sink.”

  Beth spoke up from her corner of the shabby couch. “Whatever happens, we have each other,” she said, quoting Momma. “At least we’re all together.”

  “But we’re not,” Jo said. “Daddy’s not here.”

  Silence fell over the living room, broken only by the muted dialogue from the television.

  Crap. Jo bit her tongue. Keeping her mouth shut was not her specialty.

  “But he will be,” Meg said with a glance at the younger girls. “Soon.”

  His unit had been gone almost a year. He must be coming home soon. They’d all agreed to put off opening their presents until his return.

  A month ago, the decision hadn’t seemed so hard. But now . . .

  Their gifts sat wrapped and waiting under the tree. Artificial, this year, to last until their father came home. Jo missed the sharp, resiny, real-tree smell of Christmases past.

  She missed Dad.

  “Anyway, Momma said we could each open one present tonight,” Meg said.

  The back door opened, releasing a draft over the threshold. Momma appeared, wearing a faded work shirt over her jeans, bringing with her the scent of frost and the barn.

  Warmth prickled Jo’s cheeks at the thought of their mother doing chores while they lolled inside, lazy and warm. Granny and Granddaddy had worked the farm together until a lifetime of sweat and cigarettes had carried them off. But except for Miss Hannah, who helped in the cheese room, Momma did everything herself.

  She smiled around at them. “Merry Christmas, girls. I have a surprise for you.”

  “Kittens?” asked Beth.

  “Not until spring,” Meg said.

  “Better than kittens,” Momma said.

  Amy’s face lit. “Daddy!”

  Jo winced. It was the fault of all the local stations running those cheesy holiday homecoming videos on the evening news, fathers in uniform coming up the driveway, striding into a classroom, showing up at their kids’ ball games . . .

  Momma nodded. “He’s going to call this afternoon.”

  A phone call. Jo swallowed her disappointment. She didn’t really expect Dad to pop out of a box like the fathers on TV. Anyway, even hearing his voice would make Christmas more, well, Christmassy. He usually called when they were in school. Because of the time difference, Momma said.

  Talking it over one night after Beth and Amy were in bed, Jo and Meg had decided their parents were trying to protect them. As long as they didn’t expect to hear from him every day, they wouldn’t worry on the days his calls couldn’t get through because of a sandstorm or an attack.

  The phone rang.

  “Jo, turn that volume down.” Momma picked up the phone, tugging off her bandanna with her free hand. “Hi, honey.” She ran her fingers through her hair as if Daddy could see her. “Merry Christmas!”

  Jo couldn’t hear his reply, but their mother laughed. “I will.” He murmured something else. Her cheeks turned pink. “Yes. I’m putting you on speaker now.”

  Jo couldn’t wait to hear his voice. But they had to take turns speaking, because if they all talked at once he got them mixed up. Of course, Meg, being the oldest, got the receiver first.

  Jo jiggled from foot to foot as Meg told their father about organizing the canned-food drive at school. As if she hadn’t spent the last student council meeting flirting with Ned Moffat.

  Finally, it was Jo’s turn. She reached for the phone, but Amy snatched it away.

  “Hey!” Jo said.

  “Ssh. It’s all right,” Momma said.

  It wasn’t all right. It wasn’t fair. Jo needed to talk to Dad. And he wanted to talk to her—she knew he did. At the dinner table, while the others chattered about movies or friends, she and Dad always talked about what she was reading or thinking, tossing sentences back and forth the way another father and daughter might play catch.

  But Amy got away with it because she was adorable. Not responsible like Meg or good at school like Jo or sweet like Beth, but small and super cute—their own little Disney princess with big blue eyes and smooth blond hair. Standing next to her, Jo felt like a giraffe, all long legs and knobby knees and spots.

  Amy shot her a triumphant look and tucked the receiver out of reach beneath her chin. “I’m making you a present,” she told Dad. “A wallet with all our pictures in it.”

  Which explained the mess on the coffee table.

  “Thank you, Princess,” Dad said.

  “You won’t have it in time for Christmas, though,” Amy said.

  “That’s okay. I got the care package you sent,” he said. “I appreciate the cookies. And the movies.”

  “Give me the phone,” Jo said.

  Amy angled her body away, still holding the receiver tight. “I put in White Christmas.”

  “I saw,” Dad said. “It made me think of you.”

  “Are you watching it?”

  “Not tonight,” Dad said. “One of the other soldiers needed it tonight. He came into my tent to browse the DVDs and stayed awhile, talking. But I’m listening to your Christmas CD.”

  “That’s from Beth,” Amy said.

  “Mouse? Is she there?”

  Amy thrust the phone at Beth, who clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers together. “Oh, but I . . . What about Jo?�
��

  But Bethie needed to talk to Daddy even more than Jo did. Hardly a week went by without Beth reporting to the school nurse complaining of cramps, a headache, an upset stomach—whatever ailment would get her excused from class that day.

  “She’s adjusting,” Momma had said.

  To the move? Jo wondered. Or to their father being gone?

  “It’s okay.” Jo forced the words out. “We have plenty of time.”

  Fifteen minutes. Eleven of them gone already, whizzing by like bullets. One for every month that Dad had been away.

  “I say my prayers for you every night,” Beth told Dad.

  “That’s my good girl,” he said. He asked how she was feeling, if she was still practicing her guitar.

  “Jo’s turn,” Momma said at last.

  Jo took the phone eagerly. But when she tried to speak, all her emotions rushed in on her, congesting her chest, sticking in her throat. “Hi, Daddy.” Her voice cracked.

  “Hey, little woman.”

  “How . . . How’s your Christmas?”

  “Good,” he said heartily. “They made us a real holiday dinner here on base. Turkey and stuffing.”

  “We’re having turkey, too,” she said, hungering for his attention. His approval.

  Momma held up a finger. “One minute left.”

  “I love you,” Dad said. “Take care of Momma and your sisters for me.”

  Jo swallowed hard. “I will.”

  “I’m proud of you,” Dad said. “Proud of all my girls. I think of you every day and ask God to bless you and keep you safe and strong. Let me say good-bye to your mother now.”

  “Love you,” Jo choked out.

  She surrendered the phone, her heart burning. She hardly got to talk to him at all. She didn’t get to tell him about the poem she published in the student newspaper or the English paper she wrote on the Brontës or . . .

  “She’s fine,” their mother was saying. “We’re all fine. We love you.”

  “We’re getting cut off,” Dad said. “Love you, too, honey. Merry Christmas. God bless you.”

  “Merry Christmas!” they all chorused.