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  PRAISE FOR

  A Bridge Across the Ocean

  “I was utterly spellbound, beguiled, swept up in this ghostly mystery about the secrets kept during a time of war. I couldn’t put it down.”

  —Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet

  “Meissner illustrates the endless link between the past and present, the known and unknown, the flesh and the spirit, and all the mysteries therein. A Bridge Across the Ocean is a beguiling tapestry of storytelling and a unique look at one of history’s most enigmatic ships, the Queen Mary.”

  —Sarah McCoy, New York Times bestselling author of The Mapmaker’s Children

  Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

  “Susan Meissner deftly casts a fascinating friendship between two complex women against a glittering 1930s Hollywood backdrop. You will love this book for its very human characters and for its inside look at one of the greatest movies ever made.”

  —Marisa de los Santos, New York Times bestselling author

  Secrets of a Charmed Life

  “Rich with vividly drawn characters, places, and events . . . its themes of reinvention and redemption will strike a chord with readers.”

  —Booklist

  A Fall of Marigolds

  “A transportive, heartwarming, and fascinating novel that will resonate with readers in search of emotionally satisfying stories connecting past and present, and demonstrating the healing power of love.”

  —Erika Robuck, bestselling author of The House of Hawthorne

  The Girl in the Glass

  “A delightful tale that will take readers into the heart of Florence, Italy . . . Meissner blends Nora’s, Sofia’s, and Meg’s stories with a deft hand, creating a layered work of art sure to enchant readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  A Sound Among the Trees

  “Meissner transports readers to another time and place to weave her lyrical tale of love, loss, forgiveness, and letting go.”

  —Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of A Long Time Gone

  Lady in Waiting

  “Both the history and the modern tale are enticing, with Meissner doing a masterful job blending the two.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  The Shape of Mercy

  “Potentially life-changing, the kind of inspirational fiction that prompts readers to call up old friends, lost loves, or fallen-away family members.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  OTHER NOVELS BY SUSAN MEISSNER

  Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

  Secrets of a Charmed Life

  A Fall of Marigolds

  The Girl in the Glass

  A Sound Among the Trees

  Lady in Waiting

  White Picket Fences

  The Shape of Mercy

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Susan Meissner

  Readers Guide copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC

  Excerpt from Under the Canopy of Heaven copyright © 2017 by Susan Meissner

  Excerpt from Stars Over Sunset Boulevard copyright © 2016 by Susan Meissner

  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 is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Meissner, Susan, 1961– author.

  Title: A bridge across the ocean / Susan Meissner.

  Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016037710 (print) | LCCN 2016043092 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451476005 (paperback) | ISBN 9780698197862 (ebook)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Historical. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Literary.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.E435 B75 2017 (print) | LCC PS3613.E435 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016037710

  First Edition: March 2017

  Cover photograph by Richard Rutledge / Getty Images

  Cover design 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

  Contents

  Praise For Novels by Susan Meissner

  Other Novels by Susan Meissner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Interlude

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Interlude

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Interlude

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Interlude

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Interlude

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Interlude

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Interlude

  Forty

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  Excerpt from Under the Canopy of Heaven

  Excerpt from Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

  About the Author

  For June Boots Allen, with love & gratitude

  For the soul awakes, a trembling stranger,

  between two dim eternities,

  —the eternal past, the eternal future.

  The light shines only on a small space around her;

  therefore, she needs must yearn towards

  the unknown . . .

  HARRIET BEECHER STOWE, UNCLE TOM’S CABIN

  Death is an impossible ending

  It releases all the emotions of life

  To roam the uninhibited skies forever!

  And to endure all the spirits

  Of other lifetimes

  DENNIS A. BOOTS, 1948–1969

  RMS QUEEN MARY

  SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND

  MAY 1936

  The afternoon sun lies low and sweet among the clouds that hug the harbor, bathing the promenad
e deck in shimmering half-light. On the pier a brass band plays a happy tune as good-byes are said at the far end of the gangway. Men with cameras are jockeying for position to catch the best view of us pulling away from the dock.

  Today is different than all the other days. I feel the change all around me. Something new is about to happen.

  I study each person as they step aboard, but no one pays me any mind. They don’t know I am here, so they do not stiffen at my touch or reach for me or gape wide-eyed in surprise or alarm. They alight on the decks, cheerful and carefree, joyfully reaching for glasses of champagne offered by white-coated stewards.

  I drift among them all, unseen, unnoticed.

  But then a woman with peacock feathers in her hat breathes in deep when I swirl about her, as though she has caught my scent and is mesmerized by it. Intrigued, I linger. Her eyes widen in surprise as she stands there at a portside railing.

  “Where are you?” the woman murmurs, so soft it is almost like a whispered prayer.

  She is speaking to me. She senses my presence. This woman is the first. I did not know this was possible.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she says. “Where are you?”

  I fold in closer to her. “Here,” is what I want to say.

  “Do you want to tell me your name?” she asks kindly.

  And oh yes, how I want to. But I cannot.

  “Have you been here awhile?” she asks.

  I don’t know the answer to this question. And that troubles me.

  “It’s all right. You can trust me,” she says soothingly.

  I want to trust her but I hesitate. Her questions fill me with unease. Another woman, this one red-haired and wearing a tweed coat, approaches. A wave of concern washes over her as she looks at the woman in the peacock-feather hat.

  “Who in the world are you talking to?” says this new woman.

  The woman who knows I am here startles. Her gaze darts about, as though she thinks I might scamper away at this intrusion. Instead, I move closer to her. The silken strands of the feathers on her hat ripple like sea grass under water as I draw near. She opens her mouth in awe and falters a bit.

  “Are you all right?” the redhead says, as she grabs her arm.

  “I am all right.” The woman steadies herself.

  “For the love of God, don’t tell me there’s a ghost here!” The redhead speaks as if her jaw is wired shut and she must spit the words out through her teeth. “This ship is new!”

  “Not really. It took years to build, you know.”

  The redhead is angry. “And here I thought you’d be safe from all that on this ship,” she grumbles.

  “But I am safe. This one intends no harm.”

  “And how do you know that?!” the redhead snaps.

  “I just do. She is young, this one. She doesn’t know how she got here. I think she might be alone, poor thing.”

  I lift away at once to ponder these words. How is it that this woman can know so much? I am surprised. Perplexed. Torn between wanting to know everything and know nothing. She senses my gentle departure.

  “She is leaving us,” she says to the redhead as she looks beyond the place where they are standing.

  “Fine with me.” The redhead leads the woman toward a steward bearing champagne flutes on a silver tray.

  But she looks for me as she sips, and the mooring lines are dropped, and the tugboats begin to pull us away from the dock.

  I want to be near this woman, for she has spoken to my soul. And yet I feel as though the answers to the questions she has posed will be found in only one place: beyond the noise of the bands and the cheering crowds and the whirring planes overhead.

  I ease up and away to where the bow points to the sapphire horizon. The sea stretches before me like a shimmering bridge, welcoming me across, inviting me to embrace all that I do not yet know.

  One

  SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

  PRESENT DAY

  A friend’s baby shower was the last place Brette Caslake expected to encounter a ghost.

  The gauzy apparition wafted into the stylish living room, as if blown in on a breeze, the moment the pregnant guest of honor began to open her presents. Or perhaps the ghost had been loitering there by the mahogany bookcase long before the attendees started arriving, and it was just the gentle gust from the open window that had stirred the form, giving its edges depth and shape.

  The moment Brette saw the ghost, she knew she’d stupidly let her guard down. She’d neglected to prepare herself to enter a structure she hadn’t been inside before, and it was a mistake she hadn’t made in a while. The high-rise apartment was a brand-new building, and that fact had lulled her into dismissing the hairs that had prickled on the back of her neck when she’d stepped inside—she’d remembered too late that a building didn’t have to be memory-laden for a ghost to take up residence; it just had to be located at a place where the unseen membrane between this world and the next was delicate. As Brette silently berated herself for such a lapse of judgment, she made a second, far worse gaffe. She made eye contact.

  When their pupils met, the ghost—an adult female in a plum-colored dress of a vintage Brette couldn’t readily identify—opened its mouth in surprised alarm. Brette half-expected it to shriek from across the room. Ghosts, at least the ones Brette had come across, reacted to someone like her the same way people tended to react to them—with alarm. A yelp or two was customary, or a fearful shudder, or a perplexed stare of disbelief. Ghosts were unaccustomed to being visible when they didn’t want to be seen, and they didn’t always like being found out. For Brette, the feeling was mutual. Ever since a disastrous episode in college, she’d endeavored to ignore anyone she encountered who wasn’t mortal. And avoiding eye contact was the first and best way of doing that.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She looked away and focused her attention on Lindsey, who was opening a gift from Brette’s mother, Nadine, who sat a few chairs away. Nadine and Lindsey’s mother had been best friends for years. A chorus of monosyllabic expressions of delight erupted from the other women in the room as Lindsey held up a trio of tiny smocked dresses; white, yellow, and pink.

  “Oh, Nadine!” Lindsey gushed. “I love them. They are adorable!”

  The ethereal image in the corner vanished, but only for a moment. Less than a second later it materialized in front of Brette, practically atop the gift pile on the coffee table. If it had had form and weight, it would have scattered the presents at everyone’s feet. Brette had felt its energy as it made its move, and as she quickly cast her gaze to her feet, she emitted an involuntary gasp.

  Not here! Not now! Brette inwardly demanded, but she only wished for a mere snatch of a second that the ghost would hear her silent appeal. Having them inside her head would be a nightmare. They always wanted something. Always. And half the time they didn’t even know what it was.

  “You are so very welcome,” Brette heard her mother say, but she could tell that Nadine was looking at her, not at Lindsey. Her mother had heard her gasp. Everyone probably had.

  At that very moment, the ghost lifted a pale hand toward Brette. The apparition’s fingers were visible at the edge of Brette’s limited field of vision as she stared at her shoes. She sucked in her breath even though she knew it would not touch her. She would be as flimsy to the ghost as its form was to her.

  There was an odd pause as the attention in the room swung in Brette’s direction. If she raised her head, she and the ghost would be at eye level, and there would be no way to pretend there was nothing there. At least there was no animosity emanating from the vaporous presence in front of her, thank God, and no evil intent. The apparition was not something dark and malevolent. It was merely an uneasy earthbound soul, stuck in a dimension it should have left long ago. Harmless.

  “You all right, Brette?” her mother asked.

 
Brette turned her head toward her mother, keeping her gaze as low as she could. She put a hand to her brow. “Just a bit of a headache. Don’t mind me.”

  The ghost leaned in, more curious now than startled, and Brette felt the skin on her arms and legs grow warm, as though electricity were passing through her limbs. She closed her eyes.

  “You want an Advil?” said Lindsey’s best friend, Allison, who was hosting the shower. “I have some in the kitchen.”

  Brette nodded, her eyes still closed. “That would be great.”

  She heard Allison rise from her chair and start to cross the travertine tile toward the kitchen. Brette longed to tell Lindsey to please, please continue opening her gifts. The sooner she wasn’t the center of attention, the better. She opened her eyes carefully. The ghost was at her side, staring at her profile, perhaps trying to figure out what she was made of.

  “Please don’t let me spoil anything,” Brette said to Lindsey as she rose from the couch to follow Allison. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

  “Is she still getting those awful headaches she had in college?” Lindsey’s mother asked Nadine in a low tone.

  “Not so much anymore,” Nadine said, but doubt cloaked her words.

  Brette joined Allison in the kitchen but kept her gaze low and fixed. The ghost had swept into the room with them, but she didn’t scan the corners to see where it had drifted. No doubt it was lingering at the far end of the granite-topped island, if the electrical charge emanating from that direction meant anything. Allison was at the refrigerator filling a glass with water. She turned and handed Brette the tumbler.

  “Here you go.”

  From a cupboard above a tiered display of pastel macarons, Allison took out a bottle of Advil. “Two enough?” she asked, as she shook out the gelcaps and offered them to Brette.

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  As she tossed the pills into her mouth, Brette sensed movement on her left. The hairs on her arm rose to attention. Her hand trembled slightly as she brought the glass to her lips.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Allison said, her head cocked to one side. “You can lie down on my bed if you want.”