by Denise Carbo
My First My Last My Only
Denise Carbo
Copyright © 2020 Denise Carbo
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Digital ISBN: 9781734872903
Print ISBN: 9781734872910
Printed in the United States of America
My First My Last My Only is dedicated to my grandmother, Mimi. I spent many summers and holidays at her home on a lake in New Hampshire. I cherish those memories and they inspired my Granite Cove series.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
About the Author
Books By This Author
Chapter One
“Are you avoiding me?”
The smooth timbred voice jolts through me, drops of sticky orange mimosa from my glass splash on the back of my hand. Hell yes, I’m avoiding you!
I turn and plaster a smile on my face. “Of course not, why would you think that?”
I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze so I stare over his right shoulder at all the attendees of my mother’s Memorial Day party milling about behind him in the foyer and living room.
“You leave the room every time I enter.”
Yup, absolutely. “Total coincidence.”
“How are you Franny?”
Uh, let’s see…my stomach is churning so hard I just might throw up. “I’m fine, and you?”
“Good. I’m happy to be back in Granite Cove. Maybe we can get together and revisit some of our favorite spots.”
I blink several times as if my eyes have somehow gained the ability to change moments of reality like the remote on a TV flips through different channels.
“Sure, we could do that.” Never gonna happen.
“Oh Mitch, there you are, there are a few people dying to meet you.” My mother casts a questioning glare in my direction before smiling up at him, hooking his arm through hers, and directing him back towards the living room.
Yes mother, spirit away your precious guest of honor before your wayward daughter does something to embarrass you.
I take the opportunity to dart from the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, and into the kitchen. It’s swarming with catering staff so I push through the swinging door into the living room and out the first set of French doors onto the patio.
My father is holding court to the left. A guffaw from one of the men surrounding him is followed by a few chuckles. I can guess the story he’s telling, the time he sliced a golf ball into the trees and a squirrel mistook it for a rather large nut and absconded with it into the woods. He tells the same one at every Memorial Day party, an annual tradition that, if I’m not mistaken, every single one of the people standing around him listening have heard. Yet they’re avid listeners. Grant Dawson has a natural charm which draws people in. He could probably recite a grocery list and people would still find it witty.
I did not inherit his ability.
The breeze off the lake cools my overheated skin. I pray it will stop the nervous perspiration threatening to show through my black Maxi dress.
A group of women, contemporaries of my mother’s, occupy one of the patio tables to the right. I edge closer. Perhaps if I stand a couple of feet away, I can appear to be part of the conversation, but not close enough that any of them will expect me to join in.
A discreet glance at my watch reveals I have another half hour before I can safely make an escape. Over the years I’ve gotten it down to a science. Attendance at these gatherings is mandatory, but if I stay for a minimum of an hour, my mother will let me make excuses to depart with little more than a frown and a raised eyebrow. Oh yes, and the sigh of disappointment, mustn’t forget that.
Raising the fluted glass, I do no more than wet my lips with the orange bubbly decadence of the mimosa. My mother shoved the glass at me upon my arrival with the admonishment to “go mingle.” Arguing is pointless, and it gives me something to do with my hands.
In my peripheral vision, I spot a familiar dark head exiting the far set of French doors near my father.
I dart back through the doors closest to me.
Regardless of my mother’s schedule, the party is over for me. I’ll slip through the kitchen and escape upstairs.
I arrive at the swinging door just as a tingle squirms down my spine.
“Francine.” Those throaty cultured tones freeze me in place as if I were five years old instead of twenty-five.
The hesitation costs me dearly.
The door slams into my forehead, halting my progress. The smack of the door shudders through my body and sends me stumbling backwards into Vanessa Michaels, the bane of my entire childhood.
My mimosa sails into her face and she lets out a startled shriek. Luckily, just the liquid since the glass is still clenched in one fist of my spiraling arms as I frantically try to regain my balance.
The horrified gaze of the server standing in the now open kitchen doorway catches mine as I find purchase by crashing into an immovable object.
A soft grunt echoes above my head.
Strong hands grip my arms. Mitch’s shoulder cushions the back of my head. I blink stupidly, staring up into his big baby blues.
His grin reveals perfectly straight white teeth. “Nice to see some things haven’t changed.”
“For God’s sake, Francine!” Mother grabs me, wrenching me upright. Her hands dig into my upper arms, her perfume engulfs me, and the coppery tang of blood touches my tongue when I lick my lips.
Snatching the empty glass from my fist and handing it to a server hovering behind her, she glowers at me and then pastes on a smile and faces the guest of honor.
“I am so terribly sorry Mitch. Are you injured?” She clutches both her hands to her chest and stares at him beseechingly.
Granted, I am not what anyone might describe as petite or even—wince, wince—lightweight, but I hardly think I could have caused much damage to him either.
“I’m fine Ms. Dawson.”
“Oh, call me Elaine, please.” She places a hand on his arm and lets it linger on his bicep.
Vanessa grabs the napkin the wary server offers her and dabs at her face and chest. Personally, I only spot the streaks of liquid creating a few tracks through her heavily made-up face. She’s only dabbing her chest to call attention t
o it. After all, she has it on full display. The blue sundress can barely contain it all.
“Francine take Vanessa upstairs, so she may clean up.” Mother gives me a pointed glare when I don’t immediately hop to do her bidding.
Must I? This promises to be even more unpleasant than the room full of people openly gawking at my latest disaster. I enter the kitchen through the now propped open door, hoping Vanessa won’t follow but knowing she will.
I glue my gaze to the pristine white tile floor as I trudge past the caterer and lone server in the kitchen, both valiantly attempting to appear busy and not stare at the spectacle. The tantalizing aroma of hot coffee tempts me to detour for a cup, but the lurking presence behind me and the threat of my mother’s continued disappointment prompts me to exit the kitchen.
The click of Vanessa’s heels follows me into the foyer and up the wide curved staircase. Halting next to the guestroom with an attached bathroom, I stand to the side and let her enter first. The hostile scowl she shoots me makes me want to run down the hall to my bedroom and hide behind the locked door.
Instead, I let out a tremendous sigh and follow behind her. “I’m sorry Vanessa. Is there anything I can do to help?” Stopping next to one of the twin beds covered in a silver duvet, I wrap my arms around my waist. Lavender from the dish of potpourri my mother displayed on the dresser scents the room. It’s supposed to be calming, isn’t it? I take a deep breath.
Pausing on the threshold to the bathroom, Vanessa pivots and glares at me with disdain. “Only you would humiliate me in front of Mitch Atwater! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you did it on purpose, not just a result of your klutzy behavior. Really Fanny, if I were you, I wouldn’t even go out in public. Your poor parents must be mortified by you.”
I do an inner eye roll lest she see the nickname still bothers me. I suppose she continues to call me Fanny as a reminder of her superiority and my relegation to the undesirables section of humanity. Flouncing into the bathroom, she yanks a tissue out of the box on the counter and dabs at her face.
With a pointed glare at my reflection in the mirror, she tosses the tissue in the garbage next to the vanity and grabs another. “Why are you still standing there? Leave!”
My shoulders flinch. “I am sorry,” I whisper as I leave the room, shutting the door behind me.
Trudging down the hall in the opposite direction, I spare a quick glance at the stairway hoping to find it empty. Once I assure it is, I pick up my pace to just shy of a jog to reach my bedroom before I encounter anyone else.
My head is throbbing.
Shutting and locking my door, I lean back against it closing my eyes.
Mitch Atwater is back in Granite Cove.
Chapter Two
Pushing off the door, I trudge into my bathroom holding my aching head and inspect my forehead in the mirror over the sink. A lump is already forming with a cut in the middle. A drop of crusty blood has oozed out and left a streak against my pale skin. Frizzy strands of hair escape the tight bun I painstakingly stuffed them into this morning. I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket and got zapped. Funny enough, I’ve done that before. More than once.
My hair has a mind of its own. I either wear it in a bun or braid to tame its wild tendencies. I chopped it off once thinking it might help. It did not. I looked like Little Orphan Annie on steroids.
My hair is orange, not red, not auburn, orange and frizzy. I keep it long hoping to weigh it down. My mother and sister are both blondes. My father’s hair was dark before it changed silver. Someone might think I was adopted unless they saw the photos of my great grandmother, Eloise.
I wet a green washcloth with cold water and hold it to my head. Pain lashes my forehead. I wince and plop down on the closed toilet seat.
I’m now stuck in my room until the party ends, which won’t be for hours yet.
Mitch’s presence only puts a small wrinkle into my plans. Actually, not even that. His arrival is insignificant.
I’d only learned of his return upon my arrival at the party when my mother informed me with glee that her guest of honor was the award-winning movie director, Mitch Atwater.
My first thought had been to run for the hills. My second was to run to the closest salon for a complete makeover and to the nearest store for a killer outfit. Neither happened, instead my mother dragged me into the party.
No matter, I survived our encounter and it’s doubtful I’ll see him again. Granite Cove may be a small town, but its population is large enough that I don’t know all the residents and those I do I hardly run into every day.
Standing, I toss the washcloth in the sink and wander into my bedroom to sit down on the four-poster bed. I rub the black jersey material of my dress between my fingers. The dichotomy of me wearing black and my mother white does not escape me. I wear this dress because it’s comfortable and if I spill anything on it, it’s unlikely to show. The dress covers me from the modest neckline to the tops of my black gladiator sandals.
I grab my phone off the nightstand to check my messages and emails. Mother doesn’t allow family members to have their phones at her parties. Probably because we could use them as an excuse to escape if we claimed a dire emergency. Not that she’d accept that ploy from me.
No voicemails and the only new emails I received are advertisements. Somehow I must have gotten on a list somewhere for every type of junk mail there is. One is an ad for sexy singles in my area. I could actually use that one.
Ugh. I drop back on the bed.
Why hasn’t Mr. Brick gotten back to me? I sent him a fair offer to buy the building. We’ve discussed it several times since I started renting the space for The Sweet Spot, and I finally saved up enough money.
Buying the building is not only the first step in my new life plan, it’s the key ingredient everything else hinges on. I buy the building, move into the apartment above the bakery, and finally get a life. Once I have my own place, I can focus on getting a social life and maybe even a love life.
The same pale gray bedroom furniture I’ve had since I was a child mocks me from every direction. A fancy prison which keeps me under my parents’ rule and prevents me from living the life I want to live. My chest tightens and the air in the room grows suffocating. I need to get out of here, right now.
I scramble off the bed and stand there debating my options.
The gaiety of the party seeps through the floorboards. I can’t waltz down the front staircase without being seen and subjected to a retelling of my latest antics, which will no doubt lead to a laundry list of my most embarrassing moments. I could, however, use the back stairs attached to the balcony in my parents’ room which leads to the side of the house. Yes, there’s a chance I’ll be spotted, but the odds of a clean getaway are much better than my only other option.
There’s the tree outside my sister’s bedroom but the image that pops into my head of me hanging upside down from a branch with my dress over my head and my lady parts showing for the world to see or the one with me sprawled on the ground with broken bones savagely nixes that idea.
I tiptoe towards my bedroom door. Then I stop and roll my eyes. Not only can no one see or hear me in my bedroom, but it is utterly ridiculous to be sneaking around my own parents’ house as if I’m going to commit a great caper.
I unlock the door and peek around it. There’s no sign of Vanessa. One encounter with her was more than enough, thank you very much. I slide out of my room, shutting the door behind me, and stride over to my parents’ room.
The door opens soundlessly, but I still listen in case one of my parents has snuck up here for a moment or if a partygoer or two has decided to use the room for some nefarious reason. Ascertaining I’m alone, I shut the door and peer around the room. A king-size canopy bed dominates the room parallel to the French doors which open onto the balcony overlooking the lake.
The French door refuses to budge so I lodge my shoulder against it and give it a shove. It opens with a shudder and a bang as it swi
ngs wide and bounces against the house. I freeze on the threshold. Someone surely heard and is peering up from the patio to see who made the noise.
I’m not going back to my room, so I shuffle onto the balcony and gently close the door. It rattles into place despite my efforts to be quiet. I gingerly walk to the stairs, keeping to the side of the balcony next to the house in case someone is looking up.
A peek over the railing at the top of the stairs shows me a clear path along the side of the house.
To avoid any prying eyes from the front of the house, I traipse down the stairs and cut across the lawn into the neighbor’s yard. I jog around to the front of the house and into the next neighbor’s yard to reach the sidewalk.
I stride across the manicured lawn, a dog barks at me, and I quicken my pace. The neighbors won’t mind, they’re at the party, but that doesn’t mean I want to be bitten by a dog guarding their territory against trespassers.
After a brief jaunt up the road to the walking path that loops around the park, I let out a deep breath.
The escape is a success.
I amble along the park path to the shore of the lake where I slide onto one of the wooden benches lining the walkway. A sigh of relief escapes me, and a bit of a smug smile.
May is still early for boating season to populate the lake, but the spring air is warm enough for a few brave dedicated boaters to drag their vessels out of winter storage and traverse the choppy water. Several towns share the massive lake. Granite Cove isn’t the largest, but it’s not the smallest either.
A shadow appears on the ground at my feet, and I glance over my shoulder as Mitch eases onto the bench beside me. His light blue gaze focuses on my forehead and he winces. “Ouch, that must hurt.”
Craptastic! So much for no one noticing my great escape.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Did you get a concussion?” Peering into my eyes, he shakes his head. “Your eyes don’t appear dilated.”
I turn my head and stare at the lake. “Are you a doctor now?”
