The tables were packed. Generous applause hit her ears. Ignoring the jumble of nerves in her belly, she dove right into her first song—an easy favorite by Barbara Streisand to warm up her vocal cords. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her voice melting into the strains of harmony in a way that emphasized, not overpowered. Soon, she fell into the beauty of the music.
The hour drifted by like a misty dream, until before she knew it she came to the last song of the evening.
“I’ve always had a weakness for musicals,” she said to the audience, “and since we’re in the no-judgment zone here tonight, I’d thought I’d share this lovely song from La La Land. It’s called ‘City of Stars.’ Enjoy.”
She closed her eyes and steeped herself in the memory of that night. Lying naked in Kyle’s arms, wrapped tight in his delicious body heat. The trickle of moonlight seeping through the curtains. The crackle and pop of firewood as shadows danced over the walls. The sound of her voice as she sang to the man she loved, offering her heart for the second time in all its fragility and beauty.
Her eyes stung with silent tears, so she blinked and refocused on the crowd.
And saw him.
He stood in the back of the room. Dressed in black pants and a matching jacket, his snowy white shirt opened at the neck, his burnished hair falling over his brow. That gaze burned from across endless tables, encouraging her, supporting her, loving her.
Claiming her.
The final words uncurled from her tongue and shimmered in the room, slowly fading to nothingness.
She stood up, gave the audience a thank you, and began moving toward him.
Applause thundered. She moved past each table with a single purpose, weaving her way through the crowd until she reached him.
The world around them faded away.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He closed the distance between them. Smiled. Her heart stopped, sputtered, and relaunched at top speed at his masculine beauty.
“I got everything I ever wanted, so I came here to tell you.”
She choked back her sorrow even as pride filled her at his success.
He’d come back to tell her he needed to stay in Hollywood. He’d come back for a proper goodbye.
This time, tears filled her eyes unchecked. “You look so happy,” she whispered. “I’m glad your work gives you that type of feeling.”
“It has nothing to do with my work.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“It’s you. This. Us.” He ran a finger down her cheek with sweet tenderness. “It’s everything,” he said simply.
She began to tremble, the truth unfolding before her. He lowered his head, his mouth inches from hers. “Truth or dare?”
Emotion tightened her throat. “Truth.”
“Do you love me enough to forgive me for the past and my mistakes? To build a brand new ending? Because I’ve outgrown my old life, baby. I’m done with Hollywood, and writing screenplays, and living with my heart half-dead. I want to come home and be with you. I want my wife.”
“And I want you,” she whispered.
“Then there’s one thing left to do.” Slowly, he removed a small robin’s egg–blue box from his pocket.
Her heart stopped, blasted forward, and stuttered. He snapped the lid open, and a thousand prisms of light danced before her. She sucked in her breath as she stared at the gorgeous ring—a ring he’d promised over and over to buy her one day, even though she’d said she never needed it.
He dropped to one knee.
She heard gasps of breath and endless chatter, but her world narrowed to only the man she loved and the ring he held out to her. His smile was joyous and full of pure love.
“I told you these past few months that I would always choose you. But I never asked the most important question of all. Will you choose me, Ophelia Bishop? To be your husband? Your lover, protector, supporter, and best friend? Will you stand before our family and friends and renew our vows?”
The word spilled from her lips in a gasp of breath. “Yes.”
He slid the ring over her finger, and she reached out. Suddenly, he was kissing her. A large cheer rose up around them, and she laughed, clinging to him.
Ethan and Mia and Harper cut in, giving them hugs and congratulations and welcoming him back. Finally, their relationship blossomed in the light, among family and friends, and among dreams both shattered and reborn.
And everything was perfect.
Epilogue
Five Weeks Later
“Is this Kyle Kimpton?”
He juggled the phone as he moved around the room, searching for his favorite black T-shirt.
Damn, he was already running late.
He had picked up the call automatically. “Yes. Listen, I don’t have time for a telemarketer right now. Sorry.”
A low, husky female laugh spilled into his ear. “I’m not a salesperson. This is Presley Cabot from LWW Enterprises. I’m calling about the manuscript I was sent, A Brand New Ending.”
Since he’d passed on the whole screenplay with Ball, he’d taken some time to decide what he really wanted to do next with his career. LWW Enterprises was a huge media conglomerate with branches all over the United States. They had a stellar film and book division, but he didn’t have any contacts there. He frowned.
“I don’t remember sending you my book. How did you get it?”
“Robert Cavanaugh forwarded it to me. Said it was worth a look.”
He finally found the shirt in the back of the top drawer and pulled it out, trying to ignore his rapidly beating heart.
Robbie had sent it over?
His agent hadn’t contacted him since the walkout, and Kyle figured he’d have to find new representation.
“I’m not sure where you are with the book yet, but I’m very interested in acquiring it. Simply put, it’s brilliant. I couldn’t put it down.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to keep it together. “Thank you. I’m sorry—are you interested in buying it for the screen, or as a book?”
“Robbie sent me both formats, and I think this was made to be a novel—not a movie. I’m looking for a fresh voice to launch our beach reading line, so there’d be a ton of marketing behind you. I have very good instincts, and right now, I sense this will be a huge seller.”
He rubbed his head, trying not to let out a shout of victory. Yes. His own instincts kept reverting back to the novel, too, where he could develop the emotion and characters as he wanted—not be tied to the vision of a director.
He tried to remind himself to play it cool and not jump on the offer because he was desperate.
God knows, he’d finally learned his lesson about protecting the work.
“What did you think of the story?” he asked. “Do you see any big editorial changes at this point?”
The sound of papers being shuffled echoed over the phone. “It’s tight, well written, and grounds the reader immediately into the world. The only problem I had with the book was the ending.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It doesn’t fit. The heroine comes back to the hero, but there was no real growth arc for either of them that way. It was too easy—especially for him. I think it would work better to have the hero leave Hollywood for the love of his life. It’s bigger stakes, and a bigger payoff. Does that make sense?”
Immediately, he knew Presley was right. That was what had been bugging him about the book. He’d been so insistent on making things right, he’d forgotten the story wasn’t about the heroine returning to have everything magically happy again. It was the hero who had to make the leap, and it was the ending he and Ophelia had finally achieved.
No one had truly seen the bigger vision of the story until Presley Cabot—which told him she might be the perfect person to handle his book.
“I agree,” he said. “I’d love to meet to discuss it further.”
“Wonderful. I’m in New York—in a town
called Port Hudson. It’s close to Manhattan.”
“That’s not far from me—I’m in the Hudson Valley.”
“Does next week work? I can have my assistant send you an email to arrange a meeting.”
“Yes, that’d be great. Thanks for calling. I’ll see you next week.”
He clicked off and jumped in front of his laptop. He brought up the website for LWW Enterprises, focusing on Presley Cabot. Head of the publishing division, and one of the main owners of LWW Enterprises. She had an impressive client list—all popular bestsellers and a nice assortment of various genres. Many had gone on to be adapted into successful films with well-known directors. She looked young to head a multimillion-dollar empire, which made her even more impressive.
“Kyle! Babe, are you ready? We’re late!”
“Coming!” He pulled his shirt on, grabbed a casual jacket, and headed down the stairs. “Are we picking him up?”
Ophelia grabbed his arm, and they raced out the door. “No, he had to go early, so we’ll meet him there. Are you nervous?”
“A little. I’ve never gone to one of these before.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “It’ll be fine. Who were you talking to?”
He ignited the engine and turned to face his wife with a big grin. “You’re not going to believe this, baby. I think I’m going to sell my book.”
Her eyes widened. “Tell me everything.”
And he did.
The small room was crowded. Folding chairs were neatly lined up, and the scent of coffee and doughnuts drifted in the air. The walls were dull yellow. Water stains spotted the ceiling. The linoleum floor was slanted and cracked, but there was an energy that burned in the room that made the surroundings fade away.
Patrick stood on the small podium and stared at the large group. Kyle noticed his hands trembling slightly. For a brief moment, Kyle wondered if he’d be able to go through with it, but Tony flanked his left side and gave him an encouraging nod.
“My name is Patrick Kimpton, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hello, Patrick,” a chorus of voices responded.
He began to speak. Kyle sat motionless, holding his wife’s hand, and heard the truth about his father—raw and unfiltered. How he’d started drinking at twelve years old to avoid his parents’ abusive fighting. How he felt funnier, and braver, and bigger when he drank. How he’d met Kyle’s mother in a bar, and they’d fallen in love during endless weekend parties and over constant cocktails. At one point, his father stopped, wiped his sweating brow, and dragged in a breath. Kyle swallowed past the lump in his throat and wondered if he would quit.
But he didn’t. He pushed through.
Kyle learned how much his father loved his mother, and he realized for the first time how much he’d been wanted. But alcohol had become just as important.
“My wife got pregnant. We were so happy, because we’d been trying for so long. She begged me to cut down on my drinking. Finally, I agreed. I figured it would be easy. A little detox, like a juice diet to take off some weight.
“I got the shakes within hours. But even worse were my thoughts. I needed that drink more than my next breath. I knew I could do anything, be anything my wife wanted, if only I had a few drinks. The cycle began again. And again.”
Grief ravaged Patrick’s face. His hands shook harder, but he seemed to hear the low murmurs of approval from the group, the whispered encouragements surrounding him, and he continued.
“When my wife went into premature labor, I was at the bar getting drunk. When she started bleeding out on the floor, calling out my name, I told my friends she was only tracking me down to nag me. When she finally crawled to the phone half-conscious and called 911, I was playing darts and belting back shots of whiskey. And when I got to the hospital where my son was being born, I was smashed out of my mind.
“I held her hand, smelling of liquor. When she began to crash, the doctor said they’d have to take the baby by C-section. She turned to me, gripped my hand, and told me if there was a choice to be made, to save the baby at all costs. Then she smiled at me with such peace and happiness. I didn’t understand what was going on. It was like she knew. She said she loved me. She told me to take care of our son. And then they got her into the operating room, and she died on the table.”
Tears stung Kyle’s eyes. He shook his head hard, trying to clear his thoughts. The retelling of his father’s life and his mother’s death was tearing Patrick apart. Yet he pushed on.
“I raised my son as a drunk. Somehow, in my twisted-up head, I blamed him for Catherine’s death. A baby. My baby. The son we had tried so hard for and prayed for—my precious baby boy. I treated him like a piece of garbage, secondary to the bottle. I had people help me raise him, and I kept him at a distance. I told him regularly that he’d caused his mother’s death. One time, I found him looking through old photo albums. He asked me so many questions about his mother, I went nuts. The guilt was too much for me, so I punished him by taking them away and lying, saying that I burned all the pictures. I watched my son cry, and I betrayed him every day. I watched him grow up without a father and was haunted by my wife’s sad pleas in the dark of the night.
“My son learned to hate me. At eighteen, he left to make his own life, and I was alone with my memories. I became the town drunk. I lost the farm. I lost my friends. I lost everything worth having, but I had my precious bottle.
“And then one night, I had a dream. Catherine came to me and said it wasn’t too late. I remember the words clearly: ‘Our son may never forgive you, but you owe it to yourself to try and get your life back. Be worthy of your family. Of yourself. It’s never too late.’
“I woke up and looked at my nightstand. There was a bottle waiting for me. Then I got out of bed, got dressed, and drove down to the church. I sat in the pew and prayed for strength. I prayed for my son. I prayed for the dead wife I’d betrayed. I sat for hours on that hard bench, not moving. When I finally got up, I went to my first AA meeting.
“The next day, I went to another. Sometimes I went two or three times per day. And I haven’t stopped. That was a year ago.”
Men and women nodded. Some cried. Two walked out, raw pain carved into their features as they faced their own demons. In that small room, people shared their pain and vulnerability and ghosts of the past and present. In that small room, there were not only acceptance and understanding. There was forgiveness.
There was the power of second chances.
His father cleared his throat and looked straight at Kyle. Those familiar green eyes were clear. Full of regret. And full of love that emanated across the room in waves.
“My son, Kyle, is here tonight with his wife, Ophelia. Somehow, their hearts were big enough to come hear my story. To hear my apology. I submit to a higher power and believe I am worthy of forgiveness. Every day, I choose not to drink. Every day, I choose life. I love you, son. Thank you.”
He stepped off the podium. Tony whispered to him, clapping him on the shoulder, then made the announcement that everyone should help themselves to doughnuts and coffee. The buzz of conversation rose in the air. Hugs were exchanged. Support given.
Kyle sat with Ophelia, feeling as if his world had spun on its axis, then finally righted itself.
His father made his way through the crowd and stopped in front of him. Vulnerability and exhaustion carved out the features of his face. “Thank you for coming,” he said, his voice a bit choked.
Kyle stared at his father for a long while. The memories of the past rose up, full of bitterness and pain; they mixed with fleeting images of love and joy with Ophelia, and at the inn.
A man stood before him, asking for some form of forgiveness for so many sins.
“I’m glad I came.” He leaned forward and gave his father a hug, and Patrick hugged back, his frail frame gripping him with a fierceness that pulsed with emotion.
Ophelia smiled and embraced them both. And in that moment, Kyle realized the most important thing of al
l.
Sometimes, it wasn’t about endings at all.
Sometimes, it was all about new beginnings.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve learned as an author that some books are easy to write.
Some are not.
This book was a particular struggle, and I need to thank many people who helped me through a difficult time, and cheered me to the end. This book holds so much of my soul.
Thank you to the team at Montlake, especially Maria Gomez, for all the support and expertise. Thanks to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for always being there whenever I need her. A special shout-out to Kristi Yanta, my fabulous developmental and line editor, who polished this story with so much love, it can only sparkle like a diamond.
Big hugs and kisses to my writing sisters, who supported me and showered me with love. The Ladies Who Write: Melissa Foster, Sawyer Bennett, Jill Shalvis, Kristen Proby, Marina Adair, and Emma Chase. Also to my email buddy, the beautiful Lauren Layne, who keeps me sane. Kudos to my assistant, Lisa Hamel-Soldano; the Probst Posse reader group, for loving and shouting about all my books; and my family, who puts up with my craziness on a daily basis because they know I’m a writer. It takes a village, guys.
I’m so grateful my village is full of love.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2012 Matt Simpkins
Jennifer Probst is the New York Times bestselling author of the Billionaire Builders series, the Searching For series, The Marriage series, the Steele Brothers series, and The Start of Something Good, which is the first book in the Stay series. Like some of her characters, Probst, along with her husband and two sons, calls New York’s Hudson Valley home. When she isn’t traveling to meet readers, she enjoys reading, watching “shameful reality television,” and visiting a local Hudson Valley animal shelter. Follow her at www.jenniferprobst.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/jenniferprobst.authorpage, or on Twitter at https://twitter.com/jenniferprobst.
A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2) Page 30
