by Holly Jacobs
ALSO BY HOLLY JACOBS
Just One Thing
Christmas in Cupid Falls
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Holly Jacobs
All rights reserved.
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.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477829288
ISBN-10: 1477829288
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014958167
To Abbey: This one’s for you!
Contents
Freshman Year
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Sophomore Year
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Junior Year
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Senior Year
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
From the Author
About the Author
Freshman Year
Chapter One
I sat on my front porch and took a sip from a bone china teacup with tiny forget-me-nots painted on the side.
It was a civilized, proper cup.
I looked down at my laptop, which was balanced on the holey jeans that covered my outstretched legs. My legs were propped on the porch railing.
There was nothing particularly proper looking about me.
I didn’t need a mirror to know that my carrot-red hair had gone Medusa again and was breaking free of its twisty. As for my jeans, I swear my knees must be knobbier than the average woman’s, or maybe because I worked at home and wore them daily, they just gave up more rapidly. Either way, my three favorite pairs of jeans all had holes in the knees . . . again.
I’d have to go shopping.
I hate going shopping.
I could buy most of what I needed online and avoid the stores, but jeans were an item of clothing that must be tried on.
I stared at my blank screen and took another sip of my tea.
I liked working on the porch.
I watched all the cars that stopped in front of the school across the street. Passenger doors opened and children were disgorged from them at regular intervals. Tall, skinny kids, short, roundish ones. Loud ones who started shrieking friends’ names before their feet hit the pavement. Quiet ones, who could seem alone even in the midst of the morning chaos.
Boys. Girls. Nerds. Jocks. Happy. Sullen.
They were all my inspiration.
They were also my audience.
In a sea of young adult books that dealt with paranormal elements, from wizards to vampires, I currently wrote reality-based books for preteens. I’d written books for much younger children in the past, but as my audience aged, so did my writing.
Maybe it was time to think about writing for high school students rather than for middle school?
I tried to concentrate on the scene in front of me. I only had a few more weeks before the Erie, Pennsylvania, weather got too cold to work outside. I always hated moving inside for work. This porch was where I found Julie and Auggie, Terry the Terrible, and Beautiful Belle.
This porch was also where I tried to imagine Amanda.
There.
A girl with auburn-brown braids that thumped up and down on her back as she walked to a group of girls and joined in the talk. She was new. I know I’d have remembered her. She was talking to a group of bigger kids. Probably eighth graders, the oldest class at this school. She was animated as she spoke. She’d work as a character. I . . .
I was distracted from the scene playing out across the street by a moving van that pulled into the driveway next door. The Morrisons had moved out three weeks ago. The “For Sale” sign on the front yard had had a “Sold” sticker plastered across it for a few weeks longer than that. But after the Morrisons had moved out, no one else had moved in.
The door of the van opened and a man got out.
I only needed that first quick glance to know he was cute.
I tried to study him circumspectly. And I immediately thought of him as a fictional character. If I were writing him in a book, I’d make him a . . . coach. He had that every-man sort of look to him. He was good-looking, but not intimidatingly so. Still, he was good-looking enough that there was a spark of attraction.
I’ll confess, I don’t go out a lot and don’t meet a ton of eligible, single men. I meet even fewer who give me that zing of awareness. The sort of feeling that reminded me that I was a woman in my prime.
I took another glance at the man I was zinging over. His hair was . . . neat. Not too short but not long by any stretch of the imagination. And it was brown. Not dark brown bordering on black and definitely not punctuated with blond highlights. No, this man’s hair was a straight-up, use-a-Crayola-brown-crayon-if-you-were-coloring-him sort of brown.
He was tan. Not in a lies-out-in-the-sun sort of way, but rather he had a skin tone that came from ancestors who came from sunnier climates than mine. I made people who were pale look swarthy.
Judging from the van, he was not overly tall, nor was he overly short. Average.
I tried to ignore my zing and concentrate on my book. This man would make a perfect coach. Put a baseball cap on him and give him a whistle and a glove . . .
At some point, I’d started typing.
“Couch,” Felicity called. “Your name’s funny.”
“Coach,” Coach Divan responded, correcting her pronunciation.
“Couch Divan. I bet people pick on you. My grandma calls her couch a divan. So you’re really Couch Couch.”
“Coach,” he repeated.
“I like Couch better. Couch Divan. Yep. Couch Couch. Yeah, I like it—”
“Hi.”
That one syllable pulled me from my story and I realized the man who had reminded me I was a woman and was my potential new neighbor as well as an inspiration for a new character was standing at my porch railing.
“Sorry. I got caught up in . . .” I wasn’t going to tell him what I’d been caught up in. It’s better not to scare new acquaintances with my profession. Some worry they’d become fodder for my fiction.
Frankly, some did.
I started again. “Hi. Are you my new neighbor?”
He nodded. “Edward Chesterfield. Ned, to my friends.”
I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. Really, it was more of a giggle than a full-out laugh.
I’d written an article years ago for a historical magazine about the evolution of the modern sofa, which was the only reason I know that a variety of couches are known as Chesterfields.
Given what I’d been writing, it was funny. Well, maybe not in a stand-up comedy routine sort of way, but to a woman who spent a lot of her time entertaining herself, it was hysterical.
My new
neighbor, Ned, looked at me like I was nuts.
“Sorry. Really. It’s just that . . .” Man, I was making a muck of this. I’m pretty sure that telling a man you were amused that there was a type of couch that bore his family name wasn’t going to convince him of your sanity.
I settled for simply introducing myself. “I’m Piper. Piper George. Do you need a hand moving stuff in?”
“Miss Pip,” a group of kids from last year called from across the street. I was the kindergarten story lady at the school. Some years, for first or second grade, too. I went in a few times a week. Sometimes I read my books, and sometimes I simply read some of my favorite children’s books. Where the Wild Things Are, The Wild Baby Book . . .
I waved back to the kids. “Have a good first day.”
“Pip?” my new neighbor asked.
That was my writing name and how the kids all knew me, but no adults called me that. “It’s Piper,” I corrected. “So do you need any help, Ned?”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I have some friends coming over to help.”
“Well, good luck and welcome to the neighborhood. If you need anything, I’m around more often than I’m not.” Great. Now he was convinced I was nuts and a hermit. So I added an explanation. “I work from home.”
He nodded and asked, “Are you going to explain what’s so funny about my name?”
I smiled. “It wasn’t your name, but my mind.”
“Your mind, Pip?” he asked.
“Piper,” I corrected again. “And my mind works in mysterious ways, Ned Chesterfield.”
He studied me a moment, then simply nodded and went back to his driveway.
I was pretty sure I had not made an auspicious first impression.
But seriously, my inspiration for Couch Divan—Couch Couch—was a Chesterfield?
I chuckled again.
Little things amused me. That was a good thing, because little things were far more prevalent in my life than big things. Some people might have a problem with that, but frankly, I loved my life. I made a living at my writing, which allowed me to spend my free time volunteering. I thought both things made a difference, and that was enough for me.
I took a sip of my now-cold tea from my favorite forget-me-not cup and went back to work on Couch Couch. I watched as a car full of men pulled up next door and began unloading the moving van with Ned Chesterfield.
They all waved and said hi, or at least nodded.
I couldn’t wait to tell my friend Cooper that the new neighbor was cute. Or maybe I wouldn’t. If she found out he was good-looking she’d go out of her way to fix the two of us up. I might try to tell her that I had more requirements from the men I dated other than being cute, but she would insist that the first spark of attraction was all I needed to date. Later, I could find out if there was more.
I watched as Ned came in and out of the house.
And yes, if Coop asked, I’d have to admit there was a spark.
After an hour or so, another car pulled up and parked in front of my house, under my serviceberry tree this time. A pretty blonde got out carrying a big bag. She was tiny. The term sprite came to mind. Yes, if I were writing her in a book, I’d write her as a sprite. She smiled and nodded at me. I smiled back.
My new neighbor came out and saw her walking toward his new house. “Mela.”
It was an odd name, but she smiled as he said it. They hugged. Not a PDA sort of uncomfortable embrace but just a friendly hug. If I were writing them in a book, they’d be a couple who didn’t make it. They didn’t really seem to . . . fit.
I have no idea what fit really means in terms of a relationship, but some people just do. My parents, for instance. I can’t imagine one without the other, and not simply because they’re my parents, but because they . . . well, fit.
Ned and this Mela didn’t seem to.
“I came to give your new man cave a woman’s touch,” she announced.
He laughed. “John is already setting up the sixty-inch flat-screen television in the living room, so basically, the house is pretty much ready to go. No touches required.”
She laughed and held up her bag. “I brought candles. Girly-smelling candles.”
“Heaven save me from smelly candles,” he said with a smile.
They continued teasing about televisions, candles, and a woman’s touch.
My new neighbor had a girlfriend.
I thought there was a very good chance I was going to like Ned Chesterfield, but I quickly snuffed out that initial jolt. He was taken. It was almost a relief. I’d never have to worry about dating someone next door. I mean, how awkward would it be if we dated and then broke up?
I was definitely relieved he had a girlfriend.
That night, as I locked up the house, I saw light spilling from the windows next door. It seemed that my new neighbor was all moved in and was spending his first night there.
I wondered if he was still unpacking, or if indeed his big television was all he needed to feel at home.
I knew if I moved, I’d require more than that to feel settled.
I made my way upstairs to my bedroom. It occupied the entire second-floor dormer of my house. I flipped on the light and realized it felt like home. I studied it as if for the first time.
It contained a weird mix of family antiques and thrift-store finds. My great aunt’s bird’s-eye maple-and-mahogany vanity stood between two old chests of drawers I’d picked up at a garage sale and painted a turquoise blue, which complemented my most treasured family antique—the wedding chest under the window.
My bedframe was a flea-market find. I think I’d paid ten dollars for it. It was cast iron and had been painted once upon a time, but now only held a ghost of that white paint, mixed with the metal and a bit of rust. The woman had said with a good sanding and a coat of paint it would look like new. I didn’t do either because I liked the air of age on it. It was covered with an antique forget-me-not quilt I’d picked up at a house sale last year.
Yes, the things in this room felt like home. A simple television wouldn’t do it. Nor would scented candles.
Almost every piece of furniture in this room had a story, and those stories were part of what made it—and my entire house—feel like home.
Thinking about stories and home, I climbed in bed, opened my nightstand drawer, and took out the journal I’d bought a few weeks ago. Its cover was a soft leather that whispered it was antique, even though it wasn’t.
The first time I’d opened it and inhaled, I swear the smell said, Write in me. Fill me with letters, adding one to another until you have a word. Then stack those words and turn them into colors and textures. Turn those into feelings and joy. Turn them into a story. Not one of your normal stories, those broad-brush strokes that paint the pictures that parade through your mind. Turn this into Amanda’s story.
String those words together and paint her story. Tell her about all the good she’s done, even if she hasn’t been aware of it.
I opened that leather journal now and the spine crackled softly. And as I stared at that first blank page, I knew it was time.
Amanda was starting high school. She was standing on the brink of adulthood. Someday soon she might come and find me, and when she did, I had so much to share with her. So much I wanted to be sure she understood.
I looked at that wedding trunk that had once been a bright blue with red flowers hand-painted on it. Both colors had faded over time. I knew that the letters on the front were faded as well, but still discernable. T. P. E. 1837.
My mother said she thought it came from Sweden with a bunch-of-greats-grandmother, Talia Piper Eliason. Mom had given it to me when I moved out, but I never felt as if I owned it. I was holding it for Amanda. Like the locket I’d sent with her, this was her family history.
I knew that Amanda had a new name and a new family. She had
a story she’d grown up knowing. But she couldn’t understand the entirety of her life until I told her this part.
When I’d bought the journal, I’d thought I’d tell her story chronologically, but I wasn’t ready to talk about her birth, so I started at another point . . .
Dear Amanda,
Amanda’s Pantry truly began on your fifth birthday, almost a decade ago now. I was at the grocery store buying . . . I don’t remember what I was buying. Probably something with no nutritional value whatsoever. I was only twenty-one, and I didn’t worry about things like proper nutrition.
I was standing in line at the register behind a young woman and a toddler. The little girl had red hair. Not auburn. Not strawberry blond. Red. Like Orphan Annie red. Like mine. I felt a kinship with her immediately, and of course, I thought of you.
She was asking for a piece of candy and her mom was whispering, “No.” There was something in the way her mom said it that told me that she wasn’t saying no because it was candy and the little girl shouldn’t be eating candy. She was saying no because she couldn’t afford it.
I was about to buy the candy bar and then run it out to them after I paid, when the cashier said, “That’s twenty-eight o’ six.” I remember the amount, even if I don’t remember what was in my cart.
The woman had a twenty in her hand.
“I think we can do without—”
I wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do without. The bread? The peanut butter? Or maybe the milk?
And at that moment, I looked at that little girl who could have been you. And I thought, what if she was you? What if your father lost his job? What if your mother got sick?
God forbid, what if you got sick?
What if you were standing in the grocery store, hungry while your mom decided what food you could do without?
I looked at the redheaded toddler and felt tears well up in my eyes.
And I realized my hand was already in my back pocket. Before her mother could put anything back, I bent over and came up with a ten-dollar bill in my hand. “Ma’am, I think you dropped this,” I said.
