Labor of Love Anthology: 10 Anecdotes of Love and the Struggles Within

by Aliyah Burke

  “I’m not leaving New York, Chelsea, I’m leaving the City.”

  “But you don’t have a plan! You really think that not renewing your lease or finding another place before you take off into the wilderness for three months to take care of your family cabin is going to inspire your next book?”

  “Take a breath. First of all, it’s not the wilderness, it’s Blue Lake. Second of all, it’s not a cabin, it’s a lake house. And third, yes, I do believe it will inspire me. Well, at least that’s what I’m hoping. The last thing I need is the best agent in the world dropping me for the next up-and-coming author.”

  Flattery would get you everywhere with Chelsea. She sighed dramatically into the phone.

  “Shaye, there is no way that would ever happen. You are the hottest IR/Paranormal writer on the scene. I get it, sometimes you need to recharge your batteries and focus, but doing this in three weeks is a bit much for me to handle.”

  “Come on, you know me, I go with my gut and right now it’s telling me Blue Lake is where I need to be,” I said, as I paced back and forth past the mirror. I rolled my eyes at my reflection.

  My brown sugar complexion hadn’t seen a facial in two months. My almond-shaped eyes had enough Coach and Louis Vuitton underneath them to start a consignment store. My olive-green t-shirt and cutoffs that once fit my curvy frame were hanging off of me. It looked like my clothes were wearing me as opposed to the other way around. I lowered the brim of my baseball cap, which hid my messy hair and split ends, and; disgusted with what I saw, rolled my eyes and turned away.

  “If at any time you want out of this stupid arrangement, you call me and I’ll send one of my assistants up there to watch the house while the renovations are being done and we’ll get you back here, put you up at my place if we have to. I gotta go. I have a lunch date with some guy I met last night.”

  “A lunch date and a forgotten name, sounds promising,” I joked.

  “Very funny, that should be the title of your next book. Seriously though, take care, and get your Internet set up. Oh, and lay off the cigarettes and beer.”

  “Not a chance. I’ll call you later on. Bye, Chels,” I said with a smile, and hung up.

  I stood looking at what was left of my New York City life one last time and quietly shut the door. Something told me this was what that I needed, and that was all I needed to know.

  I climbed into the insanely high-tech, foreign SUV Chelsea let me borrow. She says thanks to me she could afford a driver at this point, she had only bought the thing to fill the garage space below her penthouse. I think it was her incentive to get me to come back.

  I sat my laptop on the seat next to me, confirmed with the storage company upstate the two units I reserved were ready, and once I figured out how to start the beast with the push of a button, I headed north.

  The two-and-half- hours drive was nothing, the Monday midday traffic barely caught my attention. I hadn’t been up here in almost two years. Not since I buried Gram. She was probably the one person I would have done anything for; me, the one with an impenetrable heart of stone.

  Despite the hidden truths of my childhood she and my grandfather were always my safe haven. She was a receptionist for the local doctor in Spencer and he was the masonry teacher at the maximum-security correctional facility across town.

  For a long time, they lived right in the center of Spencer in the house that I grew up in until my mother, who was a single parent, got married. After that, I would go back every weekend.

  But once they bought the lake house, retirement wasn’t too far behind; they sold the old house and moved in full-time out on Blue Lake. I inherited the lake house from Gram when she passed because I’m the only living member of my family. That’s weird, right? Being the survivor of your family at the age of 34 is kind of morbid.

  Anyway, I wasn’t ready to be surrounded by her memory, or any others for that matter, so I closed it up and left. It wasn’t until about a month ago, a local real estate agent; who knew my grandparents, contacted me; asking me if I was interested in selling; if you lived in Spencer, everyone knows you and your business.

  After a walk-through, it was clear that a lot of work needed to be done in order for it to pass inspection and a major storm last winter had done some serious damage to one side of the house.

  Blue Lake is a large, privately owned, gated community just outside of Spencer. To me, it’s a place where people go to live if they need structure. How often to cut your grass, what types of decorations you’re allowed to display outside, noise ordinances, the whole bit.

  It’s not exactly my cup of tea, but my grandparents’ place was in a remote area so the tranquility and beauty totally overrides the rules and regulations. Anyway, no one makes rules for me, but me.

  I entered through the back of the community, I didn’t feel like dealing with anyone from the gate, just yet, and to be honest all I wanted was my solitude, an ice-cold beer, and to sit on the dock in peace and quiet.

  “Here goes nothing. Welcome home, Shaye Mitchell, welcome home,” I muttered to myself as I turned onto Deuce Lane.

  I opened the window and inhaled the smell of upstate New York in the summer. There was nothing but lilacs and fresh air. I cranked the volume on the stereo. The Bleachers’ “I Wanna Get Better” flooded my ears as the SUV hugged the long country road, the open sunroof bathing me with light and warmth.

  Ahead on my right was the weather-beaten “Welcome to the Mitchell’s” sign. I can still remember helping my grandfather build and paint that damn thing. It now lacked its original luster. What was once a deep hunter green symbol of a family legacy and achievement, was now just flecks of paint and splintering wood.

  I entered the long driveway between the huge pines, driving until the five-bedroom A-frame cabin on an acre of land on the lake came into view.

  I sat there for a moment, the motor still humming, and a sigh escaped my lips as I adjusted my eyes to the bright sunlight, even though they were shielded behind my sunglasses.

  This was my place, my solace, where my inner demons were silenced. Nothing needed to be discussed here. The tightness in my chest would dissipate and I could breathe. I always hated leaving, losing that feeling and having to build up those walls again when it was time to go.

  I pressed the button, and the engine stopped. I lowered my head to gather my thoughts before taking off my baseball cap, releasing the out-of-control fly-aways from my sloppy, low ponytail and climbed out.

  I was too busy staring at the overgrown shrubs and what used to be Gram’s amazing garden to notice the huge, dark blue, newish Chevy pickup parked at the back of the house. That’s when I heard the faint sounds of Van Morrison. I was beyond annoyed, but not about the music. I liked “Brown Eyed Girl.”

  It was the fact that I had specifically told the real estate agent that I wanted at least a

  week to my fucking self before some balding, sweaty dude with an ass for a stomach and a plumber’s crack, along with his band of merry men intruded on my personal space.

  In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a people person. My circle, no, wait, my dot, is small and I prefer to keep it that way.

  With my resting bitch face securely in place I stomped down the slope to the lake where the deck’s steps wrapped around the back of the house and followed the sound of the drill. I was ready to pull my intimidating black woman card when I stopped dead in my tracks.

  My body instantly began to betray me, but not because of how fucking sexy he was. In my line of work, beefed-up cover models are a dime a dozen. No, this was something else that I couldn’t explain.

  What’s that saying? Actions cause reactions; well, that’s what this was. My panties were wet, because for some reason my body knew exactly what this stranger was capable of. I stood there, taking all of him in, like your mouth craves a cold beer on a hot day, watching the condensation dripping from the neck of the bottle as you slowly put the smooth glass to your mouth, part your lips and sip fr
om the cold, bitter, but so goddamn thirst-quenching liquid that pours down the back of your throat.

  The well-trimmed thickness of his thighs was encased in dusty, perfectly fitted denim. I cocked my head to the side, noticing it, yup, that’s right, that perfectly round ass.

  You know the kind, not your average run of the mill fine ass, that ass could only belong to one type of man, the baseball-playing kind. The kind of ass that made you sit right in the front row just so you could watch the way it came to life in baseball pants.

  There was something familiar about those perfectly cut biceps and don’t get me started on the way his torso teased me, displaying his strength as he drilled into the wood with his six-foot frame.

  He suddenly stopped drilling, and swore, completely unaware of my presence.

  “Fucking piece of shit,” he muttered, before turning around. He fidgeted with the tool. His hands had me transfixed. I was more than wet, I was soaked as I remembered what those hands did to my ass so long ago.

  It was Abe Hughes; just an older version of the seventeen-year-old baseball star I knew way back when.

  He looked up at me, his dark ocean-blue eyes taking me in. I’m sure his thoughts were along the same lines as my own as he pulled the transparent safety goggles from his tightly cropped head. His cinnamon-colored hair was still there, but now it was sprinkled with bits of sugar, just like his perfectly shaped scruff that covered his handsome face.

  A knowing smile came to his lips as he sat the drill down on his makeshift work bench and brushed the bits of debris off his gray tank top, which did a poor job of hiding the hardness of his upper body and his six-pack.

  “Alison Mitchell! I’ll be damned. I had no idea you were the family member coming to stay here,” he said, with a smirk, as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  “I go by Shaye now, and yeah, I inherited this place when my Gram passed.”

  “Why the fuck are you calling yourself Shaye?” he asked. His bluntness had definitely not changed, but oddly enough, I found it entertaining now, as opposed to when we were seventeen.

  “For business purposes. It’s my middle name,” I answered, unable to hide the unfamiliar action my mouth was making without my control. Holy shit… was I smiling? Yup, I sure was, like a stupid schoolgirl! Did I mention I hate stupid schoolgirls?

  “Oh, right, you’re some kind of writer or something, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, something like that. And are you a part of the construction crew? I thought you guys weren’t scheduled to start until at least Wednesday.”

  “I am the construction crew. I have a few guys I pay to help me out if the job is under a deadline, but it’s mainly me. Pat offered me the gig, she knew I could use the cash, and she wanted the house ready in order to get it sold fast for you. It’s supposed to rain the next few days, so I wanted to get a head start,” he said.

  An awkward silence fell.

  “Right, well, I’ll let you get back to cussing out your drill. See ya later,” I said, turning to leave as quickly as I could.

  “Absolutely,” he said, as the drill began to whine once again.

  FROM: shayewrites

  TO: Chelsea

  SUBJECT: CHAPTER 2

  “… BECAUSE SOMETIMES BAD HABITS DIE HARD”

  Relax! I know, you want to know all about Abe and his hands on my ass, right? Well, we need to back up a bit first; you need to understand our sordid, tragic family history first.

  My mind was flooded with memories of Abe as I unloaded the SUV. A long time ago, we’re talking a generation earlier, before Abe and I were even a thought, there was Debbie Mitchell and Joseph Hughes. My grandparents and Abe’s grandparents were the best of friends. They played Bridge together on Friday nights, our grandmothers were Rotarians, and our grandfathers used to drink Scotch and smoke cigars together in the garage.

  So, naturally, their children were raised together and became great friends. My mother, Marie, was the oldest, Debbie, my aunt, was the reckless middle child, and my uncle, James, was the youngest. On Abe’s side there was his father, Abel, and Joseph, his younger brother.

  Everything was great between our families, well, until Abel’s mother walked in on Debbie and Joseph, doing a lot more than listening to records.

  Times were so different than they are now. It was just becoming acceptable for two races to co-exist and form friendships openly, but anything other than that was not acceptable.

  This drove a wedge between our families. Heated arguments and what both families truly felt about each other came to the surface. But that didn’t stop Aunt Debbie and Joseph from being together. They were in love, enough so that they attempted to run away.

  A week later, my grandfather’s Nova was found off a back road somewhere in New Hampshire. They hit a tree. The police officer said there were no skid marks. Thelma and Louise style.

  While both families eventually stopped blaming each other, they grieved separately and never spoke again.

  It wasn’t until years later, on one of my weekend visits to Spencer, that Abe and I came to know each other. You know, horny teenagers mad at the world for different reasons; and we did what every American rebellious teenager would do. We fucked, a lot, and no one was the wiser.

  So being back here now, with him, is just fucking weird. Enough so that for the rest of the day I pretty much hid inside. Drinking on the dock would have to wait. It wasn’t like I didn’t have other things to do, anyway.

  I took my time going through each room, removing all the drop cloths from the furniture, making it a matter-of-fact task rather than a stroll down memory lane.

  Surprisingly, the interior was in pristine condition, and not outdated as you would think considering an eighty-year-old woman was living here alone. My Gram, I swear, had some sort of sixth sense about her, she knew things. So, when she called me out of the blue about a month before she passed and asked me to recommend an interior designer, I should have known.

  But she had never asked me for anything so I was more than willing to do what she asked. Hell, I even tried to foot the bill behind her back but when the money was returned to my account, I knew better than to question it. The updates would definitely make it easier to sell this place.

  I stood at the entryway of the open space. Staring across the great room, the dining room was to my left with its long rectangular table that sat eight and matching maple chairs. The enormous stone fireplace was off to my right and in the center, there was nothing but light and the breathtaking view of Blue Lake. The windows went up the ceiling, glass sliding doors leading to the deck stood right underneath and huge bay windows sat on either side of the room.

  Everything was in neutral shades of beige, sage, and gray except for the winged back leather sofa and its matching love seat and chairs, they were a darker shade of mauve.

  It almost made it appear like an ad for a home interior magazine, empty, and staged. There was no family dysfunction, no life, just nothing. I closed my eyes and for a moment I could hear my grandfather’s laugh and smell Gram’s peach cobbler.

  Suddenly, I was angry that I had to be here, that there was an emotion I was feeling and didn’t want. I cleared my throat, opened my eyes, and turned towards the kitchen, a scowl on my face.

  Fuck the beer, I needed something stronger. I kicked off my flip flops, stomped across the blonde hardwood floor and dug into my bag for the bottle of vodka I purchased on the way up. I slammed it on the counter and began rummaging through the cabinets. Leave it to Gram to rearrange shit before she died.

  After I flung open the third cabinet with no luck, I noticed the white envelope taped to the inside. My name was on it, in Gram’s handwriting. I rolled my eyes, sighed, carefully removed it and opened it.

  My Dearest Alison,

  The shot glasses are on the top shelf of the cabinet above the refrigerator. I am sure that right about now you could use a little something to take the edge off. But I needed you to find this letter
, and the scavenger hunt was how I did it…

  “Fucking Gram,” I mumbled to myself, when I was suddenly interrupted.

  “I’m going to head out for the day.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, startled, as I carelessly shoved the unread letter into the drawer. Abe turned to leave as I fished the shot glasses from the right cabinet and sat them on the counter. Before I realized the words had escaped my mouth, I spoke.

  “Hey, you drink vodka?” I called out.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?” he responded without hesitation. He came towards me and lifted the glass to his delectable mouth, then hesitated.

  “What are we drinking to?” he asked.

  “People suck.”

  “I think I just found my new drinking partner. Salud!” he said, with a smirk. And that was the beginning of my downfall.

  I have no idea what time he left. Don’t go there, it’s not what you think, not that I wouldn’t have devoured him if I could. But that wasn’t what last night was all about. We just talked.