by Abby Knox
“The year was 1996.”
Ever’s face looked like a ghost’s.
“Are you saying, you were the one who took me and my sister’s farm away?”
Logan’s gooseflesh rose on his neck. What the hell kind of freaking coincidence was unfolding right now? “Will you two please tell me what is going on?” he said, his voice shaking, though he already knew.
Ever stood with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide. The old man turned his gaze to his son. “I wronged both of you on that day.”
Logan stared agog at his father and at Ever. “How is this possibly happening right now?”
Phillip replied, “I’ve been listening to Ever talk to me for months now. It sounded familiar, so I made a few calls, and it’s been confirmed. I did that. I took away that farm.”
Ever shook her head, tears starting to fall.
Logan bolted to her side and held her up in his arms. “I’m sorry I brought you here. I didn’t know. I don’t know why he’s making you relive all this sadness, but I’m sorry.”
Ever let out a sob into Logan’s shoulder and sniffled. “I’m not sad, I’m…overwhelmed.”
He sighed. “I know.” He glared over at his father, who had his hands folded and his eyes turned down. “I deserve anything you want to say to me, and you two have my blessing.”
“Dad…”
“Wait, Logan.” Ever patted his hand. “Let me talk. You need to hear this.” She turned to the old man. “I don’t have any negativity toward you. I’m crying because I forgive you. I bear no ill will against you. Drea and I had hard times but we made it through and we’re fine. I believe it when you say this was all meant to be. And I want you to meet somebody.”
She lifted up her shirt to reveal her huge, rounded belly. She took the old man’s hand and placed it on the side of her abdomen.
A broad smile formed across his face and he said weakly, “I feel a kick.”
Ever choked back a sob and said, “Meet your granddaughter.”
“A girl,” he sighed.
“We haven’t told anyone. We wanted it to be a surprise,” she said.
Logan watched in awe. His heart broken, shattered into a million pieces, yet full at the same time. Who was this woman? How was this happening?
And how in the hell had he ended up meeting her hundreds of miles away? It was spectacularly coincidental, all of it.
She was meant to be in his life. He didn’t know how, but he finally understood the why of it.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Logan choked out.
A smile teased the core of Ever’s lips as she cocked her head at him. “Oh, I think you do know exactly what to say. To your father.”
“Dad.”
The old man interrupted him. “You don’t have to say anything, son.” He reached out his hand and Logan took it.
With his other hand, Logan took Ever’s. And there the four of them made a circle. The kind of circle of safety and wholeness that neither Ever nor Logan had felt since they were very little.
Philip cleared his throat to speak again. “I have something else.”
Logan shook his head. “Rest, Dad.”
“No, I need to tell you. I made a few other calls after I confirmed who Ever was. And I bought back the farm. It’s yours again, Ever. Yours and Logan’s if you want it.”
Ever and Logan looked at each other, both having the second major shock of the day.
“I think I need to sit down,” Ever said.
Logan broke the circle and Logan quickly pulled up a chair for her to sit and grabbed the tissues from the box on the bedside table.
“I don’t know what to say to you, sir. Other than, I’d like you to name our baby.”
Philip smiled. “I hope Helena will enjoy her tire swing for as long as she likes.”
THE END
An Excerpt from Abby’s Next book…
HIS VINYL VIXEN
(a brand new stand-alone story!)
A quirky, unlikely summer fling turns into true love between punk record store clerk Zara and hippie beach bum Kai. This new stand-alone title by Abby Knox will knock off your bikini bottoms! Coming summer 2018!
Chapter 1
Zara Rhodes woke up earlier than she’d meant to that morning in the small flat she shared with her mother, Dusty.
Twenty-one years old and freshly sprung from college for the summer, Zara was not accustomed to waking up early. She was deeply entrenched in a season of life in which her body really, really enjoyed sleeping. A lot.
But this morning, a certain sound had awakened her. It was the sound of acoustic guitar out on the sidewalk; a sure sign that she was indeed home for the summer. The buskers were back.
Well, shit.
Zara snapped the shade open with a testy flick of her wrist, as if taking out her anger on window coverings might give her any satisfaction before she had consumed any coffee. She looked down to the street and expected to find the old, familiar faces from last summer, with their threadbare Grateful Dead tee shirts and Birkenstocks and graying, bleached-out beards.
But this one was new. She couldn’t see his face because he was bent over while strumming a Martin N-20 acoustic guitar. His hair was long and sandy, with random streaks of pure gold. He wore a woven Baja tunic with the string ties hanging loose. That 1990s relic of a garment probably reeked of pot.
Zara sighed. She didn’t trust hippies.
She glanced at the hip-swaying Elvis clock on the wall. Time to get ready for work. She dressed in her favorite plaid mini and fishnets. She had to look the part to sling records all day — yes, actual long-playing vinyl records that were regularly bought up by retired Baby Boomers with too much money and time on their hands in this California beach community. So, it was a good thing Zara had been in love with music since the time she could walk. Her encyclopedic knowledge never failed to astound and amuse the regulars. Zara padded into the kitchen, made coffee and poured it into her stainless mug that was covered in Sex Pistols stickers.
Once in the bathroom applying her “look” — scary black kohl eyeliner and red lips — she heard her mother’s footsteps come shuffling down the hall.
“Buskers are back, guess I better go open the store and help them make some money,” Dusty said with a yawn and a smile.
“Ma, why do you put up with those guys? They’re basically panhandling for money right in front of your establishment. Which is, in case you forgot, a store that depends on you making actual money off the same people giving money to buskers.”
Dusty cocked her head to one side and said, “Oh Z, when are you gonna start calling me Dusty, like everyone else?”
Zara returned to penciling on her severe black eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. “When hell freezes over.”
Dusty, smoothed a hand over Zara’s sleek dark locks. “You have such pretty hair.” Zara was majoring in economics. Dusty had a degree in non-sequitres. “Wanna let me put some Dutch milkmaid braids in it?”
Zara moved on to her lips. She turned two tubes of lipstick upside down and read the names of the shades. ¡Olè! and Red Flag. She was definitely feeling more ¡Olè! today.
“Thank you. Hard pass on the milkmaid look,” she said with a smirk.
Dusty shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She turned sideways in the mirror next to her daughter. Dusty had a pretty banging figure at 42. “Bra or no bra today?”
“Ma.”
“Oh come on, Z.”
“Ma, nobody wants to see your nipples. Especially not on my birthday.”
Dusty sucked in he belly. “You know, for an economics major, you understand very little about what sells vinyl records to a bunch of old music junkies. Nipples, baby. Nipples.”
Zara blotted her lipstick and replied, “And now I’m scarred for life.” She snapped the cap back on the lipstick and dropped it into her makeup bag. “OK. I’m gonna go open the shop. See you down there, slut.”
Anybody else’s mother would have been offended. Dusty was not
anybody else’s mother. Dusty called after Zara, “That’s my girl! Oh, Happy 21st birthday, by the way!”
Zara called over her shoulder from the front door as she slipped into her Union Jack Doc Martens, “There’d better not be any cake; I’m off sugar!”
Dusty called back, “You know, just because you’re in California doesn’t mean anybody wants to hear about your diet! Excuse me, ‘eating plan!’” And then a moment later she added, “That’s was sarcasm! You’ll fit right in here! Love you!”
Zara muttered but could not help the smile creeping across her lips. “Love you too, bye!”
She headed downstairs and thought, at least I don’t have a typical Southern California commute to work. The storefront of Vinyl Vixen was literally underneath her and her mom’s flat.
However, after Zara exited the staircase that led to the side street, she realized she did have to walk right past the two-tone blond busker and his guitar. She took a deep breath, resolved to avoid conversation with any new hippies at all cost, and marched around the corner to Beach Street. She tightened her grip on the set of keys laced through her fingers as precautionary little spikes of self-defense. Not that she would likely have to use her keys as a weapon on a mild-mannered guitar-playing beach bum in Sea Grove. But, one never knew. Best case scenario, he would get the hint that she didn’t want a new friend.
But, when she came around the corner, the busker wasn’t there. That’s odd, she thought. Well, in my experience, they never stick around for long.
And then all of a sudden, a man’s deep voice came out of nowhere. “Walk of shame?”
Zara spun around. “Excuse me?”
The blond hippie dude was standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands, and his guitar slung over his shoulder. He was taller than she had expected. And hotter. Way, way hotter. He had deep, soulful brown eyes and a built, sun-kissed chest that peeked through the opening in that god-awful woven tunic.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a joke.”
Zara shook her head and mumbled, “Every-damn-body’s got jokes today.”
“Uhh…” the blond hippie man stammered. “I dunno what to say to that…”
Zara raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just rocket right past the Walk of Shame comment and go to work.”
She turned away to unlock the front door, feeling deeply self conscious knowing his eyes were on her back. He could not stop talking. Talking was not on the menu for Zara before she finished her coffee. Not even talking to super hot musicians.
“I…” he stammered. “I just meant that I saw you coming out of that apartment all dressed up and . . . Never mind. This is for you.”
Zara muscled the old wooden door open and peered at him. He was trying to hand off to her a paper cup of coffee from her favorite coffee spot, Voltaire’s. She did not take it right away. “What are you doing? I have coffee,” she said. She stood in the open doorway and gestured with her Sex-Pistol-bedecked stainless mug.
He looked like he wasn’t sure himself what he was trying to do. “Oh, sorry. I’m Kai. I thought I would try to be a good neighbor and bring the manager of this fine historic music establishment a coffee, as a thank you for letting me busk here today.”
Zara was confused. “I’m just an associate. The owner will be down in a minute.”
“But you do work here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So this is for you. Thank you.” He held out the cup like he was a little boy holding up a perfect attendance certificate.
Zara thought this made him oddly that much cuter but kept her face stone cold. “First of all, you can’t be here. Busking is bad for business. And second of all, what female in her right mind is going to take coffee from a total stranger. Ever heard of rohypnol?”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ll understand if I say fuck off with your coffee.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Do I look like a mustache-twirling bad guy to you?”
He didn’t even appear defensive after her remark, which intrigued Zara on the inside. On the outside, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “They never do.”
He was grasping for something to reach her. “Seems we’re getting off on the wrong foot.” He put down the cup on the window sill. “Nice art,” he said. On the other side of the plate glass window was Dusty’s modern art palm tree sculpture made of little plastic adaptors for 45 records. He then held out his hand and said, “Let’s try again. I’m Kai.”
Zara hesitated before shaking that tanned, sinewy, musically talented hand. “Listen, Kai. thank you for the coffee,” she said, letting him take her hand. His fingers were warm but more rough than they ought to be at his age. “I don’t actually think you’re trying to roofie me. But busking is bad for business. It’s glorified loitering.”
“Well, Dusty said I could stay,” he said with a smirk.
“Did she, now?”
“Yep. I spoke to her last week. I guess that was before you arrived home from college for the summer.”
What else had Dusty said to this total stranger about her? Zara studied his face. He was in his early 20s, didn’t seem like her mother’s type at all. Dusty had always had a soft spot for hippies. Zara was suspicious. Her mom had a bad picker. Exhibit A: Zara’s own biological father. Inwardly, Zara shuddered and pushed the thought of that man out of her head.
She would have to watch out for this one. He had a kind face with a smile that reached his eyes, but that could be deceiving. Nice cheekbones and a nearly-perfect aquiline nose of a marble Roman statue, but with added character. He’d clearly broken it a time or two. There’s definitely a story there. The shaggy hair looked as if it had spent too much time in the surf. Total California babe, through and through. Not my type, said her left brain. But you can’t deny that something-something, said her right brain.
“Fine,” she said. “Just for today. And just so you know, If I decide I want you gone, You’re gone. Dusty trusts my business decisions. And I don’t trust hippies.”
He looked amused. “I’m not a hippie.”
She worked hard to contain a laugh. “Puka shell necklace, frayed cargo shorts, woven tunic from 1993, Teva sandals, Buddhist bead bracelet. Keep telling yourself that.”
“I’m not what you think. I’m just a guy with a guitar who likes to be close to the beach … and in close proximity to pretty, smart, punky-goth girls.”
Zara felt a heat building in her body. She decided that Memorial Day temperatures were going to be hotter than expected this year. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t bug the customers, OK?”
Kai saluted, causing Zara to roll her eyes again before grabbing the free coffee off the sill and heading to work.
Inside the store, she kept one eye on Kai through the window and one eye on selecting the soundtrack for her work day.
Rolling Stones? No. Beatles? No. Misfits? Maybe, maybe not. Michael Jackson? No.
Something in her brain told Zara to lean more toward Americana. What the hell… Grateful Dead it is.
Kai
It was Kai’s first time in this coffee joint on Beach Street. As he waited in line, he noticed some cool framed quotes on the walls:
“Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”
“Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”
Kai decided he was going to like this place.
He had arrived in town last week. It seemed like a cool locale to practice his music while earning a few bucks to get him back on the road to follow his favorite jam band.
Dusty had been very agreeable when he’d approached her about busking in front of her store, and had even hinted at having him help provide entertainment for a fundraiser for the local women’s shelter.
“If your’e any good,” she’d said, with a no nonsense expression.
Kai had known right away she was not a woman to be trifled with. And so he had decided to kiss her ass a
little by bringing her coffee as a thank you gift. He liked Dusty, in that she reminded him of the aunt who had raised him.
But the notion of sucking up to Dusty that morning took a hasty back seat when Kai suddenly caught sight of the younger, scarier, more goth-punk version of Dusty that appeared out of nowhere.
That “walk of shame” comment was the wrong thing to say.
The way she spun around, it was as if he was being struck by lightning. She was college-age, wore knee-high Doc Marten boots that looked like she would kick the shit out of a dude as soon as talk to him. Fishnets under a plaid mini skirt. Sexy black mesh top over a black tank top. Dark hair that gleamed rebelliously in the California sun. Lipstick the color of a fire engine and eyes that were not so much “come hither” as they communicated “fuck you.” Eyebrow ring, nose ring. She carried a travel mug covered in punk band stickers.
If he could speak to her without looking like a complete asshole, all the better. He quickly apologized and explained that he had bought her coffee.
After that, the conversation hadn’t been too terrible. Even when she said “fuck off with your coffee,” she seemed to have been eyeing his guitar, and his chest.
She probably thinks I’m a hippie poser who’s got no talent whatsoever.
And why was he caring about her perception of him? Nobody had ever affected him that deeply on a first meeting. He never thought he cared for the hardcore punk aesthetic. But suddenly, he was coming around.
She was so striking, he could come around on a lot of things. Pantomime. The word “slacks.” If he found out she liked any of those awful things, Kai would the first in line for that bandwagon.
When she had consented to shake his hand, she felt cool to the touch, and it matched her overall cool, attractive, confident demeanor. But still, there was something else there. Her skin was impeccable, her hand felt soft and welcoming inside of his. Even as she was telling him that his favorite pastime, busking, was essentially loitering, he sensed she didn’t actually believe that. Or, that she was making an exception for him because she liked him. Whatever the reason, the little punk female was giving him hope.
