Taking Risk Series
Page 1
Taking Risk Series
Toni Aleo
Toni Aleo Books LLC
Contents
Whiskey Prince
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
The end
Becoming the Whiskey Princess
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Tomas Albert Reilly
Ciara Lynn Reilly
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
A note from Toni Aleo
Also by Toni Aleo
About the Author
Whiskey Prince
A Taking Risk Novel
Toni Aleo
Copyright © 2014 by Toni Aleo Books LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Created with Vellum
What’s life without a little risk?
-Sirius Black
Chapter 1
Amberlyn
I’m an orphan.
When I lost my father, I remember feeling like I would never breathe again. I was Daddy’s little girl. He made me feel like a princess, he loved me the way a father should, and he spoiled me in every way possible. He was a very handsome man, with dark brown hair, light green eyes, and dark stubble that he left a little longer than he should because it gave my mother a reason to fuss at him. He loved when she fussed at him; he said it meant she loved him. He had a low, tenor voice, one that could be used to do the commentary for movies or documentaries. He used to sing to me, an old song from his homeland. Even now, when I am nervous, I sing it. It helps. Somehow, it helps dull the pain of not having him.
I was twelve when we lost him to a drunk driver.
Somehow, my mother and I survived losing him, though. We learned to go on with him still deep in our hearts and souls. We helped each other to cope with the pain of losing him. She was not only the most amazing mother, but she was a great father too. Some days were hard. I’d wake up and say I was having a bad Dad day, and she would reply that she was, too. We would just cry, for hours, but then she would hug me tightly, tell me that the sun was shining and so shall we, and we did until the day she found out she had throat cancer.
My favorite thing about my mother was her smile, but she soon stopped smiling and so did I. The day I found her at the table with tears dripping from her eyes, I asked if she was having a bad Dad day, and she shook her head and just kept apologizing. I didn’t understand, and when she told me what was going on, I didn’t want to believe it. It couldn’t be happening. I had already lost my dad and now my mom, too? It wasn’t fair.
When you were eighteen, you were supposed to be excited for prom, boyfriends, going off to college, and starting a new, refreshing life. But not me. All that came to a halting stop. My dreams of learning the written word, and maybe meeting a boy to spend time with, went up in flames. Instead, I became a caregiver for my mother. I stayed home and studied online as I waited hand and foot on her. I watched for two years as my mother slowly died before my eyes, and to be honest, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. At least I know she went, knowing I loved her more than life itself, when she cupped my face and slowly took her last breath before joining my father in heaven.
When the hospice nurses came after I tucked my mother in bed and had a good, long cry, they were surprised how strong I was and commended me on it. I said it was because of her, and how she raised me to be strong. They knew she begged me to put her in a home, but I’d be damned. She was my best friend. She cared for me my whole life, and I was going to care for her. Plus, I knew she felt more comfortable with me than some nurses she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if her parents could come and help. They had long passed before I was even born. All she had was her brother who lived in New York, and he couldn’t be bothered with her.
Even now, as I watch him from across my mother’s casket, which is covered in beautiful, white roses, I can’t help but wonder why he came. He isn’t even crying. He is just standing there, with the same blue eyes as my mother, looking as if he’d rather be playing golf than acting as if he is mourning her. I choke back the tears as I look around at all the people who have come to pay their respects—neighbors, family friends, and coworkers. Even some of my old high school teachers are here, and I feel nothing. I want to jump into that casket with her and go to heaven too. I don’t want or know how to go on without her. Who is going to help me mourn her?
Wiping away the tears rolling down my cheeks, I take in a deep breath as I softly start to sing my father’s song. In my head, I hear only my parents and not myself as they softly sing Liam Clancy’s, “The Parting Glass” to me. My mother couldn’t sing for anything, but none of us cared. We would all sing, and most of all, we were all happy. But now, my throat feels tight, my limbs are numb, and I just feel empty.
When the song I am singing plays over the speakers, that’s when I squeeze my eyes tight because I know they are lowering her into the ground. I don’t want to see it. I hate knowing it is happening. Soon, it is over and everyone is hugging me, gently squeezing my hands, wishing me well, and saying that they are there for me if I need them. When my uncle is the last to come up to me, I want to scream at him, Why did you come? I hate that he wasn’t there for her because I know if I had a sibling, I would always be there for them. Especially someone like my mom—she was so sweet, so caring, so loving—and he couldn’t even be there at the end for her. Couldn’t be there for me. His only niece.
I can tell he is uncomfortable, and I’m glad he is. As he runs his hands through his dark red hair, he lets out a breath before saying, “Amberlyn, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s your loss, too,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. The dress I’m wearing scratches my ribs, and I want to pull at it, but I don’t. Instead, I hold his gaze as he slowly nods.
“You’re right, our loss, and I want you to know that I am here if you need anything.”
“I won’t.”
He looks away. “Yeah, I know you won’t, but in case you do.”
I don’t say anything, eve
n knowing he is waiting for me to. What does he want me to say? Thank you? Hell no.
“Anyway, here,” he says, opening his suit jacket to pull out an envelope. “Ciara wanted me to give this to you.”
I take it quickly because I see my name in my mom’s handwriting on the front. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “She sent it to me in a letter and said to give it to you on the day of her funeral. She also told me to tell you to call me once you’ve read it, and I’ll tell you what we will do next.”
I’m confused. I look up with my brows pulled together as I say, “What? Do what next? I am going to pick up the pieces and figure out how to live without her. How the hell are you going to help me with that?”
He runs his hands through his unruly hair, and I see something I haven’t seen all day—pain. He is in pain, and it completely boggles my mind. He didn’t care about her or me—why is he in pain?
“Just read the letter, Amberlyn. When you are done, call me, and we will go from there. Again, I’m sorry and I wish that things had played out differently. I cared more about work than I did my family, and now I have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
With that, he turns and starts to walk away. I watch his retreating back and without thinking, I say, “Yeah, you did.”
I follow behind him to where my beat-up, red Honda is waiting for me. Jumping into it, I numbly drive home to the house I grew up in. A beautiful, ranch-style home is one of six that surround a large lake. There is a dock out back that I would sit on for hours and read until my eyes hurt. There wasn’t a summer day that my mom or dad didn’t find me out there almost sunburned, claiming I only needed to read one more chapter.
I love this house and I love this neighborhood, but I just don’t know if I can live here anymore. The thought of leaving has my stomach in knots though. I know there is money coming in, and I could sell the house and start over, but where? How? How am I supposed to live without her? Without him?
Shaking my head before I start to sob, I push my key into the lock, unlock the door, and then enter the house. Parts of my mother and father are everywhere, along with parts of me. My dad’s guitars still sit in the corner, untouched for the last eight years. My mother’s knitting things are still overflowing in a basket by her favorite chair, along with all her law books, which I used to read to her to calm her at night when the pain was unbearable. And then everywhere I look is a notebook or a novel of my own. The house looks exactly the same, and I feel it shouldn’t. I feel that it should look different or changed, the way I feel I have.
Forcing my feet to move, I head to my mother’s room, ignoring her hospital bed, and falling into the one she shared with my father. Taking in a deep breath, her flowery scent intoxicates me. I close my eyes to imagine her beside me, her eyes a bright blue, not the dull color they were before she passed, and her bright red hair falling in heaps of curls around her face as she softly ran her slender fingers through my dark, brownish red hair.
When tears start leaking from my closed eyes, I take in a shuddering breath before I open them and stare up at the ceiling. Her letter is burning in my fingers, and a part of me doesn’t even want to read it right now. I want to ignore it all—act like the last couple days didn’t happen, but I know I can’t. Not only is my uncle expecting my call, but I am also curious why.
So I open the letter. When a check for ten thousand dollars and what looks like a plane ticket falls onto my chest, I ignore them. Through tear-filled eyes, I read my mother’s letter.
My dear, sweet Amberlyn,
I’m so terribly sorry. I don’t think I can apologize enough for not being there for you as you start your adult life. I hate that your life has been so hard, and I wish that there were a way I could change it all, but I can’t. I feel though, that instead of letting this hold you back, you should grow. I believe I have given you all the tools to make your life the best it can be. You are smart, beautiful, and unbelievably talented. And more than anything, I want you to live your dreams.
I know you are probably lying in my bed, wrapped up in a little ball, and bawling your eyes out. Baby, that is fine. Cry. Cry it all out. Then remember that the sun is shining, and you have to as well. As much as I wish I were there with my arms around you, I can’t be, but I am in your heart, along with your father, and baby, we love you. So much.
I know that your uncle Felix said for you to call him after reading this, and you are probably wondering why, so let me explain. I don’t want you to live in the past, and I have a feeling you will. I think that you won’t have a reason to get out of bed if you stay in the home that we built. You’ve never really made friends, never really dated, and I want you to do those things, but will you if you are living in our home? I don’t think so. So here is what I propose: Your father’s sister has offered to take you in at her bed and breakfast. Back home, in Ireland.
I think our biggest mistake was moving to the States, but your father was convinced that he was going to be a singer. I believed in him, so we left. As you know, it didn’t work out, but we made a life here and never went back. I wish we had, and I’m sorry we didn’t, but now you have the chance. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you. Something I know your father would have wanted you to do.
So go for a year, work for your aunt, go to school, and live, my sweetheart. There is so much history in Ireland, and I think you’ll not only enjoy the beautiful world but the people as well. I know this seems drastic and that I am asking a lot of you, but my sweet darling, I am worried you’ll get stuck, and I don’t want that for you. I want you to live all your dreams, and I think Ireland is the best place to do that.
So go. Your aunt, Shelia, is expecting a call to let her know you are coming. She also holds the next letter that I have written for you so, if anything, you should go for that. It has my wishes for you. After a year, if you haven’t made Ireland your home, then come back and everything will be here for you. Uncle Felix will keep the house going until you decide what you want.
I want you to try for me, but I also want you to stay there for you. I miss you. I love you. Please don’t let us hold you back from living the most amazing life possible. We are so proud of you and love you so much.
Go start a new life.
Love you to the moon and back,
Mom
I let the letter fall to my chest as the tears gush down my face. I don’t know what to think or even do, for that matter. How do I leave everything I know behind and start over in a place I have no clue about? How do I go and live with someone whom I have never met? She is asking way too much of me, but I know she is right.
So with a heavy sigh, I roll over to my side. My gaze falls on a picture of my father and mother in a tight embrace, both smiling as they look into each other’s eyes. Reaching out, I take the frame in my hand, bringing it in close to my chest against the letter, the money, and the ticket to my new life. As sobs pour out of me, I whisper, “Why did you guys have to leave me?”
Chapter 2
Declan
I want to stab myself in the eye with one of the many forks that lay before me.
“You’re twenty-two, Declan. It’s time.”
I roll my eyes as I lean back in my chair, picking at the greens on my plate. I know that it can be said that twenty-two isn’t old at all, and that may be right, but to my da, I’m ancient. He was married to my mother by nineteen, my grandda married my grandma by eighteen, and so on and so on. I’m the oldest out of my family who is not married; even my sister, at only seventeen, has the prospects of a husband once she turns eighteen. This may very well be the twentieth century, but to the O’Callaghan family, you get married, you run the whiskey distillery, and you have kids. I’m not against any of this. Not at all, but if I’m to get married, I want it to be because I’m mad about her. Not for the reason my da wants.
Letting out a long breath, I say, “I know, but what will you have me do? Marry the first girl who gives me the eye?”
My da sits up in his chair as he shakes his head. He has aged a lot in the last couple of years. My ma says I favor him. If that is what I will look like when I’m older, please someone do me off. He just looks so angry. Wrinkles line his face, and his brow is set in such an apoplectic way. We may have the same blue eyes and blond hair, but that’s it. I don’t even think I act like him, but my sister informs me that sometimes I do, which I need to change. “That is not what I’m saying.”
“Yes it is,” I admonish him. “You want me to pick the first lady I see and not worry a bit if I actually fancy her. The thing is, Da, that I want to be mad about her if I’m going to marry her.”
“That’s what we want for you, Declan, but you haven’t even dated,” my ma says, which is not entirely true at all. I’ve been with my fair share of women, but none of them has given me what I need or want. They are just there, wanting me for my money.