Love is a Battlefield (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 1)

by Whitney Dineen

  “What about the opening of Bainbridge Caribbean?” I practically whine. “I want to go on vacation.”

  “There are plenty of fun things to do in Oregon when you’re not consulting on decorating.”

  “Yeah, goat yoga and mushroom foraging,” I grumble. They’ve probably added a master class in how to macramé your own rain poncho. Oregon is not my idea of a vacation. The last time we were there, I was forced to fish for my dinner. I don’t like fishing, and I sure as heck don’t have any desire to do a downward dog next to an animal that’s liable to head-butt me into the next decade.

  “Addison Marie Cooper, do you remember when I picked you up at the police station when you ran that red light and decided not to stop for the traffic cop?”

  “I was sixteen!” I try to defend. “I was scared.”

  “Yet, I picked you up and promised to never tell your dad. I never have, you know.”

  I hand her my phone. “Go ahead and tell him.”

  “That’s not how this is going to go down. You promised that day you owed me the mother of all favors. You can’t renege on that now.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. I’ve already booked our flights. We have a beautiful suite being gifted to us by my client.”

  “The flights were on frequent flier miles. You won’t lose those, and your client will surely invite you back another time.”

  “No, Mom. Just no.”

  “And yet, a promise is a promise. I’ll call Ruby and tell her we’ll be there Friday afternoon. I’m so grateful to have such a lovely and helpful daughter.”

  Ignoring her blatant attempt at manipulation, I demand, “How in the world can you make up for missing a trip of a lifetime?”

  Instead of answering my question, she says, “You won’t regret going to Oregon. Trust me.”

  She knows how I feel about the Pacific Northwest. She knows I’d rather walk over broken glass followed by a stroll through a nest of cobras before returning to the scene of the incident—the final nasty prank in a long line of practical jokes that traumatized me for all further outdoorsy activity, short of a nice, sedate horseback ride or lying on a beach drinking rum cocktails, that is.

  Libby Cooper has something else up her sleeve and I don’t want to know what it is. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s any way to avoid it.

  Chapter Two

  The Mothers

  “Well, how did it go?” Ruby Cavanaugh demands the moment Libby answers the phone.

  “She’s not happy, but she’ll be there. How’s it going on your end?” Libby wonders.

  “I’ve started acting preoccupied whenever I talk to the boys. It won’t be much longer before Brogan shows up wondering what’s wrong.”

  With the cell phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, Libby pours half a bottle of white wine over her freshly roasted herb chicken before putting it back into the Viking oven. “Maybe we should just set Addie up with James. He lives right there in Spartan. Hang on a second,” she says as she places her phone on the counter and hits the speaker button.

  “Addison has always hated Brogan way more than James. And you know what they say about love and hate. Don’t forget Shelly Smitton and Zane Cox.”

  “We were surprisingly good matchmakers in college,” Libby agrees. “I just never anticipated we’d be doing it with our own kids.”

  “It’s not like we haven’t given them plenty of time to figure out their own love lives. Let’s face it, once you hit your thirties, a motherly intervention is past due.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, Rubes!”

  “Me too, my friend. It’s been too long.”

  Brogan

  “Yo, Bro, have you talked to Mom lately?” James asks by way of greeting.

  I closed the blackout curtains before going to bed, which leaves me lying here trying to figure out if it’s day or night.

  “Brogan, are you there?” my brother persists.

  “What time is it?” I croak as I sit up looking for the bottle of water I keep on my nightstand.

  “Dude, it’s six o’clock in the morning. The day’s a wastin’.

  “James, I didn’t go to bed until after two. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still the middle of the night.”

  “What were you doing up so late?” he wants to know. “Did you have a hot date?”

  I wish. “I promised my publisher I’d send some preliminary notes for the sequel to Crime Garden. They signed me on for two more books once it hit the New York Times Bestsellers list.”

  “Props, man, congratulations!” James is way the hell too cheerful for me right now.

  “Thank you. Now why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”

  “I wanted to know if you’ve talked to Mom. She’s not acting like herself.”

  “I’d be surprised if something wasn’t out of whack. Dad’s only been dead for a year.”

  “I don’t think it’s that. She started behaving strangely about a week ago.”

  “She’s got a lot on her plate with the lodge. I’ll call her later,” I tell him.

  “Maybe she’s working too hard.”

  “It’s good for her to have a distraction,” I say.

  “Just check on her. Then call me back.”

  “I’ll do it as soon I wake up. I’m going back to sleep for a few hours.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  I hang up without replying. Then I turn off my ringer. I lie still for a few minutes hoping sleep will take over, but once my writer brain turns on, it’s off and running.

  I love my job. It’s the perfect occupation for a person who likes a quiet life. The only problem is that I regularly lose track of time, which can make interacting with the rest of humanity a bit challenging.

  My mind drifts to my mom as I get out of bed to grab a couple of aspirin. She’s only sixty, nowhere near the age anyone would have expected her to be widowed.

  None of us have had an easy time accepting Dad’s sudden death, especially because he was in such amazing shape when it happened. He worked out at the gym five days a week, hiked and swam all the time, and ate a healthy diet. Dying from a heart attack in the prime of his life knocked us all off balance.

  Back in bed, I decide to go home and spend some time at the family fishing cabin. I was planning on waiting until the new year to start the sequel to Crime Garden anyway. This way I can keep an eye on my mom and still enjoy some solitude.

  At noon, I wake up feeling good about my decision to get out of Dodge for a while. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I head out to the deck so I can watch the surf crash against the Oregon Coast while I talk to my mom.

  She answers after five rings sounding tired and distracted. “Yes.”

  “Hey, Mom, it’s Brogan.”

  “Hi.” Dead air.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m fine,” she says, sounding anything but.

  “I talked to James earlier today,” I tell her.

  “That’s nice.” I’m starting to get nervous. My mom is usually thrilled to hear from me and asks a million questions before I can get a word in. These short and to the point answers are not her style at all.

  “James is worried about you. He says you’re not acting like yourself.”

  “Huh.” That’s it, huh? Warning bells ring in my head like a five-alarm fire is consuming an entire city block.

  “Mom, I’ve decided to come home for a bit,” I tell her, knowing this information will garner some excitement. “Is the fishing cabin open?”

  “Unless Billy Grimps has taken up residency.” Billy is a semi-homeless, semi-employed older man who’s been squatting in our cabin on and off since my grandparents owned the inn. My family would have happily given him steady work, but he prefers not to be tied down. He claims life is about communing with nature and not about slaving away for “the man.” He works only when he wants to. That way, having a regular job won’t interfere with his calling.

  “I don’t care if Billy’s there as l
ong as he promises to shower regularly.”

  “I suppose you could stay with me.” She doesn’t sound too excited about the idea.

  “Okay,” I reply. While I usually stay in the cabin, I’m starting to wonder if I should be closer until I know what’s going on with her.

  “On second thought, you’d better stay at the cabin, I have company coming.”

  “Really? Who?” My mom usually puts her guests up in one of the ninety guest rooms that make up Willamette Valley Lodge’s main building.

  “Libby Cooper.”

  If my mom’s best friend is visiting from New York, she must be worried, too. “Good,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine in the woods.”

  “All right, I’ll see you when I see you,” she says before hanging up. No declarations of delight that her oldest child is coming home. James is right, something is going on and it can’t be good. I hope Mom isn’t clinically depressed or something. I’m definitely going to have to keep a close eye on her.

  Chapter Three

  The Mothers

  Libby: I apologize ahead of time for my daughter’s cranky disposition.

  Ruby: Uh-oh. Bad flight?

  Libby: Bad everything.

  Ruby: I’ll make sure to have something nice planned for when you get here. Let’s see if we can turn her around before she decides to hate Oregon all over again.

  Libby: You’re the best. We just got to the car rental place. We should be there in about an hour.

  Ruby:

  Addison

  Portland’s motto is “Keep Portland Weird.” That’s right, an entire city has dedicated their existence to staying weird. By the looks of some of the people at the airport, they’re succeeding beyond all mortal expectations. And believe me, I’m from New York, I know weird when I see it.

  I pass a girl in her early twenties wearing cutoff jean shorts over a pair of ripped fishnet tights. While hiking boots and a flannel shirt complete the look, it’s the hot pink mohair beanie worn over her purple and black streaked hair that says it all: I have no fashion sense and my armpit hair is tie-dyed.

  While my mom is bouncing along next to me, excited to see her friend, I’m dragging one foot in front of the other like I’m shuffling toward my own execution. Seriously, Gregorian monks are chanting hypnotic tones in my head, lulling me into calmly accepting death.

  As we pass the Made in Oregon store, I ask, “What is it about this state that they’re so enraptured by the things they make?”

  “They’re proud of their accomplishments,” my mom answers. “They want to support the local economy.” Not that vegan energy bars, handmade soap, and homespun yarn aren’t good things, they are. But come on, would it kill them to be a little less nutty crunchy?

  “Do you want to grab a bite to eat before we get the car?” my mom asks.

  “I’d rather just get out of here.” I’m hoping some fresh air will clear the skunky stench of marijuana out of my nostrils. The two man-buns in front of us positively wreak of ganja.

  One of the stoned hipsters just told his friend, “We had a rad sesh, man. All the vibes. All. The. Vibes.” While these guys are probably around my age, there is nothing about them that suggests they’re upstanding citizens. I’m guessing they still live in their parents’ basements and dream of starting a garage band to save the ringed seals of Finland. Of course, they haven’t done that yet because they’re too high to get off their butts and be productive.

  My mom shoots me the side-eye and warns, “Turn your mood around, Addison. It’s not going to make this trip go by faster and we aren’t going to be of any use to Ruby if your panties are constantly in a bunch.”

  “All I said is that I didn’t want to eat in the airport. What about that makes you think my panties are in a bunch?”

  “That look on your face says you’re suffering some kind of existential angst.” My face does tend to give away my emotions.

  Nodding my head toward the aromatic men-children in front of us, I explain, “I just need some fresh air. I’ll be fine as soon as we get outside.”

  Once we have our luggage and get settled into a mid-size sedan, I really do feel better. I usually enjoy air travel, but today’s flight was packed full and nearly five hours of non-stop turbulence. Not that I would have minded had we landed in the Cayman Islands, but Oregon is not my idea of a decent reward for suffering such a rocky journey.

  My mom pulls out onto the freeway and declares, “This is such a beautiful state. Your dad and I have so many wonderful memories of going to college here.”

  “How you two East Coast kids ever wound up going to school on the other side of the country is beyond me,” I grumble.

  “Your dad and I like to think of ourselves as world citizens. We bonded over our love of exploring this beautiful planet we live on.”

  I look around at all the trees and the blue sky full of puffy clouds and I’m hard-pressed not to agree. “Oregon is pretty.” I don’t offer more. I mean, it’s not white sandy beaches and palm trees.

  Mom turns on the radio and finds an oldies station playing “Come Sail Away” by Styx, one of her all-time favorite bands. She belts out the lyrics for all she’s worth at the same time following Google Maps lady’s instructions.

  I close my eyes and practice a calming breathing technique while visualizing myself lying in a hammock on the beach. I’m blissfully swaying in time with an imaginary breeze, when I’m startled back to the present.

  “Sheep!!!” my mom yells.

  My eyes pop open, half expecting to see a herd of lamb chops flying toward the windshield. “What sheep?” I demand when it becomes clear we aren’t in imminent danger.

  “Over there,” she points to a field to her left. “Will you just look at them all? White sheep, black sheep, baby sheep …” she starts to enumerate.

  For the love of God. I close my eyes again and try to get back to the beach. I’m almost there when she yells, “Cows!”

  “Mom, there are sheep and cows in upstate New York. Why are you so excited about seeing them here?”

  “They just look so much more peaceful here. You know, relaxed and happy.”

  I start to wonder if my mom picked up a contact high from being so close to those potheads at the airport. Maybe I should drive. Before I can suggest it, Google lady says, “Take the next exit and turn left on Christmas Tree Road.”

  “It won’t be long now,” my mom enthuses. She’s positively radiating excitement.

  “Didn’t you just see Aunt Ruby over the summer?” I ask.

  “I did, but it was only for a quick overnight. She was in New York for the launch party of Brogan’s latest thriller and couldn’t spare much time before she had to get back.” Then she adds, “You might remember that she invited you to join us, but you were too busy.”

  “I would rather walk naked through Time Square during rush hour than to go to any party honoring Brogan Cavanaugh.” But the truth is, I really was busy.

  “You’d think you’d be over that little joke by now. It has to be over twenty years ago,” she admonishes.

  “It was seventeen years ago, and he put honey in my shampoo bottle while we were camping,” I remind her. “The only place I could get water to wash my hair was from the river nearby and that water was freezing cold. If you’ll recall I was a sticky bug magnet for days.” It’s impossible to heat enough water on a camp stove to sufficiently wash out that much honey.

  My mom laughs—laughs!—before saying, “You have to give the boy credit. That was a particularly well thought out prank.”

  “I would think you’d be on my side, Mom. Imagine if it had happened to you.”

  “Addie, dear, you need to lighten up and have a sense of humor about yourself. A couple weeks in the Oregon countryside is exactly what you need to gain some perspective.”

  “Perspective on what?” I demand. I’m suddenly so annoyed I consider jumping out at the next intersection and hitchhiking back to the airport.

  “Honey,” my mom tri
es to sound soothing, “you work too hard and you’re always on the go. You need to breathe the fresh air and let your hair down a bit. You know, trade in your Louboutins for some sneakers and go for a long walk.”

  “I was planning on going for a lot of walks … on the beach,” I remind her. I’m the one doing her a favor here, and I do not appreciate her making me out to be some priss with a nature allergy. Plus, it’s her fault I hate Oregon. If she hadn’t forced me to visit here every year until I was a junior in high school, I’m pretty sure I’d be ambivalent on the subject of the Beaver State. Heck, I might have even liked it here.

  Chapter Four

  The Mothers

  Ruby: Brogan is going to stay in the fishing cabin. I’ll give Addie a nice suite and pamper her for a couple of days before she even lays eyes on him.

  Libby: Good thinking. That daughter of mine needs to chill out.

  Ruby: Are you almost here?

  Libby: We just parked.

  Ruby: I’ll meet you in the lobby.

  Brogan

  With a quick glance at my watch, I realize that in the hour I’ve been home I already feel the calming effect of the Willamette Valley infusing my soul. I love living by the ocean, but it gets busy during the summer months with tourists taking over the beaches and all local thoroughfares. I finish settling into the fishing cabin before going to see Mom.

  The fishing cabin is best described as rustic, and that’s being kind. The shower is outside, so if you’re staying up here in cold weather, you’ve got to be prepared to either get in touch with your inner animal and embrace a more organic aroma or walk two miles to the lodge.

  James and I stayed up there for the entire month of July one year when we were teenagers. Ripe doesn’t begin to describe the stench of two adolescent boys who used only the creek and river for bathing. Mom considered burning the place down until Dad offered to install an outdoor shower. After that, she would have let us stay in the cabin the whole summer if we’d wanted to.