ALSO BY T. LYNN OCEAN
Carolina Booty
Mayhem in Myrtle Beach
Southern Fatality
Southern Poison
Southern Peril
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CHOOSING
CHARLESTON
____________________
T. Lynn Ocean
A Note from the Author
Thanks for checking out Choosing Charleston. This book was previously published in hardcover by St. Martin’s Press under the title Fool Me Once. I’m pleased to be able to bring it you now in e-format. It has been lightly revised from the original version but all the wonderful points of reference in Charleston, SC remain the same.
This book is special to me because it was my first. If you enjoy the read, please spread the word among your book-loving friends, and I’d be happy for a review, too. You may also enjoy Carolina Booty, another title that was previously released in hardcover only, but is now in e-format for your Kindle, Nook, Apple or other device.
I appreciate you all. Live large and laugh often!
Tracy Lynn Ocean
Copyright 2014 by T. Lynn Ocean. In accordance with the Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading or electronic sharing of this work without permission of the publisher constitutes piracy/theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for reading an authorized copy of this book and supporting writers everywhere.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously to create an entertaining story. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Prologue
Prone on a chaise lounge and squinting through near-blinding rays of sunshine, I watched a bird effortlessly skim the surface of the ocean and tried to figure out what species it was. It had a dark body and a gold neck with a silver stripe, and it seemed to glide forever before it had to flap its wings for momentum. It went up and flew a spiral pattern, like a jet coming in for landing, as I sipped on a frozen coconut drink and wondered where my husband was.
He’d left to cash some travelers’ checks more than three hours ago. I’d called our room and checked the swimming pools. I even walked through the resort’s sports bar, where he might have been perched in front of a television screen to catch a ballgame score.
The bird suddenly tucked its wings and dove straight down, head first into the ocean. It resurfaced and bobbed in the water, swallowing the fish it had just captured. I realized the bird was a brown pelican and felt a flash of self-pity at not being able to share the moment with someone. The beaches of Belize were beautiful, but I was on my honeymoon and resented having to enjoy the beauty by myself.
“They are funny birds, no? Like dive bombers,” a dark-haired server said with a delightful accent. He replaced my empty plastic cup with a full one. The rim was garnished with a giant triangle of fresh pineapple, and he’d thoughtfully wrapped a paper napkin around the base before handing it to me. Like all workers at the resort, he wore casual shorts and brightly-colored shirt that made me think of happy music and steel drums. He had the whole ‘no worries’ thing down pat. His demeanor announced that life was good.
I thanked him and returned my attention to the sky, hoping that life with my new husband would be good. I clung to that positive thought even as a sour taste lingered at the back of my throat—despite the delightful fruity drink that slid down it. Two days ago, Robert arrived at our wedding with booze on his breath and a stain of some sort on his shirt – neither of which sat well with Mamma. He made up for his matrimonial faux pas by surprising me with a gold bracelet and airline tickets for our first vacation as husband and wife. But the destination was Belize; not the quaint resort I’d chosen in the Florida Keys. And now my man had disappeared on me, saying he was off to the bank to cash travelers checks. Which didn’t make sense because the hotel would cash a traveler’s check. The guest directory in our room said so. For that matter, there was a bank within walking distance. He could have gone and been back in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.
The second rum-laced drink helped to ease the tight feeling in my stomach, and as I sprayed sunscreen across my shoulders, I decided that the apprehension I felt was post-marital jitters. It had to be. Walking down the aisle was both thrilling and scary, kind of like watching the pelican hurl itself into the water at breakneck speed. The bird had resurfaced, happily pointing its beak at the sky to swallow the small fish it had snagged. I imagined that I’d soon resurface from the odd, disconnected feeling that I was experiencing, basking in the glorious sun solo. Maybe my new life partner would bring me a fish to eat. A cooked one. Covered with a creamy butter and wine sauce and surrounded by some exotic fruit I couldn’t identify.
Although Robert and I had grown up in the same town and dated briefly in high school, we hadn’t spent much time together as adults and perhaps we shouldn’t have gotten married so quickly. On the other hand, getting to know someone is what marriage is all about, right? Sharing moments, creating memories and establishing a future together. Daddy says he’s still getting to know Mamma, and they’ve been married nearly forty years.
Maybe Robert was sightseeing. Maybe he’d lost track of time. Maybe I was imagining things. I closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing at all except the hot sun on my bare skin and the reassuring sounds of waves rolling onto sand just a few feet away.
Chapter One
I love you.
Three simple syllables with the capability to set hearts aflutter. Three short words that wield the power to transform lives. One tiny sentence over which futures had been planned, careers had been chosen or discarded, and seeking spermatozoa had penetrated ripe eggs.
I love you.
One second’s worth of utterance that bared a soul and meant everything in the world. Or, like the promise of Santa Claus, could mean nothing at all.
I love you.
Words that could melt a heart, or shatter it.
The last time I’d heard those words roll off my husband’s tongue, they were so passionate, almost guttural, nearly animalistic. He’d repeated them again and again, intensely, fervently, heatedly, while his hips moved to the rhythm of his words, up and down, up and down, until, with one final declaration of love he climaxed with a sepulchral moan, pushed in deeply, then stilled.
Unfortunately for me, Robert’s words had been directed into the ear of Corin Bashley, a divorced neighbor who lived two houses up the street. Until that instant, she had also been a friend. We’d shopped together and shared recipes and gossiped in one or the other of our kitchen
s.
I’d returned home from the airport after my flight was canceled because of a mechanical issue with the landing gear. I could have waited two hours and taken another plane, but I wasn’t up for more time in the airport. And since it was the airline’s fault, they accommodated my request to get on the next day’s flight. I’d even finagled an upgrade to first class and felt quite proud of myself, grinning on the drive back home. I stopped at a seafood market to buy some cold boiled shrimp and a bottle of white, knowing that Robert would have planned on a deli sandwich or takeout.
When his declarations of love reached my ears, I’d simply stood in the bedroom doorway, transfixed, watching, listening. I didn’t even move when the two of them, sweaty and spent on my favorite yellow cotton sheets, realized that they were no longer alone.
“Oh, no, Carly…Oh, no….” Corin sputtered, undergoing an instant transformation from ecstasy to shame and haphazardly yanking on a pair of too-tight jeans and pullover tank. “I’m so sorry… this isn’t what you think,” she lied, as though I’d believe her words rather than my own eyes. As though there could be an explanation.
Robert, in contract, remained quiet. He just looked at me, his bride of less than a year, and shook his head as though he pitied me. He couldn’t claim that Corin meant nothing to him and he didn’t even try. The passion in his voice as he’d repeated those three simple words over and over again from his position on top of her had been too evident. They’d never sounded that way when he’d uttered the same words to me. Or maybe they had, but the scene I’d just witnessed made all his prior declarations of love seem hollow in comparison. Frozen, I watched the scene unfold until bile rose up and I felt my legs running into the bathroom. I must’ve retched for ten minutes, with nothing coming up.
Two days later, as I sat staring at the massive desk that separated me from Robert’s divorce lawyer, it occurred to me that I probably would have forgiven Robert if he had bothered to ask. People make mistakes. I might have been willing to do what was necessary to make the marriage work. Maybe I needed to pay more attention to him. Learn to appreciate hockey. Act interested in the stock market swings. Laugh at his vulgar office jokes.
Perhaps I’d put a wedge between us by getting so angry when he flushed my birth control pills down the toilet. Maybe I should have given in to his plea for a baby, even though I wasn’t yet ready to be a mom. After all, I’d rearranged my life and moved to New York because he’d asked. And because he was charming and handsome and he made me feel special. We could have made a beautiful child together.
But it hadn’t occurred to him to ask me to forgive him. The emotion he emanated at having been caught with his dick inside Corin Bashley reeked of relief rather than regret. There was no apology, in words or actions, and no talk of keeping our marriage together. Robert’s immediate concern was coordinating my schedule with his lawyer’s, so we could get on with the apparent divorce.
I should have gotten my own lawyer, and I should have done the filing. After all, he was the party who’d been unfaithful. But I was too stunned by the turn of events in my life to care. And besides, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a divorce. So, like a wounded animal stuck in a rapidly moving undercurrent, I just went with the flow and tried to keep my head above water.
Since I was a kid, I’d always been the logical-minded, easygoing, quiet one. While my twin sister argued her way through adolescence and eventually became the star of her junior high debate team, I put equal energy into avoiding conflict because I saw no gain from it. At school, Jenny enjoyed instigating quarrels just for kick. She was a pro at pushing people’s hot buttons. I, on the other hand, felt a duty to smooth out the situation when a fight erupted on the playground or when a teacher was threatening to give my sister detention. As early as my teenage years, I’d developed a knack for solving everyone else’s problems. I was convinced that acting on emotion rather than reason was ridiculous. It simply made no sense. I hated confrontation. Which was why everyone was surprised when I, not Jenny the arguer, applied to law school.
I turned my attention to how Robert and I were going to divide our newly acquired furniture instead of dwelling on the idea of living the rest of my life without him. I wondered if he would consider marriage counseling. I wondered if it would help. Probably not.
His idiot lawyer smiled grimly, like a funeral director, while I robotically scrawled my signature and initials on papers he pushed across the big desk. Doing so initiated the legal separation, required by the state before Robert could be totally done with me. With dry eyes, I scanned and signed, wondering if my soul mate was still out there, waiting for me. Perhaps I only wanted to get married because I was turning thirty-two and figured it was time. Perhaps the fact most every friend from South Carolina was already married bothered me more than I’d realized. Perhaps Robert never was the right choice for me. Perhaps the mechanical malfunction on the Delta jet was the best thing that could have happened.
Still, I felt as though I’d been kicked in the gut, my self-confidence dissipating with the breath that was forced out me.
I felt inadequate, foolish, confused. So even though I was keeping the two-story house that I’d bought before the marriage, I picked up the phone and called my folks in Charleston. I was fine, I told them. I just needed a vacation. I was coming for a long overdue visit to the Palmetto state, and no, Robert would not be joining me.
I could have gone anywhere to get away and regroup. But nothing could revive my spirit like a few weeks of Mamma’s pampering and home cooking. And nothing could improve my outlook on things like a few weeks worth of Daddy’s life lessons. I knew that right now, I’d rather be with Mamma and Daddy in Charleston, South Carolina than anywhere else in the world.
I was ready for an attitude adjustment, southern style.
Chapter Two
Cruising the roads that wound through South Carolina’s low country was a dose of therapy for my wounded soul. Watching the landscape flatten, inhaling the marshy scent of the coast and admiring the massive oak trees that I used to climb on as a child, I could feel the tension escaping from my body. It was the beginning of April and the day was incredible. Sunny and sleeveless-top warm, with some fat puffy clouds slung low in the sky, just to be enjoyed.
As always, I admired the view when I approached the city. The downtown buildings don’t stretch higher than the nearest church steeple, and there isn’t another skyline like it in the country.
People waved to me as I navigated the narrow roads that led to Lowndes Street and when I pulled into the drive, my limbs aching to move after the long trip, I realized that I’d missed Charleston. It was little more than a year ago when I’d left, but it suddenly seemed like such a long year. I missed the people. I missed the culture. I missed pushing my naked toes into a sandy beach, fishing from the pier, eating shrimp and grits, perusing the straw market, and wearing sandals year round.
And I missed Mamma and Daddy. We spoke every single week, but I hadn’t seen them since my wedding day last June. And that was in New York, not where I wanted to get married to begin with. But it’s what Robert had wanted and I convinced myself that the location of the ceremony didn’t matter. So Mamma and Daddy came to New York to see my new house and give their daughter away.
Like me, Robert had grown up in Charleston. We’d played together as children, avoided each other during the awkward pubescent years when hormones caused hair to sprout in weird places, and had become inseparable by our junior year in high school. He was athletic and bright and all the girls in school thought he was positively hot.
But unlike me, Robert couldn’t wait to get out of Charleston. He moved to New Haven just days after graduation where he eventually earned a bachelor’s degree and then an M.B.A. from Yale while I was busy going through law school at the University of South Carolina in Columbia. He became an investment broker and thrived on the same perpetually moving, high-powered business environment that caused other people to have nervous breakdowns. I, meanwhile, decided
that I didn’t want to insert myself in the middle of hostile disputes and fight for one side. Only Mamma and Daddy didn’t seem surprised that I’d put in the long hours to make it through law school and passed the bar on my first attempt, only to choose a career of mediation instead of litigation. Everyone else in my immediate life had acted like I’d chosen something distasteful. And lower-paying. Whatever. I hated confrontation as a kid, and still hated it upon graduation.
Only by chance did my future husband and I cross paths a few years later when he was in Charleston for a conference. The youthful attraction we shared in high school materialized into a passionate long distance affair and six months later, at Robert’s suggestion, I quit my job and moved to Pawling, New York to live with him. A month after that, I bought a house on three acres. He said it was a great investment and convinced me to go ahead and buy it, even though I was still looking for a job.
A year earlier, on our thirtieth birthday, my sister and I had gained access to a trust from our grandpa. Overnight, we each became worth a quarter of a million dollars. My money had simply sat in the same account, drawing interest, until I used most of it to buy the house. It was more house than I needed, and even after putting two hundred thousand dollars down, the monthly mortgage payment was way more than I wanted to spend on a place to live. But Robert assured me that it was a wise move since real estate in the area was appreciating at fifteen percent a year. Were Grandpa still living, Robert said, he would be very proud of my investment decision.
A week after I became a New York homeowner, Robert broke the lease on his high-rise luxury apartment in the Upper East Side and moved in with me. A month after that, we married. I was offered a job in the city, tried to focus on the positives of commuting by train, and eagerly stepped into the role of being a loving wife.
Despite the palpable energy that radiated from the city twenty-four hours a day, I had never truly embraced the northern lifestyle. The area was beautiful and vibrant. It had everything anyone could want. But the nearby beaches, like the roads and sidewalks and stores, were insanely crowded and difficult to get to. I suddenly yearned for South Carolina’s marshy coast and Charleston’s slower-paced lifestyle. I couldn’t wait to push some hometown sand between my toes and decided that a beach day should be one of my first activities.
Choosing Charleston Page 1
