by Lisa Edward
I hate being dependent on anyone, especially when I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. I’m not an invalid. I’ve been independent all my life and I will be until the day I die. So I’m going to the Hamptons for a couple of months. It’s winter, so it should be cold and hopefully deserted, which will give me time to evaluate where to go and what to do next. I still haven’t completely come to terms with my broken heart, but I’ll get there. People deal with things a lot worse every day—I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself and figure out a game plan.
Evie Rivers
AFTER DRAGGING my beat-up suitcases from the trunk of my car, I awkwardly wheeled them up the wooden front steps of a little cottage on the beach that Angie had leased for me for the winter. I’d never been to the Hamptons before. It had always seemed so pretentious, with the celebrities and crowds flocking there just to be seen, but in winter on this crisp, clear day, it felt like a breath of fresh air.
The bounding of heavy paws and panting breath caught my attention just before I was nearly knocked off balance by an overenthusiastic chocolate Labrador.
“Hey, boy, where’d you come from?” I asked, laughing as I scruffed the wet fur on his head. “I wasn’t expectin’ Angie to send out the welcome wagon.” I found the tag on his collar. “Pleased to meet ya, Max. If only you were a male of the two-legged variety, you could help carry my bags.”
Max sat at my feet, his pink tongue lolling to one side, his head tilted as if he were trying to make out my ramblings.
There was a shrill whistle and Max’s ears pricked up. “Here, boy,” a deep, rich voice called with a hint of an accent that piqued my interest immediately. Max leapt to his feet, affording me one last glance over his shoulder as he raced back down the porch steps toward a house a few doors up from my temporary home.
“So much for the welcomin’ committee.” I chuckled, opening the door and wheeling the suitcases into the entry.
I looked around at what would be my home for the next two months while rubbing my hands together to warm them. The house was light and airy with a spectacular view of the beach through the floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors at the back of the house.
Leaving my bags by the front door, I took a moment to meander through the pristine house. It was extremely white, with white walls and furniture sitting comfortably on lime-washed floorboards. It would have been too stark for my taste, if not for the sandstone wall with its massive open fireplace. The fire had been stocked with kindling just waiting to be lit, and the warm hues of the stone instantly made this showpiece feel inviting. The ceilings were vaulted and the kitchen was modern but comfortable. Sitting smack dab in the middle of the aged oak counter was a huge wicker gift basket, overflowing with fruit, cheeses, and a bottle of Dom Pérignon. With a smile, I read the card.
Welcome back, Eden Rose, you sexy thang, you. I hope you find this setting conducive to rekindling your passion for writing amazing smut. Now that you’ve kicked Charles to the curb, there’s nothing standing in your way. I’ve put my neck on the line for you, but I know you can do it (no pressure). Speak soon, your best friend and agent, Angie xx
My eyes blurred over and I wiped them quickly with my thumb. I had cried enough tears in the last three months after Charles and I had separated to last me a lifetime. I had given Charles a piece of my heart and filled it with treasured memories of our eleven years together that were now too painful to revisit.
After college, Charles and I had moved back to his hometown to be with his family. It felt wonderful to be accepted by his parents, sister, and extended family after being raised by my grandma, who I affectionately called Mimi, and growing up with just the two of us. Not that a day went by that I didn’t feel loved and cherished by Mimi; she always made sure I knew how much my parents had loved me. But I can’t deny that when I stepped foot into Charles’s family manor and was welcomed with open arms by his mom, sister, aunts, and uncles, it felt as if I had come home.
Charles had followed in his father’s footsteps, as was his plan, and I had not long after become a preacher’s wife.
Finally we could be together in the biblical sense, without the fear of being struck down for him checking out my rack. Our wedding night was filled with the nervous anticipation that you might expect from two virgins, and as I recalled all the scenes from my novellas and how the heroines had been carried away by the romance and ecstasy of their lovers’ touches, I waited for that moment to finally come. But the fireworks never came for me; the most Charles and I could muster was a fizzle. He frowned upon any attempt to spice up our sex life, allowing his beliefs to overshadow his desire to make me happy. I’m not talking about the “red room” kinky stuff either—I’m talking about exploring each other more openly and discovering what would push our buttons. To this day, I’m the only one who knows where my buttons are and how to push them.
I resigned myself to a life of trying to fit the mold of what a good Southern preacher’s wife should be, tirelessly making our home as welcoming as possible, and in the process, trying to find a purpose for my existence. Charles wanted a brood of children, so that’s what I focused on. But it seemed I couldn’t fulfill that role successfully either, and after years of peeing on a stick, chasing that illusive blue line, we drifted apart. I’m sad to admit I gave up on the dream long before Charles did, the nervous excitement of waiting those few minutes for the test to present its findings turning into dread before I’d even unwrapped the kit. I knew what the result would be, but I carried on the charade for Charles’s benefit and then bore the weight of his disappointment.
Now, resting my elbows on the smooth wooden kitchen counter, I gazed out the window at the gray clouds sweeping across the bay as the sun began to set. This was a fresh start that had come out of the blue and at just the right time. When Charles and I had parted ways after seven years of marriage, I felt lost and alone, but Angie had been there. Angie had always been there.
After appointing herself my publicist and agent in college, it should have been obvious that my friend would carry that on after we graduated, putting her marketing degree to good use by joining a literary agency and quickly becoming a major player in New York. I was so grateful that the physical distance between us, with me living in Mississippi and her in New York, had never dampened our friendship. I had been there for her through a shotgun wedding, two children, and her husband’s infidelity. She’d been there for me through my lackluster marriage—my heart breaking countless times at every failed attempt to have a baby—and my eventual filing for divorce.
And here she was again, giving me a purpose to get off my butt and stop wallowing in self-pity.
Grabbing my suitcases, I continued my exploration of this magnificent house by wheeling them into the bedroom. Holy cow. It was larger than the tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn that I’d recently moved into. The little shoebox I affectionately called home was just a stepping-stone after I’d left the sprawling homestead in Mississippi, and I wasn’t planning to live there any longer than I had to. A few days a week I would cross over the bridge to meet up with Angie in Central Park for lunch, and then spend the afternoon daydreaming about buying a Manhattan loft of my own.
I flopped down on the feather-soft mattress, the crisp sheets crinkling beneath my weight. So this was it. Angie had shown so much faith in me and signed me to her agency without me having written one word in nearly seven years. We’d joked that we could turn back the clock and pick up exactly where we’d left off in college, but too much had happened to both of us for that to ever be more than a fantasy. Disappointments, heartache, and real life had tarnished all the dreams we’d had when we saw the world through rose-colored, naïve glasses.
First things first—I needed to read over my old stories. Maybe there was something in there that I could build on and turn into a masterpiece. Jumping up, I flicked open my suitcases, rifling through until I found a file filled with hard copies of my work, which I took out to the living room and toss
ed onto the coffee table.
Hmm, maybe I need to make a pot of coffee.
I busied myself making friends with the coffee machine, then moved on to working out how to use the oven, dishwasher, microwave, and any other electrical appliance I could find. After an hour had passed and I couldn’t think of anything else to do that would keep me in the kitchen, I sat back down on the sofa and opened the file.
I need my glasses.
Padding back to the bedroom, I rummaged through my handbag until I laid my hand on my glasses case. Passing my luggage on the way back to the living room, I decided to unpack and get my clothes sorted and into the closet. I wanted to be able to get up in the morning and not be living out of suitcases.
Another hour passed and I had run out of excuses; I needed to start reading.
Heading back to the living room, I contemplated lighting the fire. It would help to feel the mood of the stories if I was warm and cozy, rather than freezing my butt off. But my stomach was rumbling, and I knew I’d be going out soon to find something to eat. I looked at the untouched file of short stories. No point starting them now.
I checked the time. It was now around seven and time for dinner.
Shrugging on my cashmere coat with the faux fur collar and a beanie, I grabbed the house keys and started my brisk walk into the main hub of shops to find somewhere to eat.
I knew in the back of my mind I was stalling, that I should be reading the stories and mapping out my first full-length novel, but my gut kept telling me the longer I held off, the longer it would be before I discovered I was an epic failure. Over the last few months, Angie had given me books by authors she had signed to the agency, and they were good, really good. The language was vastly different and being proper books, not short stories, they had depth and a twist and a conclusion.
I had a lot of work ahead of me to get to their level. Still, Angie had faith that I could do it, and that gave me the confidence to at least try. She’d assured me that to be able to write the short stories I had written in college purely from imagination took a natural talent that couldn’t be learned. You either had it in you or you didn’t. I just prayed that I could dig deep enough to find it again.
The sun was not yet creeping over the horizon when I awoke the next morning. I stretched my arms above my head briefly, before snuggling back into the warm-as-toast quilt. I could stay here all day, but I wasn’t in the Hamptons on vacation. I was here to work.
After reading the collection of short stories well into the night, I had come to the conclusion that they were good…as a means to light the fire.
My stories had been written partially as a joke and partially as an aide to get nerdy guys around campus laid. They were filled with cheesy romance, where creative names had been used for a man’s dangly bits, and the heroine had heaving mounds and swooned after a passionate first kiss, whereupon she had to be scooped up and carried to the bedroom.
My romance was over the top compared to stories of today. A subtle breeze would blow raven locks, and lips were full and pouty—and that was just on the men. Shirts were unbuttoned to the waist and gold chains were rife, with names like Fabio and Eduardo paired with Scarlett and Chastity.
But no one fell in love with a lothario named Roberto anymore. They wanted real men, with real issues that could be overcome when the right woman crossed their path. Women didn’t swoon anymore or faint at a kiss either—they got wet and horny and wanted the man as much as he wanted her. My stories had been written as a bit of fun at the time, and they wouldn’t cut it these days.
I needed a plan. I had eight weeks to deliver a manuscript that Angie could pitch, that wouldn’t embarrass her or me. To help focus my thoughts, I decided to go for a quick walk to the rocks I could see in the distance, hoping that the fresh air would assist me. I quickly showered and dressed, then grabbed a notepad and pen before stepping outside. The air was icy, biting at my cheeks until I hunkered into my warm coat, pulling the lapels around my neck and halfway up my face.
The rocks were closer than I’d realized, or maybe I was just scurrying quickly because of the cold. I found a sheltered spot with the perfect flat rock to sit on and perched out of the wind as best I could.
I needed to outline my story and decide on the characters. It would be a boy-meets-girl romance, but just what type of boy and girl was yet to be determined. To make it easier, I had been contemplating basing my main male lead on Charles. Not Charles’s stuffiness, but his looks. He was tall and lean with perfect blond hair and a whiter-than-white smile. Surely that would appeal to readers, and I’d lived with him for so long that his mannerisms were locked into my memory for life. Looking along the deserted beach, I debated using this location as the setting for the novel. Maybe a summer romance could work or a traveler passing through with a secret that would eventually be revealed.
Loud, excited barks drew my attention along the sand in the direction I had just walked. Smiling, I watched as Max galloped into the shallow water, chasing a tennis ball, fetching it, and taking it back to what looked to be quite a handsome man; then the process was repeated over again. Max’s owner seemed to be enjoying the game as much as Max himself, laughing and chasing his canine companion every time the ball was returned. By this time, Max was soaking wet, but it didn’t seem to bother the guy as he roughhoused with the dog in the sand, his husky laughter traveling on the breeze and making me laugh too.
I studied the guy as he eventually sat on the sand, with Max practically in his lap. There was such warmth about him, and I could see from watching their play that he loved Max dearly. Allowing my eyes to roam over his face, I took in each feature as best as I could from this distance and noted it down on my pad. His dark hair was on the longish side, maybe not quite long enough to pull back into a hair tie, but almost. A short neat beard wrapped around a strong-looking jaw. I was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but they seemed kind, and his laugh was easy and carefree. He looked to be around six feet tall but with all the layers of clothing, it was impossible to see his physique. Still, he had been running and chasing Max for a good twenty minutes, so I assumed he was in reasonable shape.
He must have felt my stare because he swung around quickly, his brow furrowed in curiosity. Our eyes locked and I sucked in a quick breath but couldn’t tear my gaze away. His head tilted to one side, studying this stranger who had invaded his privacy by so blatantly gaping at him. A slow, lopsided grin graced his perfectly featured face, and he gave me a courteous nod. I didn’t know where to look, so I looked away, straight out to sea where the horizon met the water. Even with the cold air circling around me, my cheeks grew hot, my body warming from the embarrassment of being caught. Finally summoning up the courage, I turned to face him again. But he had gone, his figure jogging along the water’s edge in the distance, Max in tow.
I couldn’t get Max’s owner out of my mind. Every time I tried to write a character outline for my blond male hero, he somehow morphed into Beard Guy.
“Great job, Evie,” I muttered under my breath, holding down the Backspace key and deleting the paragraph I’d just written. “At this rate it’ll take you eight months instead of eight weeks to write the dang novel.”
It was getting late, and I had yet to write an outline that was more than garbled bullet points. Placing my glasses on the table beside the laptop, I ran my hands over my face. I was already beginning to stress, and it had only been two days. Needing to relax, I decided to soak in the tub in the hope that not thinking about the book would help me come up with some ideas.
The water was scorching as I climbed in, the bubbles rising until a few tipped over the edge and spilled onto the tiles. Ah, this was better. Already I could feel the heat from the water and heady floral scent of the bubble bath carrying all my troubles away.
As I lay in the tub with my eyes closed, a scene came to mind, playing out like a movie behind my eyelids. It was a fireman, strong and brave, rescuing a pretty young girl from a burning house. Okay, this w
as good, because it was the first time that my characters were talking to me, telling me what they wanted to be.
“Mac,” I said out loud. “Mac the fireman.” Sure, his face still wasn’t clear as I fought the urge to sketch in a beard, but at least I had a concept to build on.
Climbing out of the tub an hour later, I wrapped a towel around my body and trotted into the bedroom to find my pajamas. Even if I didn’t write anything down tonight, I felt lighter just knowing the basis of my story. It was now dark outside, but with the light from the bathroom and living room shining through their respective doorways, the bedroom was illuminated enough to see clearly.
There was movement out of the corner of my eye and I jumped, clutching the towel over my bare chest. Looking around quickly, I realized it was Max and Beard Guy again, back outside on the sand, one house up from mine. Behind them was a small bonfire, its flames dancing in the darkness, the embers drifting up before being extinguished by the cold night air.
An inexplicable force drew me toward the window, to the wide sill that skirted around at hip height. Wrapping the towel around me, I balanced, one butt cheek on the windowsill, totally mesmerized by the simple scene before me. Beard Guy was sitting by the fire, his arms hooked around his bent knees, gazing out at the dark ocean. He looked…sad, or lonely, maybe even lost. There was no one reason why I felt this way, but watching him out there alone made me want to cry, because his demeanor personified exactly how I had been feeling for the last three months—totally defeated.
Resting my head against the windowpane as I continued to watch, a tear escaped from the corner of my eye. I wanted to go down there to talk to him and let him know that whatever was worrying him would be okay. That he wasn’t alone. But I had never been particularly good at approaching people in need; that was Charles’s specialty. I’d been the one to make the cup of tea and listen sympathetically as Charles counseled the troubled.
