My Favorite Love
By G.L. Snodgrass
Copyright 2016 G.L. Snodgrass
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Purple Herb Publishing
http://www.glsnodgrass.com/
[email protected]
Amazon Author Page
Other Books by G. L. Snodgrass
Certain Rules
Unwritten Rules
Unbreakable Rules
Novellas
One Night (Lakeland Boys 2)
Nothing So Quiet
My Sister’s Best Friend
Hidden Friends
Love's Winding Road
Finding You
Short Stories
Best Friends
Rescuing a Best Friend
A New Year's Kiss
Asking the Right Question
Prom Date
The One That Got Away
Regency Romance
The Reluctant Duke (Regency Romance)
The Viscount's Bride (Regency Romance)
The Earl's Regret (Regency Romance)
Confronting a Rake (Regency Romance)
For Shelley
Contents
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
Epilogue
My Favorite Love
Chapter One
Amber
This was all my fault, I reminded myself, as I stared at the stacked boxes in my new bedroom. My insides hurt every time I thought about it. Everything we’d left behind. The life we’d thrown away. The art museums, that unique Manhattan aroma, the bookstores. All of it gone because I wanted a normal life.
Would I ever smell the inside of the New York Public Library again? Would I once again pat the stone lions as I ran up the steps? All of it gone. What had I gotten us into?
All I had said was that I wanted to attend a normal high school for my last two years, instead of being home schooled. Wanted to experience a normal childhood for once.
Dad, being Dad, took it to the extreme like usual.
“I think that’s a great idea. We need to shake things up,” Dad said, as a shiver ran down my back. There was no telling where this was going.
Mom had bitten her lip and looked between me and Dad.
“Maybe you’re right, John,” she said with a worried frown. “Amber should go to a regular high school. We know she could get into any Ivy League University right now. A couple of years at a public school won’t hurt her. Besides, I like to see her pushing the boundaries. Heaven knows it’s about time.”
That was the thing about Mom. She could be condescending even without meaning to be.
“If we’re going to do this, then we should do it right,” he said, as he began unrolling a giant map and tacking it to the wall. I remembered the map, he’d used it a couple of books ago. Something about two hoboes traveling across the country. I’d never read it. My dad’s books bored me to tears, but the rest of the country couldn’t seem to get enough of them.
Once the map was on the wall, he’d gotten a dart from his desk. Why did he have darts in his desk? I wondered. For throwing at maps, I soon discovered.
“I say we move to wherever this dart lands. Buy a nice little house in a suburb somewhere.”
Mom’s face lit up with excitement, as she brought her hands together.
“I’ve wanted to take a sabbatical. Two years would be perfect. It’s going to take at least a year for all the data analysis and another to write the book.” That was so like them. A new adventure, a new challenge.
My parents, the Columbian University professor and the famous author. My mom was one of the country’s experts on early childhood mental stress and its effects on physical developments. My famous father was famous for being famous, and writing bestselling books that became high grossing movies. It was enough to make any girl feel inadequate at times.
Dad had closed his eyes and thrown the dart. I didn’t think it was fair. It had been my idea, and I should be the one to throw the dart. But, as usual, I kept my mouth shut. I’d learned a long time ago to pick my battles.
As his arm started moving forward, I remember thinking - how screwed up is this? All I wanted to do was attend Stuyvesant High School. It was only a short subway ride away. Maybe meet normal people, maybe meet a normal boy. Instead, I was going to end up living God knew where.
The dart flew true and hard to land square in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Mom put a hand over her mouth to try and hide her laugh. Dad shot her a dirty look, then said, “Okay, an oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico it is.”
“I don’t think so, try again,” Mom said, still trying to hide her smile. Dad was never known for his coordination and hated being teased about it.
He threw the second dart. All three of us stood and stared, terrified of learning our fate. We approached it together. Holding our collective breaths. The dart had landed in the top left corner, about as far away from New York as you could get.
“Seattle?” Mom said.
“Northwest of Seattle actually,” Dad said. “In the Cascades.”
“I don’t want to live in a cabin in the woods,” Mom exclaimed, as if she were being asked to move to the moon. “Seattle would be excellent, it’s almost a real city. Even a small town close to Seattle, but no cabin. I need running water and electricity.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Dad said, but he didn’t look too sure.
I, on the other hand, was kicking myself. Why had I ever said anything? I could see it now. Going to school with a bunch of lumberjacks. I’d never fit in. They wouldn’t like what I liked. They wouldn’t read the same books. If they read at all. I’d have nobody to talk to, it wouldn’t be any better than my current existence.
That’s how I ended up in Everton Washington. Nestled in the Cascades Mountains about halfway between Seattle and the Canadian border. A small logging town that was threatening to become a bedroom community for Microsoft commuters.
The cute four bedroom, two bathroom, house we found online had turned out to be true middle-class America. In a neighborhood right out of a TV sitcom.
Dad had bought it sight unseen. It met his criteria. A separate office for each of them. Close enough to a big city so Mom could get her city fix when she needed it. Far enough away that we could be considered not-urban without being rural. Any problems could be fixed later.
The High School was ranked in the middle of the pack for academics and above average for sports. Mom didn’t really care, I was just marking time until she could get me into Harvard.
“You could handle Harvard’s academics without a problem,” she said to me. Heaven knows that ten years of being drilled and lectured by these two would have prepared a fish to pass Harvard. “But, you’re not really socially mature enough for college yet,” she continued. Like I said, she didn’t know she was being condescending.
I’d smiled at her and nodded my head. She was probably right. If a strange high school with kid
s my own age terrified me. Imagine how I’d feel about going to College. I’d be overwhelmed. I wasn’t ready. I knew that, but that didn’t mean I needed to keep hearing it from my mom.
“Things will work out, they always do. Keep telling yourself that, Amber, and eventually, you might believe it,” I said to myself.
Kneeling down, I started unpacking my books. Everything had to be just right, Alphabetical order, by the author’s last name. No exceptions. As I progressed, I began to feel less uptight.
First, the books, then the art supplies, next it was my stuffed animals, and finally my desk and the computer. Once everything was in the right spot I was able to relax. I was home, it didn’t matter if I was in a New York high-rise or the wilds of the west coast. As long as I had my stuff, I would survive.
With nothing more to do, I decided to go outside and look around. I could hear my mother downstairs arguing with my father about where the furniture should be placed. I knew that if she thought I was done, she’d put me to work unpacking the kitchen. With that in mind, I carefully snuck downstairs without making a sound. Worried with each step that the stairs would creak.
Once they moved to the kitchen, I shot through the front door to freedom.
The quietness hit me like a wall of sound. It threw me off kilter, as if I’d stepped into a new strange world. No car alarms, no sirens, no distant subway rumbles. It was like getting off a starship and stepping into a world without the color red. It just didn’t feel normal.
Once I got past the wall of quietness, the smells hit me. Tangy, earthy smells of pine and grass. Cool, moist air with a faint hint of sawdust. Like the dart in the map, about as far away from New York as you could get.
The houses were lined up along the meandering streets. Somebody had carved out a chunk of forest, leveled a hundred acres of mountain and plopped down two hundred and fifty homes along twisting snaky roads that intermingled but rarely crossed.
More families had lived in our one building in New York. Of course, it had been sixty stories. Here each house had its own footprint. Each of them painted its own color, earth tones, and simple pastels.
My hands itched and I knew that I would paint this simple scene.
My mind flashed to the composition. I’d exaggerate the roofline of the house next door to help show the proper perspective. Yes, most definitely, I could see it.
The other thing that struck me was the greenness of everything. The small green yards surrounded each home. The green pine trees strategically placed throughout the neighborhood. Very few grays and silvers. No metal structures, everything wood.
Green, the color of life. I would have to be careful not to use too much green in my paintings. I’d find colors to offset it to make the green stand out even more, or it would become a dreary smudge of nothingness.
“Wow, another girl. Finally!” a voice said behind me.
I turned to see a young girl about my age standing on her front lawn like I stood on mine. She was wearing jeans and a blue and white T-shirt with the word TIGERS across the chest. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and large green eyes. Even the people around here were impacted by the color green.
I wondered if they were born that way or could it happen if you lived here long enough? Maybe my boring brown eyes could become green. They’d go so much better with my auburn hair.
She was smiling, as if she’d found a long lost friend. We didn’t even know each other, but her smile was so open and welcoming, instantly putting me at ease. Things were going to be okay, things were going to work out, I thought to myself as I took a deep breath.
“Yes, I am a girl,” I answered trying to hide my New York accent. I don’t know why, but I did.
“Hi, I’m Marla Turner,” she said, as she walked across the grass holding her hand out in greeting. “Welcome to Lakeland Estates.”
“Amber Johnson,” I answered, as I shook her hand. “Lakeland Estates?”
“Yeah, the name of this housing division. There used to be a huge sign out front when you turned in from the main road, but a tree fell on it a couple of years ago, and they never replaced it. … I can’t believe it,” Marla said, shaking her head.
“Can’t believe what?”
“You’re a girl. The first girl to move onto this street in fifteen years. At least anyone even coming close to my age, five years either side. I just can’t believe it. My brother and his friends have ruled around here for so long. It will be nice to not be so alone.”
The look of bewildered awe made me believe her. She kept smiling and shaking her head.
“Really, fifteen years,” I said.
“Not since they brought me home from the hospital. There was one girl, Candace Miller, but she was seven years older than me and moved away a long time ago. There are other girls in Lakeland obviously, but not on this street.”
“Um, okay,” I said. What else do you say to something like that? Before an awkward silence could surround us, Marla saved me.
“So where are you from?” she asked.
“New York,” I answered.
“Wow, that sounds great. Why’d you move here? I mean we are about as far away from New York as you can get.”
Before I knew it, I was explaining the whole throwing darts at the map thing and how much it sucked being home schooled. Yadda yadda, etc. Marla seemed to easily drag it all out of me. She was a little disappointed when she found out that I was turning seventeen next month and would be a junior. I’ve got to admit it would have been nice knowing someone in the same classes.
As I continued telling her my life story she kept shaking her head and smiling.
“Well if you wanted a different world you’ve landed in the right place. Nothing exciting ever happens around here. Everyone knows everyone. The biggest drama is who is going to be picked for homecoming queen and which cheerleader is going to get pregnant first.”
“Marla,” a petite, golden-haired woman yelled. Obviously, Marla’s mother. “It’s dinner time, get the boys.” The woman raised an eyebrow when she saw me talking to her daughter. Marla made the introductions, then cut the ground out from under me.
“Hey Mom, can Amber have dinner with us?”
Like I said, I felt as if the ground was about to give way. “No, that’s ok, I don’t want to impose.”
“No imposition dear,” Mrs. Turner said. “We’ve got plenty.”
Marla looked at me expectantly, “Come on, I’m always outnumbered. My Mom’s a good cook.”
This is what you wanted, I reminded myself. Meeting new people, pushing my comfort zone. Sighing to myself, I surprised myself by agreeing to go to dinner with my new friend. A small adrenalin thrill passed through me. I felt as if I’d taken a first step on a new adventure.
“Let me tell my mother.”
Marla’s smile grew about six degrees. “I’ll wait here, then we can go get the guys, come on, you need to meet them anyway.”
My mom was okay with me not eating dinner at home. I think she was relieved. One less thing to worry about.
Marla and I walked down the sidewalk talking about school and what to expect. We hadn’t gone eight or nine houses when she stopped and nodded across the street.
Four boys stood around the front of an old, fast looking, green Nova with its hood up.
“That’s them,” Marla said. “The Lakeland Boys. All born within four months of each other. They’ve been best friends since they played together as toddlers.”
There should be a law or something. Boys working on car engines should wear jeans.
All four of them were wearing jeans and yep, a new law for sure. The two in the middle were trying to adjust something on the engine. I could hear them grunting and saying, “hold it, I’m almost there.”
“Hurry up, I can’t hold it all day,” one of them answered.
I could have stayed there half the year and watched. It reminded me of a Rockwell painting. So middle American. So male. So different than anyone I knew.
“The one on the far left is Luke,” Marla said. “He’s the smart one of the group. But, don’t let that fool you, he’s also the feisty one. What he lacks in size he makes up for in tough.”
The boy she indicated was wearing the required jeans and a white T-shirt. A short haircut exposed black framed glasses resting on his ears. Slim and shorter than his friends, he still would have been four or five inches taller than my five-five.”
“The next one, in the middle,” she continued. “Is my brother Jason. As brother’s go, he’s not too bad. But, don’t you dare tell him that. He’s already got a big head. Every girl in the county has been chasing him since he turned twelve. I swear it’s sickening. He’s the athletic one, school quarterback, popular. You get the picture. Everything comes too easy for him. It is so unfair, but at least he’s not a jerk about it.”
A tight red plaid shirt was spread across broad shoulders that narrowed down to trim jean clad hips. Blond hair kissed the top of his collar. That light, Scandinavian blond that most girls would kill for. Something about the way he stood sent a shiver down my spine. Suddenly, I became nervous for some unknown reason.
“Next is Nick, it’s his car they’re working on,” Marla said interrupting my daydreams. “He’s the bad boy of the group. Or, at least wants to be. Too handsome and knows it. Be careful, definitely the love and leave them type.”
It was hard to tell with him bent over the car, but he had to be at least six-foot tall, the same as Jason. A tight navy blue T-shirt showed every rippling muscle. As I watched, he reached behind himself and pulled a red cloth from his back pocket, and wiped something in the engine.
Marla had paused for some reason. A look of concern had appeared on her face. Biting her lip, she glanced at me as if hesitant to go on.
“Who’s the fourth one?” I asked.
“That’s Tank,” she said with a whisper.
Nothing more, no detailed description of his many failings, no warning. With a name like Tank, there had to be more. He was a big guy, not fat, but broad and thick. Again, well over six feet tall. Was everyone around here tall? It must be the clean mountain air. Brown hair, he wore a blue hoodie with both his hands stuck in the pockets.
My Favorite Love (The Lakeland Boys Book 1) Page 1
