The Event

by Whitney Dineen

  Early Praise

  “The Event is like the Beverly Hillbillies meets the Real Housewives of New York City, only it takes place in Creek Water, Missouri. Once again Whitney Dineen pens a story that is comparable to outrageously hilarious events you could picture in a romantic comedy movie. This is an excellent book which needs to be picked up to become a Big Screen hit!” -AJ Book Remarks

  “Emmie’s big city life clashes with her small-town roots in this winning, hilarious romantic comedy.” —USA Today Bestselling Author, S.B. Babi

  “Whitney Dineen never ceases to amaze me with her penchant for writing original and engaging stories. The Event is all that and more. Do yourself a favor and download this sweet book fill with Southern charm and laugh out loud moments. You won’t be disappointed.” -Jennifer Peel, Author of My Not So Wicked Boss

  “Funny, quirky, heartwarming, small town drama. I love the way Whitney sucks you into the story so easily. From the first line and throughout the entire book, I found myself smiling and laughing and swooning. I didn’t want this story to end!” -Becky Monson, Author of Just a Name

  “Whitney Dineen’s sparkling wit and brilliant humour shines bright in this delightful tale of coming home and second chances.” - Bestselling author Kate O’Keeffe

  “I laughed until cried! I want to live in this town, with these characters. Picture Sweet Home Alabama meets Hope Floats with a touch of something totally unexpected. Hollywood needs to pay attention to this one!!”-USA Today Bestselling Author, Diana Orgain

  “A wildly funny, superbly romantic page-turner. Whitney Dineen brings her signature wit and wisdom to another tale that you’ll think about long after you reach the end.”-Melanie Summer, Author of The Suite Life

  “The Event” has all the elements I adore in a rom-com: a small-town Southern setting, relatable characters, and a witty, fast-paced storyline. Dineen brings her usual sparkle and hilarity to this super-fun novel.” -Karin Gillespie, author of the Bottom Dollar Girl series

  “…a clash of small-town ideals and younger generational values. Whitney Dineen takes small-town drama to the next level. With plenty of hilarious scenes sprinkled throughout, you’re guaranteed many belly-aching laughs.” -Readers Favorite, 5 Stars

  THE EVENT

  A Novel

  by

  Whitney Dineen

  The Event

  By Whitney Dineen

  https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/

  33 Partners Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales, and situations are purely the work of the author’s imagination via the voices in her head, even if her mother begs to differ. Any resemblance to people (living, dead, or taxidermied), events, places, etc. is purely coincidental. Honest.

  Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2019; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, put on social media, or distributed in printed or electronic form without express permission from the author. But let’s face it, if you loved it, she’s probably going to let you tweet small portions. You still have to contact her first.

  Made in the United States of America

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The journey of writing a book is much like climbing Mt. Everest. It sounds like such an exciting adventure, it feels like the right thing to do, and your creative muscles are begging for the challenge. So, one morning you put on your best writing outfit (pajamas), sit down at your computer and crack your knuckles in a “you’re going down” kind of way, and then you unleash the beast (that sounds so wrong, sorry.)

  You write and write and write for hours, days, weeks on end while the voices in your head spin, weave, and otherwise release your epic from the confines of your imagination. It’s a heady rush for sure.

  When the last word is typed, your whole body is covered with the sheen of your efforts, your muscles ache, the relief is so great all you want to do is cry. Then you look down to see how far you’ve climbed only to realize you’re barely halfway up the mountain. Then you really do cry.

  The worst part of finishing a book is that you don’t finish at the peak. You’re only midway, hanging off a sheer wall with one little toe grip keeping you alight. You’ve gained five snacking pounds during the climb, and you’re pretty sure your toe is going to snap off from the extra load if you don’t get that boost to keep you going.

  Just when you’re sure all is lost, and you’re destined to be another climbing/authoring casualty, the first Sherpas arrive! I am fortunate to have many Sherpas on my authoring climb. They keep me motivated, encouraged, challenged, and excited. My dedicated troop includes:

  My mom, Libby Bohlen, who pops into my office every four hours like clockwork to see if I have something new for her to read (she reads as I go) and my husband, Jimmy Dineen, who does the first edit once the book is through. Their efforts get me off the wall and semi-securely situated on a skinny ledge that may certainly still break off, sending me into the abyss, but for the moment is enough to catch my breath.

  Enter my beta reader Sherpas. For this book, they were the fabulous authors Becky Monson and Jennifer Peel. Becks and Jen always carve time out of their VERY busy lives to read and advise. When they’re done, I go back to the drawing board for the second run. When I’m sure my book can be no better, I look down, then up, and realize I’m finally closer to the summit of my climb than the valley below, so I keep going.

  My Sherpa editor, Celia Kennedy, is next. Celia thinks I’m funny/talented but not so much so that she lets me get lazy. No, sir. She’s been known to say things to me like, “What does this even mean?” “Yeah, no, this won’t work at all.” and my personal favorite, “Why are you even writing this book?” But through her tough love and knowledge of the path, she gets me within spitting distance of my goal. I’m often bloodied from this portion, but I’m also invigorated and fully charged to finish. Celia ALWAYS demands my best. She makes me a better writer.

  When the book is as tight as can be, it goes off to my proofreading Sherpa. Paula Bothwell is the ideal proofreader because she also offers editorial comment, which I greatly value. She’s the first fresh eyes on the best version of my book. Once Paula adds her two cents and I invariably make changes, it’s off to Sandy Penny for the final polish.

  Once the book is proofed, it goes out for blurbs and editorial reviews. This varies from book to book, but this time around, authors Becky Monson, Jennifer Peel, Sherly Babin, Diana Orgain, Melanie Summers, Kate O'Keeffe, and AJ Book Remarks have my back. Additional fabulous Sherpas on my journey include Tracie Bannister, Annabelle Costa, and Virgina Gray. In the world of editorial reviews, Chick Lit Central’s Sara Stevens always makes sure to read my latest and help get the word out—invaluable and beloved Sherpas, all.

  My assistant Sherpa Karan Eleni picks up all the crazy slack like getting my newsletters sent out, my website updated etc., so I can keep writing more books. So really, Karan, we all thank you for that!

  Once all of these steps are complete, my Big Daddy, Hollywood Attorney Sherpa, Scott Schwimer, gets hold of the book. He reads it on vacation in Mexico, then sets out to find the best and smartest movie studios/producers to get my baby up on the Big Screen (either the one in your living room or the movie theater.”

  Finally, finally, my book gets published and you, my lovely reader Sherpas get your hands on it. All of the previous legs of the journey would be for naught without you. Your reviews, recommendations of my work to your friends, and your lovely emails are what makes me want to climb this mountain again and again, and I thank you with all my heart.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Fi
ve

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books By Whitney Dineen

  Excerpt: The Move

  Excerpt: Relatively Normal

  Chapter One

  In my esteemed, but obviously biased opinion, Creek Water, Missouri, population 14,012, is the armpit of the world. Scratch that, it’s a ripe pustulant boil on the butt of the Northern Hemisphere. If it weren’t my hometown, and I weren’t desperate for employment, I’d have never considered moving back. Ever.

  I just got off the phone with my Uncle Jed—the Beverly Hillbillies reference is not lost on me—and he’s offered to make me manager of a new commercial venture he and my other uncle Jesse (yes, like Full House) are starting up in the old warehouse district. The revitalization of Creek Water continues as my former peers have discovered that it’s cheaper to live at home and not go out into the real world like I did. Problem is, I got myself into a tiny bit of trouble in the real world.

  I was driven in my formative years to prove that I could make something of myself without any backing from the illustrious Frothingham family, of which I am one. I was sick to death of people thinking everything was handed to me on a silver platter just because of my last name. So, I worked hard to get excellent grades in school, and I earned myself a scholarship to college. After graduation, I moved to New York City, determined to leave my small-town, small-minded roots behind. Things were going great too, until The Event.

  I worked as head buyer for Silver Spoons Enterprises in Manhattan, an exclusive gourmet/kitchenware boutique chain on the Eastern Seaboard. I was stationed at our flagship location on East Seventy-Third Street.

  The Event was the corporate dinner dance at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where all the bigwigs gathered to pat each other on the back and recognize top-performing employees. I thought I was a shoo-in for the Demitasse Award, honoring the most creative contribution to the company during that fiscal year. I was personally responsible for the whole “Linens for Dinner” campaign, which promoted the idea that both urban and suburban millennials only use cloth napkins to dine, thus not only cutting back our carbon footprint by lessening paper waste, but also adding a touch of elegance to our lives. We sold more linens that year than in the previous ten years combined. It was that successful.

  So there I sat in my way too expensive dress—I splurged because I knew how important it was to make a good impression on the executives and because it was the perfect little number to accept my honor in—when Jameson Diamante announced the nominees for the Demitasse.

  There were only three of us—me with my linen campaign, Juliet Smithers from the Southampton store for her “Drink More Wine!” crusade, and Allison Conrad from Atlanta for her “Pretty Please, Y’all” call to reinstate formal invitations on engraved card stock.

  Why don’t we just kill the planet, Allison, with all the trees we’re going to murder for your cause?

  I was poised on the edge of my seat ready to throw my hands across my heart and gasp something along the lines of, “What? Me? My word, I’m so surprised!” I’d imagined how I’d get up and show off my six-hundred-dollar understated elegance to the whole room.

  Jameson announced, “This year’s decision was not an easy one to make, with all three ladies greatly contributing to our brand, but in the end, we chose the contender who was responsible for the most innovative campaign.”

  Here’s where the chain of events gets a wee bit cloudy. I could have sworn he’d called my name, so I stood up as planned, but my good friend and table-mate Lexi says that isn’t what happened at all. Apparently, old Jameson had called out Allison’s name, and she and I both went up to accept the award. How deforesting the planet is innovative, I do not know. I did hear through the corporate grapevine that Allison had gone to Jameson’s hotel room with him before the ceremony like a Kardashian auditioning her new sugar daddy. But I digress. Back to The Event.

  I grabbed the silver spoon out my fellow nominee’s hand and proceeded to give my speech. All of it. Which for some reason I was allowed to do. It was a beautiful speech. I thanked my mother for her graciousness and manners, and I thanked my grandmother for teaching me how to fold dinner napkins into swans. I was about to thank Silver Spoons for having the wisdom to hire me, when Allison grabbed the Demitasse out of my hand. I may have chosen that moment to snatch it back and hit her over the head with it—obviously not very hard as she never pressed assault charges, thank God.

  It’s all conjecture really. All I can say for certain is that I hastily fled the ceremony, trotting down all eight hundred thousand stairs of the Met in four-inch heels, in a cloud of disgrace and disappointment. I took a cab to a nearby bar, where I proceeded to drink my body weight in tequila before waking up in an unknown apartment in Brooklyn.

  Tequila and I have a sordid past. One incident of over consumption resulted in my belting out my karaoke version of “I Will Always Love You”—the Dolly Parton version, not Whitney Houston’s—so poorly I’m sure ears bled; another found me French kissing a giant stuffed frog before throwing up on it; and the last time, before the Brooklyn incident, was when I urinated in my sorority sister’s shoe because I was so drunk I couldn’t find the bathroom. Now I can add “indiscriminate behavior” to the list.

  Let me just say, I’m not loose by anyone’s estimation. I believe in using linens at every meal, for Pete’s sake! But the truth is, I spent the night with a stranger and if he wasn’t Armie Hammer from that movie Hotel Mumbai, because that’s who I thought he looked like, then I have no idea who he was. To make matters worse, we apparently didn’t use any protection. I soon discovered that I, Emmaline Anne Frothingham, of Creek Water, Missouri, was going to become a mother at the tender age of twenty-eight.

  Chapter Two

  The reason I’m so bitter about my roots is because when I was eight years old my daddy, Reed Frothingham, died, and the whole town of Creek Water—with the exception of our family—acted like Mama and I were leeching off my uncles for our survival. Which is simply not the truth. We were left a decent-sized inheritance, not huge as most of the family money was spent during my grandparents’ generation—we have the sterling-silver snail tongs to prove it—and my uncles didn’t start making good investments until a
fter I’d become a half-orphan. It is by surname alone that we aren’t considered nouveau riche.

  Mama and I had enough money to keep our house and pay our bills, but she had to go back to work so we could have the extras. She kept the books for the uncles and, in that way, managed to stay part of the family business, which, as I mentioned earlier, has become revitalizing Creek Water. Mama didn’t invest any of our money because she worried that risking it might send us to the poor house. My uncles didn’t have a good track record at the time.

  I needed that scholarship to Duke as there simply was not enough money to pay for that caliber of education any other way. Yet, no one acknowledged my hard work, and instead, treated me as though I was using money I wasn’t entitled to. Every time Mama and I did something extra, like go shopping in St. Louis, some busybody would inevitably say, “Your uncles are so good to y’all!”—completely negating our ability to take care of ourselves. The uncles tried to set them straight, to no avail.

  This is why I was determined to get out and make something big out of my life. I was going to prove once and for all that I was more than a charity case.

  Of course, that was before I’d accepted the gift of a stranger’s swimmers and decided to bring new life into this world. I continued working at Silver Spoons through most of my pregnancy. I worried that after The Event they might try to find a way to let me go. But if I was pregnant, they couldn’t do so without fear of a lawsuit. I told my boss about my situation as soon as I found out. I realize that was a little manipulative on my part, but Gloria Gaynor and I, we’re survivors.

  When I told Lexi, her response was, “Emmie, how in the world are you going to have this baby? You can’t raise a child alone in New York City.”

  My response was simple, “I made my bed, now I’ll have to lie in it.” But to tell you the truth, I was nowhere near the martyr I made myself out to be. When I lay with my feet in the stirrups at the doctor’s office and heard a heartbeat coming from inside my body, one that wasn’t my own, it was insta-love. I don’t judge what other women do or do not do with their reproductive systems, but mine was making a person, and I wanted to know everything about who she would become. (I just knew she was a girl.)