SCARLET OAKS
AND THE
SERIAL CALLER
A SCARLET OAKS NOVEL
MICHAELA JAMES
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Michaela James
MichaelaJames.net
MichaelaJames.co.uk
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9828409-2-4
Published 2017 by LW Media Group Ltd
LWMediaCo.com
Cover image acknowledgments:
Spondylolithesis, iStock.com Contributor (upper front)
Denis Mishchenko, Dreamstime.com Contributor (lower front)
yevgeniy11, Shuttersstock.com Contributor (pig back)
Smashwords Edition
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Table Of Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
About Michaela James
Books By Michaela James
Follow Michaela James
Unfailingly supportive, fearlessly protective, unceasingly patient, and surpassing my Mr. Darcy fantasy daily.
This is for you, Doug. I love you.
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my wonderful friends, Michelle Farren, Mindy Flannagan, Lisa Carter and Eileen Clark, who read, critique and always support me.
PROLOGUE
If pressed and able, Miranda might admit what transpired that cold and foggy night wasn’t wholly unexpected. After all, her quiet and unassuming husband was undoubtedly a sociopath.
Miranda’s own frustrations may have clouded her ability to register his. Why, after months of barely a civil word between them, would he offer her a relaxing spa treatment?
Maybe she was less intuitive than she chose to believe. A sad revelation to experience at the moment your head is forced beneath freezing water.
Green hues swelled and undulated above her. Light from the Golden Gate Bridge alternately shimmered and twinkled atop the soft and tranquil waves. Miranda’s lungs became agonizingly dense, screaming for some relief. A burning pain encompassed her rapidly constricting throat. Just when her body could take no more, comforting warmth enveloped her. Mother must have added hot water to the bathtub. Miranda relaxed into it, feeling nothing but absolute peace.
Happiness, like a tray of long stemmed, cut crystal wine glasses, held high aloft a sea of merrymakers … can be precarious.
The acne scarred young waiter, with hair the color of polished copper, had at that moment his own definition of happiness. Balance. In his case, the noun achieved the verb. An even distribution of weight enabling someone or something to remain upright and steady. If he managed to keep all the champagne glasses in a steady position, they wouldn’t fall. Clearly, Mr. Voonburg, the headwaiter, didn’t think his new charge looked nervous enough. Sidling up to the young man as he exited the kitchen, Voonburg reminded him each glass was worth sixty-nine dollars and seventy-five cents.
Joe Oaks, somewhat mesmerized by the shards of blue, yellow and red, playfully swimming above the young waiter’s left shoulder, declined the offer of champagne. Turning to his daughter as the waiter moved on, he confided, “I didn’t want to offset his balance.”
For the last few months, frankly more like years, Joe had been offsetting or comparing the value of one thing with another.
Was anticipated happiness, more important than keeping his family intact? How many of his friends, if owning the truth, would admit they regretted their choice of life partner? Why should Joe seek to escape what so many of his peers endured?
Looking at his wife, Joe observed the familiar jewel adorned hand, placed upon her throat as she laughed. One of the men surrounding her and their two daughters must have said something amusing. If memory served, which it did all too well, a sequence of actions would now follow. A slight tilt of the head as the chin lifted, glossed lips separating, and heavily made up eyes, seductively narrowed.
Marilyn Oaks felt Joe’s gaze upon her. Confused as to the reason, she gave him a brief, fake smile. Painfully aware her husband found her vacuous, she angled her back to him, effectively returning her attention to the young Policeman.
Distracted by thought, Joe’s eyes skimmed but never focused on the bobbing heads belonging to the who’s who of Aptos. Enticed from their million dollar homes to see and be seen, they celebrated Aptos Police Captain Murry, or Mick, as Joe knew him, receiving a Medal of Honor.
Unaware at the time, how the words would haunt him, Joe clearly remembered his parents’ comments from almost two decades earlier. They’d met Marilyn a handful of times and subsequently heard his intention to marry her. “Joe, she is beautiful and full of fun. But do you share a respect and admiration? Will she challenge you, make you want to be a better man?”
Joe had, to his later shame, dismissed their advice as old-fashioned and out of touch.
In fairness to Marilyn, she was unchanged since their wedding day. Sadly, here lay the problem. Still beautiful and, if he’d had a glass of wine or three, still fun. But, that fun loving, stunning girl, never grew into a woman he could respect. His wife still had to be the center of attention, still needed to be the prettiest girl in the room.
Forced from these musings by the arrival of his son, Trent, Joe readied himself for an introduction. The young lady Trent appeared quite taken with was Lisa Nordeen. After a few minutes of polite small talk, Joe watched the couple disappear back into the crowd. Smiling to himself, Joe reflected on how his son was deeper than he’d been at the same age. Maybe if Joe had found beauty where others struggled to see it, he’d have a happy, fulfilling marriage today.
Many things in life are hard to plan. The day you leave your marriage is surely one of them.
Joe had waited until the children were older. When that day came, it changed to … once the children were more settled. Then … Marilyn needed to be less fragile … perhaps after this next business trip. Add to this, a pesky conscience with reminders of duty and commitment and Joe felt the day might never come.
Right or wrong, the day did come. Bringing with it no real hope, albeit self-justification, of other alternatives.
Joe and Marilyn’s daughter, Violet, had attended a rock concert in San Francisco, then… just never came home. A postcard arrived two weeks later, declaring she was having a blast traveling with the band and would return to Aptos when the fun ended.
Marilyn had been hysterical for days, her barrage of abuse beginning to take its toll on Joe.
In desperation, Joe had asked his mother, Rose, to drive up from San Francisco. It was a risky maneuver considering his wife and mother had never exactly been close. But he hoped an attempt at mediation might bring some calm and order to the Oaks’ tempestuous home.
Rose was good, but she wasn’t a magician.
Disappointingly, Trent was happy to throw fuel on the fire. Firmly in Marilyn’s camp, he’d stated, “If Dad had been stricter with Violet, had not tolerated her ‘hippy’ behavior in high school, our family wouldn’t have borne all this humiliation.”
Ignoring thi
s comment, Joe had looked over to his youngest, and at present, most sensible child. Scarlet sat quietly on the couch, some vampire inspired novel grasped between her slim fingers.
Coming to sit next to her, Joe quietly suggested, “That’s either an unbelievably captivating book, or you’re faking interest to escape your tumultuous surroundings.”
Smiling up at him, Scarlet had responded, “When Trent makes comments like that, I’m reminded how living in a small town is akin to living in the nineteenth century. If there were a town newspaper – which of course, there isn’t – Violet’s first known shenanigan would have been front page news: High school sophomore caught naked, smoking pot with three similarly dressed young men on Jackson’s Dairy Farm.”
Having tuned out Marilyn’s rantings and Trent’s intermittent gibes, Joe and Scarlet’s chuckling only ceased upon hearing Rose’s voice.
“Marilyn, please,” Scarlet’s grandmother had urged, “the blame game doesn’t get you anywhere; goodness knows you’ve been trying it for years now.”
Scarlet bit her lip and waited for the implosion, which was sure to follow. And it did. But, Scarlet considered, there may have been a method to Gran’s madness. Violet was forgotten, as was her Father’s nomination for ‘The most useless man in the world.’ Now, it was all about Rose. How she’d always hated Marilyn, never supported her as a Mother, and spent countless hours trying to figure out ways to turn Joe against his wife.
After a brief pause, bone china collided with a stone kitchen floor.
“I’ve always hated these stupid teapots,” Marilyn had screamed by way of explanation. “Heaven forbid, you could have given me something I actually needed,” she continued, in short, shallow gasps.
All eyes were drawn to the remnants of exquisitely crafted teapots from Africa, Asia, and Europe. Gifts, carefully transported back, by Grandma Rose and Grandpa Herb, from travels abroad.
The scene was most certainly comedic. Silence filled the room while stoic family members stared intently at the broken china.
Then the tears and apologies began. Marilyn didn’t really hate the teapots. She even used the one with the spout shaped like an elephant’s trunk. Rose had hugged her, telling Marilyn she understood the stress she was under, that sometimes breaking things was the only remedy. No, she didn’t think the teapots could be saved, but it was okay, and she should have given Marilyn something more practical.
That evening, over a Chinese takeaway, Trent had announced he was planning to propose to his longtime girlfriend, Lisa. Desperate for a diversion, the family had all, rather dishonestly, professed their excitement.
Joe had moved out of the Oaks’ family home the following week. He’d failed to produce Violet or determine where she was. He’d failed to stop people in Aptos from whispering behind Marilyn’s back and most importantly, he’d refused to shoulder all the blame. Because of these indisputable facts, Marilyn asked him to leave. Then, she appeared visibly shocked when he did just that.
Now years later, Scarlet felt there were still days Marilyn couldn’t quite comprehend it having happened.
Scarlet had moved to the city upon obtaining her degree. Joe followed soon after. With his kids dispersed, there remained little reason to stay in Aptos.
Clasping a blanket around bent knees, Scarlet stared at the one photo she hadn’t, as yet, torn into minuscule pieces. Max was smiling into the camera, Scarlet up at him. Photos capture a moment in time, but then it really is just a moment. If she’d gathered every picture, before destroying them, how many moments would there have been? Enough to class their relationship a happy one?
Despite regular visits to her Gran’s, and now Father’s, home, Scarlet had never introduced them to her boyfriend, Max. This reality had perplexed her often. Why wouldn’t she introduce her live-in boyfriend to people whose opinion meant so much to her?
In hindsight, it had been a red flag. Hell, it was a row of them, waving madly in a brisk bay wind.
Scarlet was selective in what she chose to give back to Max after he left. Certainly, he could have his clothes, countless shoes, and five messenger bags. His departure was so hurried; all he’d taken was his laptop and a mountain of toiletries. It had been unpleasant, as most breakups surely are, but also quite odd. What started out as a simple debate, similar to many debates they’d shared, had turned into a full-blown rant. Max’s voice had become loud and high, as he accused Scarlet of never respecting his job, or acknowledging how hard he worked. Did she have any idea what he and his colleagues went through on a daily basis? Perhaps it was time she dated a like-minded individual at the radio station. Allowing him, the suddenly put upon and tortured Max, freedom to find companionship and understanding from someone in his own intellectual field.
Scarlet had been, at the time, too stunned to be sufficiently offended. All she’d mentioned, while they ate their weekly sushi, were the long hours he was putting in, and how she wished they had more time together. She’d said the same thing over Spaghetti two weeks earlier, with only a nod and, “I know it, Babe,” from Max.
Of course, during countless lonely nights that followed, Scarlet had plenty of time to guess the real reason for the outburst. The hours at work must indeed have grown longer when Max began seeing his Boss. Scarlet received this little eye opener courtesy of her good friend, Niles, who worked just three cubicles down from Max.
Scarlet proceeded to bend many ears. Mostly, the little pointy ones belonging to Niles. After a few weeks of venting, she forced herself to look inward.
Was she like her mother? Nice to look at, good fun, but beyond that, pretty shallow? She’d fought against those genes for as long as she could remember. She’d seen how hard it was for her Father to have an intelligent conversation with his wife; witnessed his exasperation at having to compliment and reassure her continually. Scarlet had gone to college, joined debate teams, and volunteered at the local soup kitchen. Her mother had pushed her and her sister, Violet, to compete in beauty contests as children. The minute Scarlet reached the age of understanding, she’d refused to partake. Working as a DJ for a radio station wasn’t exactly utilizing her business degree, but Max had said he loved what she did. He’d been impressed by the level of multi-tasking and thinking on your feet, her job required.
Combined salaries had afforded them a beautiful home on Upper Terrace in San Francisco. Now, Max was living in a six-bedroom house on Pacific Avenue with his forty-seven-year-old girlfriend. This left Scarlet with two choices. Move out and find a place she could afford or… stop eating, never turn the heat on, end her social life, and never buy so much as a scarf, ever again.
Sitting on her couch in dated sweats, two pairs of socks, and one of her Gran’s crochet shawls, Scarlet looked out over the city, to the bay. By standing to the far left of the window, she could see one tenth of the Golden Gate Bridge. Who needed food when you had a view like that?
Snuggled next to her, was something else she chose not to give to Max. Certainly, he’d originally wanted the little creature as badly as Scarlet had.
A friend of a friend had posted a photo on Facebook. It was a miniature pig, posing in front of a mirror wearing a pink tutu and tiara.
Scarlet and Max had fallen in love with the little animal, and the following twenty pictures they googled of pigs in unnatural scenarios, thereafter. Two weeks later, Max, after earning a particularly fat commission, surprised Scarlet with a micro pig. They named the new arrival, Prudence, delighted the neighbors by taking her on walks, and spent a small fortune on clothes and bling.
If Cynthia Reynolds at Trade Elite, or Trade Up, as Scarlet liked to call it, had been even remotely interested, Scarlet was sure she’d be sharing custody of Prudence. But, a woman like Cynthia was far too busy making millions and, Scarlet imagined with a cringe, bedding men half her age, to take care of an animal.
Amid contemplation of adding another sweatshirt, the doorbell rang. Prudence, making her usual squeals and snorts, ran to the door.
“Dammi
t Scar, it’s cold in here!” Niles declared upon gaining entry and walking into the kitchen.
Routinely putting the kettle on, Scarlet responded, “If I keep my power bill low, I can afford my rent at the end of the month. I have a sweater you can wear.”
Niles, shaking his head as he placed a grocery bag on the kitchen counter said, “Milk, tea, bread, cereal, and Oreos. All the staples a person needs to thrive and grow. Talking of growing,” Niles added, “Is that pig not staying as little as the three-thousand-dollar price tag assured you it would?”
With mock horror, Scarlet whispered, “That pig is Prudence, and she’s still tiny. Just a little bloated today, that’s all. She’s already upset she can’t fit into my Louis Vuitton Neverfull purse, so be nice. I think it must have shrunk in the rain.”
Niles ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Firstly, if you sold that purse Max gave you, you could eat very nicely for a month. And secondly, Prudence is growing bigger. If anyone is going to be upset, it’ll be that sleazy landlord of yours. He thinks you own a teacup poodle, remember?”
“I know I need to sell the purse,” Scarlet volunteered, purposely skirting the issue of her pig. “Thank you for the groceries, Niles. It is quite possible I would starve without you.”
Opening the tea box, he’d just bought, Niles replied, “I think the word is probable. How much longer can you last like this, Scar?”
“Well, I have a twofold plan!” Scarlet said, handing him a cable sweater she’d chosen to hold back from Max. “I’m ready to start dating again.”
Scarlet Oaks and the Serial Caller Page 1