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Find Me
Finding Me Series - Part One
Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Mankin
Rough draft editing by Chelsea Kuhel
Copy editing by Dr. Diane Klein
Cover created by Michelle Preast of Indie Book Covers
Interior Design and formatting by JT Formatting
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, 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 (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Find Me, Remember Me, Keep Me is a full and complete novel in three parts.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Definition of Find
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
A Note from the Author
About the Author
FIND
/fīnd/
: to discover (something or someone) without planning or trying to : to discover (something or someone) by chance
: to get or discover (something or someone that you are looking for)
: to discover or learn (something) by studying about it
THE EXPRESSION ON my face reflected the emptiness I felt inside. I peered out the first class window watching the baggage handlers load the trolleys, while trying to summon the energy to get up out of my plush leather seat and deplane.
“Mrs. Morris?” I shifted to look at the uniformed flight attendant when she called my name. She wore a nervous frown. “Everyone’s already exited. Can I get you something else?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” I had gotten lost in my thoughts, lost inside the confusing maze my life had become because of my marriage. I retrieved my light blue Gucci duffle from under the seat in front of me. When I straightened, my mask was back in place. The one that made me appear indifferent. My preferred pretense ever since I walked in on my husband having sex with his twenty-something new artist’s coordinator in the women’s bathroom of a charity gala I had been hosting.
Outside on the mobile stairway the bright sun blinded me, and I teetered on impractical spiked heels that got caught in the metal slats. Pulling my Bvlgari sunglasses from the tangle of curls piled atop my head, I took another step, and nearly toppled as my other heel got hung up, too.
I cursed under my breath, took off my Louboutins and went down the stairs barefoot. The sharp metal stung, but I wasn’t dumb. I could adapt, like Charles always wanted me to do in our marriage, though adapting felt more like continuing the denial.
At the bottom of the stairs, I slipped my damaged designer shoes back on. No luggage to retrieve I made my way around the still empty carousel, past the other passengers chatting excitedly about vacation plans.
White shuttles and yellow taxis were lined up at the curb, and not a one of them had a sign displaying my name. This wasn’t a planned trip. It was an escape. An excursion to re-evaluate my life. One that my best friend insisted I needed. One that I knew she hoped would help me reach the decision to make the yearlong separation between Charles and me permanent. Claire was the only genuine friend I had outside the status-seekers that had comprised my social circle for the past fifteen years of my marriage. Claire had made all the arrangements for me and offered to take care of the boys while I was away. I didn’t want to think who might be “taking care” of my husband now or how they might be doing it. It was hard enough to get the one visual out of my mind. But I wasn’t naïve. I knew the coordinator hadn’t been the first. I was just reluctant to tear apart my family and scared to start all over again at almost forty-one.
I approached the curb, slid my sunglasses down my nose, and leaned over to speak to the first driver in the taxi queue through his open window. “Excuse me.”
He set his sandwich down on a paper bag on the front seat and gave me a warm smile. “Yes, Miss? How can I help you?” A bit of the icy-tight knot in my stomach thawed.
Thank you, Claire, I thought, for choosing an English-speaking island.
“I need to get to the ferry terminal downtown…to St. John.”
“Sure, I’ll take you.” He exited his side and rounded the front end to open the back door for me. He tried to take my bag, but I preferred to hold onto it. It had been so long since I had traveled alone without Charles, without the boys, without piles of luggage, and this duffel was serving as my only shield. I would feel more naked and exposed without it than I already did. The bag gave me something to hide behind not unlike all the designer flotsam Charles insisted I wear.
“How far is it?” I asked situating myself in the backseat as the driver barreled away from the curb.
He steered his weathered land-barge around potholes in the asphalt and stray chickens crossing the road as he answered. “Not far. Fifteen minutes. You should make the last ferry.”
I hoped so. I stared out the window and tried to relax. I wanted to appreciate the too turquoise to be real ocean I glimpsed briefly between breaks in the buildings. But I couldn’t. I leaned my head back against the plastic-covered seat. I had been up since four a.m. in order to make the connecting flight in Miami from Dallas. My Armani linen dress was wrinkled, my eyes felt gritty, and I was soul-weary tired. I just wanted to lie down and sleep, preferably for about a week straight.
The cab driver’s estimate had been accurate and within minutes of being dropped off, I was on board a sun-bleached, paint-peeling passenger ferry named Speedy. It sat about fifty in tight rows with barely any leg room. I closed my eyes, tuned out the sounds of the few other passengers, and lifted my face to the salt spray out the slider window. Hugging my bag as if it were a life vest and not a cumbersome loadstone representing the life I was trying to come to terms with, I let the up and down motion of the boat and the diesel fumes lull me to sleep.
“Miss.” I opened my eyes to the same woman with coffee-colored skin and warm brown eyes who had taken my fare when I boarded. “Are you okay? The boat’s about to go back to St. Thomas. Did you want to stay on?”
“No. I’m getting off here.” I stood, face sticky from the salt spray and dress more wrinkled than it had been before. “Thank you for waking me.” Stumbling because of the subtle rocking (high heels were no more practical on board the boat than they had been on the airplane stairs), I scooted down the empty row, attempting and failing to smooth my skirt as I exited.
Out on the dock, I took a quick l
ook around. The harbor at Cruz Bay was much smaller and less commercial than the one in Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas. The downtown started at the waterfront and crawled up the steep hill. The buildings seemed taller than the zone restricted three stories of height I had read about. A parking lot lay straight ahead, occupied by a few vehicles. Tropical trees and a few villas crowned green rolling hills in the distance. An open, pink building with a red roof sat on the dock at my left. Half a dozen sailboats and a few motor-craft bobbed on the smooth crystal water on my right.
Teetering on the uneven wooden slats of the dock, I carefully made my way toward the shore. I frowned when I reached the loading and unloading zone and didn’t see a waiting car. Claire had promised that I didn’t need to arrange a pickup. The caretaker of her brother’s villa was supposed to meet me with a jeep I could use during my stay. Apparently, he lived on the property somewhere out of view of the main house.
I glanced at the mother-of-pearl dial on my Philippe Patek watch, realizing it was later than I thought. Maybe the man had come and gone already. Afternoon sun beating down on me, I moved under the awning of a nearby jewelry shop when a rusty topless jeep pulled up alongside the curb.
“Are you Mrs. Morris?” The driver, a heavily bearded man wearing a Quiet Mon Pub ball cap, peered at me through his wraparound sunglasses. In his late twenties or early thirties, he looked much younger than I had imagined a caretaker to be.
I nodded and moved toward the jeep.
“You ready to go?” He dipped his shaded gaze slowly, sliding it over me. “Or do you need some more time at the jewelry store so you can find a more expensive watch with bigger diamonds?”
“No, I’m ready.” I frowned at the snide comment that implied I was as status conscious and shallow as all those social-climbers I had such contempt for. It was an unkind and unwarranted remark. He didn’t really know me. How could he presume to after only one glance? Then again, I looked at myself every day in the mirror and hardly knew who I was anymore.
“You’re late,” he complained. “You’re lucky I decided to swing back by the dock one more time, especially since the ferry’s been in for over a half hour. Still I wouldn’t have wanted to miss that fancy dress and the sun reflecting off that flashy watch of yours. Get in.” He gestured with his chin toward the passenger side. Moving my bag to one arm, I grabbed the handle and yanked, but the door wouldn’t open.
“Probably used to your chauffeur opening the door for you, huh?” He raised his bearded chin and lifted his shaded eyes to the heavens as if petitioning the island gods for patience. “It usually works better if you unlock it first, fancy face. The power feature is broken. You’ll have to do it manually.” His voice was a low baritone, but the insinuation was as unpleasant as his lack of manners.
I blew the humidity dampened curls out of my eyes and did as he suggested. “Why even bother to lock it?” I grumbled once I was in the seat, twisting around to grab the seatbelt.
“Because hardly anyone ever sits there,” he answered absently, glancing in the side mirror. He scanned a quick look for traffic and then pulled away from the curb.
I can certainly understand why, I thought sarcastically as I settled into my seat. He meticulously steered the vehicle around the busy shopping area alongside the dock, and I took advantage of his distraction to look him over. He wasn’t bad. Well, at least from what I could see of his face underneath his untrimmed beard, thick mustache, and long layers of unkempt midnight black hair barely contained by the ball cap. He reminded me of Pierce Brosnan. Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, to be more specific. Well, if I wanted to get really technical about it, Pierce Brosnan as James Bond in to Die Another Day after he had been captured and tortured for fourteen months by the North Koreans without the benefit of a hairstylist or a razor.
In other words…quite possibly hot.
Maybe.
But who could tell what was lurking under all that scrunge?
Maybe instead of Pierce Brosnan, the guy was actually Steve Buschemi. I chanced a second look to be sure…and felt a delicious, rippling heat along my spine.
Definitely not Steve Buschemi under there.
His lips were particularly interesting, a rich crimson hue that drew my attention. I wondered if they were as satiny smooth as they looked. I felt a warm, unexpected stomach flutter as I stared at them. His mouth flattened into a displeased line seeming to sense…and to disapprove of…my interest. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Morris?”
“What? No.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just tired. I zoned out. It’s been a long day.”
He didn’t reply or make any attempt to make me feel any less awkward. I hugged my overstuffed bag tighter and tried to swallow back the bitter tears that seemed so near the surface most of the time lately.
The jeep had a stick shift, and he worked the gears confidently as we steadily climbed one hill and then another. The view of the sparkling ocean through the trees was breathtaking. I just wished I could get out of this jeep and away from him so I could try to relax and really enjoy it.
“Here we are,” he announced unnecessarily as he finally pulled the jeep into a driveway and turned off the engine. The one story villa was a simple structure with white-washed walls and a red tile roof. It was even more charming in person than it had been in the pictures Claire had shown me.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered as I took it all in, the house and the verdant landscaping. I let myself out of the jeep, and for a brief moment completely forgot the irritable man by my side. He murmured something in a surprised tone, but I didn’t catch the words. I was determined not to care, refusing to let him ruin the moment for me.
The steady, salty breeze lifted my hair and refreshed my flagging spirit, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of the flamboyant tree blossoms. Two of them framed the villa forming a natural awning, their fiery orange flowers and delicate fern-like leaves kissing the turquoise shuttered windows that apparently had been left open for cross ventilation. Just beyond, on the other side, I could hear the siren’s call of the surf. Pink Bougainvillea and lush tropical foliage embraced the house, making it seem as though it were a part of and not just an addition to the island’s vibrant natural landscaping.
“You’re taking excellent care of Mr. Lawton’s property. I’m sure when he comes back he’ll be grateful to you.” Claire didn’t talk much about her brother. She only told me that he had built the house intending to live in it with his bride after they got married, but that the girl had broken it off with him right before the wedding, thereby ruining the place for him forever. He rarely used it anymore but didn’t want to sell it, either. Claire was unusually tight-lipped about her sibling. I think she only shared select personal information so that I wouldn’t worry about imposing on or running into him while I was staying at his villa.
The door slamming behind me was the only response I got to my compliment from Mr. Irritable. Pebbles crunched beneath his flip-flops as he crossed the drive. Without glancing at me, he inserted the key into the lock to open the gated entry into the property. I didn’t understand why he was being so rude. If he treated everyone who rented the villa the way he had treated me so far, I could certainly understand why the house remained vacant when most were rented out during high season. I should probably mention his behavior to Claire at some point. But for now I told myself I wasn’t really offended by his dismissive manner. My husband had ignored me for the better part of our marriage. I had lost the confidence that I was in any way interesting to the opposite sex beyond my role as my husband’s representative.
The iron gate swung open soundlessly, and I followed the caretaker inside without being told. An arched breezeway covered in concrete provided a lovely postcard frame for the view of the ocean on the other side.
“Spectacular. I love you, Claire,” I whispered. My feet compelled me forward over the rough Saltillo tiles, my eyes widening as I scanned the seemingly limitless slate of brilliant blue. Without re
alizing it, I reverentially kicked off my shoes as if the spot I stood on was hallowed ground.
“Are you and Claire really good friends, fancy face?”
“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. “The best.” I moved toward the water, laying my hands on the railing. It spanned the length of the villa and kept people from walking off the elevated deck. Pulling in deep breaths, eyes feasting on the glistening ocean, ears lulled by the crashing of the waves, I also admitted, “She and my boys are my life. My whole life. All that gives it purpose. Besides my older brother and younger sister, I mean.”
I was too tired to notice how sad my words probably made me seem. The sun was setting, and my mind was lost in the mesmerizing orange and pink kaleidoscope of color. I wished I had unpacked my camera. If I could get the caretaker to give me whatever instructions I needed before he left, I might have time to take a couple of shots before the light disappeared.
“Sir, do you…” I trailed off, surprised to find the spot where he had stood just a moment before empty. The jeep in the driveway was the only witness to my sudden consternation. I retraced my footsteps back through the entryway and found a set of keys on top of a flat rock, a piece of paper with a masculine scrawl of written instructions beneath them.
“That was weird,” I muttered. He was strange. Though he physically resembled my favorite secret agent the first time he had ever appeared on screen sporting a beard, he certainly didn’t have the suave smooth demeanor to go along with it. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodnight. I closed the gate and latched it, not wanting to have to deal with him anymore anyway.
He lived on the property. But how far away? I suddenly wanted to know the answer, hoping it was far enough that I wouldn’t run into him again. He didn’t seem to like me much and after the way he had behaved, the feeling was entirely mutual. I was sure we could manage to avoid each other if we both put some effort into the task.
Find Me--Part One Page 1