by Lacey Black
Samuel is the oldest Grayson sibling. When our father left with someone half his age, Samuel stepped right up into that fatherly role. I hated it, to be honest. I was a teenager who didn’t want to listen to my older brother. Samuel is blunt, a tad boring, and as anal as they come. He’s completely by the rules and a total black or white guy, with no areas of gray anywhere to be seen. That’s probably why he’s perfect as a mortician at an area funeral home.
My sister, Harper, is two years older than me, and second in line. She’s the wild child, choosing to run off and model after high school before eventually returning home to our small North Carolina town. Of course, she was completely bored working nine-to-five in an office somewhere, which is probably why she made the total leap of faith a few years back and opened her own shop. A lingerie store, to be exact. She sells all kinds of bras and panties to the old biddies of Rockland Falls, and that totally suits her personality.
Last weekend, I helped her boyfriend, Latham, move into her small house. They went to school together and have always gotten along like fire and gasoline. Completely combustible, explosive when mixed. He owns the hardware store next to her panty place. They were actually bidding against each other for the small store nestled between their respective buildings, which Latham ended up winning. In the end, though, they both won when he made a big gesture for her heart and won that too.
That leaves me, third in line of the four Grayson siblings in Rockland Falls, a town built around a small waterfall just off the coast of the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve always loved our quaint little town, with its town square that hosts multiple celebrations each year and friendly neighbors who’ll always jump in and help if you’re ever in a pinch. It’s where I grew up and where I always saw myself raising a family. That picture might have blurred over the years, but I still see myself growing old here, building my business and working in the dirt, and maybe even, someday, settling down again.
Not that I’m looking, mind you, but I do like the idea of finding someone to spend the rest of my life with, helping me raise my son, and maybe even giving him a few siblings along the way.
Of course, that person’s going to have to be tough as nails to deal with my ex-wife for the next fifty years. Hell, she’s probably not even out there. Who would willingly jump into a relationship with a man whose ex-wife tries to drive him crazy every hour of every day? Who likes to play games where only she knows the rules and isn’t about to share? Who uses people and throws them away at the drop of a hat?
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Chapter Two
Kathryn
The sun sits high in the August sky, but there’s no warmth as I walk through the house for the first time. I have no clue what I was thinking, coming back here. Too many memories, both good and bad, invade my thoughts as I move from room to room, surveying what was left behind by our hasty retreat. The furniture is covered with cloth and everything else is covered in a thick layer of dust. This place will be a major undertaking to get cleaned, but I’m up for the challenge.
At least I think I am.
My attorney, David, tried to convince me to hire it out. The cleaning of such a large house is sure to take forever, but I didn’t want someone else here, underfoot and going through everything. This is my house.
My memories.
The phone in my pocket vibrates again, but I ignore it. I already know it’s one of two people, and frankly, I’m just not ready to deal with either of them. I came here to get away from all the chaos they’ve created, and hopefully, rediscover the girl I use to be. Before New York City, business dealings, and fake smiles. Before my life became about what the bottom line was and how much profit the firm made.
Back when all I cared about was painting.
Jensen.
The future.
But all of that was stolen from me, like a thief in the night.
Now, here I am, at the place it all began. I try to push all thoughts of what could have been from my mind, but my heart doesn’t seem to get the memo. Being here is harder than anticipated. The memories are too strong, too raw, too painful.
I hold my purse against my side and make a dash down the grand staircase. I don’t even stop to reminisce about how many times I slid down the banister. Even as a teenager, I found joy in that simple act, but right now, I just need air that isn’t stale and stuffy from years of being closed up and hidden from the outside world.
The moment I step outside, I can finally take a deep breath, but it’s hard. The familiar panic is there, right along with the tears, as I inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, just like my doctor told me so many years ago. I’m all too accustomed to the rapidly beating heart, the uncontrollable shaking, and the inability to catch a breath as the panic attack sets in. They’ve never really been horrible, but enough to scare the crap out of me and usually anyone around me when it sets in. I’ve had them since I was eighteen. Since the night we left. Since I was forced to start my life over, without so much as a look back.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, my breathing starts to even out and the pressure in my chest eases. I hate having an attack, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with for the last twelve years. The usual trigger is a new situation in which I feel uncomfortable and uneasy, much like this. I knew this would be a trigger. I knew it would be hard. But I’m going to fight through this.
I’m super sweaty, and it isn’t completely due to the August heat. Unfortunately, it’s one of the side effects of my panic attacks. I hate it—no one likes someone with sweaty pits and who freaks out when she is alone in an unfamiliar location, especially in the real estate business world. It just goes to show you how much I wasn’t made for corporate America.
When I feel like I can walk on sturdy legs, I force myself to head around to the back of the house. I step over fallen branches and can’t believe how overgrown everything is. My attorney had arranged for a landscape architect to come up with a new design for the property, which was delivered to me before I got in my car and made the drive down the coast to Rockland Falls. It’s going to be perfect. The company, New View Landscape and Design, incorporated the few things I had asked, while adding in a lot I hadn’t. Really, I gave them free reign to redesign the entire property and grounds, utilizing their expertise and creativity.
Everything but the pool house.
As I round the corner, the expansive backyard comes into full view. The pool is in rough shape, but mostly cosmetic, at least according to the pool company that came over yesterday and inspected it. I glance down in the gaping hole as I make my way to the wooden structure in the yard. I push open the door, noticing instantly the lack of panic setting in. Instead, I feel the rush of familiarity and calm wash over me as I glance around the mostly-empty building. It’s definitely in need of a little TLC, but for the most part, the building is fairing pretty well, all things considering. The building inspector said the house itself and the outbuildings were all sound, though needing some cosmetic repairs. This structure will need a new roof, which will begin next week, with many of the other repairs around the house.
All in all, this home will receive a new facelift, including a new roof, kitchen, carpeting and tile, and two new windows on the lower floor that were broken by a tree branch. All of those tasks, with the addition of a complete exterior repaint, will be completed by a contractor. An electrician will begin going through the wiring and updating a few fixtures, while a plumber makes sure everything is in proper working order with the pipes.
Everything else is on me. At first, I almost caved to David’s suggestion to hire the work out, but at the end of the day, I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty cleaning the house. Even more so, I’m excited at the thought of painting. I can practically smell the fumes and feel the splatter on my skin right now. Most people would look at an eight thousand square foot home in need of fresh paint as some sort of torture task, but not me. Personally, I can’t wait to dip the brush and give the en
tire place a whole new appearance.
A fresh start.
I spend the next hour walking around and exploring, making a mental note of everything I need to do, and just enjoying the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. This home has always had a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean and is just down the road from the infamous Rockland Falls waterfall that the town was named after.
By the time the sun starts to set, I make sure the house is secure and head out to my car. It’s a new cherry-red BMW that I hate, but Mother insisted I have a car to represent the family business and myself. Honestly, give me an old truck on a dirt road and I’d be happier than a bedbug in a hotel. But Elliotts don’t drive Chevrolets, Kathryn, I hear her voice in my head for the thousandth time.
I head down the paved driveway and engage the security gate before turning on the highway and heading toward town. I’m staying in a bed and breakfast, one that isn’t too far from where I grew up. I got very lucky when I called and the Clawsons had a cancellation in their reservations. Otherwise, I’m not sure I would have been able to stay at one of the many B&B’s in Rockland Falls. Actually, the probability of having to pitch a tent in the backyard was very high. Thankfully, they were able to accommodate me for three nights. That gives me three whole days to get a bedroom and bathroom ready for me to use, as well as the temporary kitchen that the contractor is setting up for me.
The drive to the bed and breakfast is familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. Houses are the same but the landscape has changed. New families have taken up residence, different businesses occupy the storefronts, and unknown people loiter the sidewalks and city park. I feel like an outsider in the place I spent eighteen years of my life, and that leaves a hollow pit deep in my gut.
As I pull alongside the road in front of the Clawsons’, I can’t help but dread this moment. If they recognize me, I’ll be bombarded with a million questions I’m not prepared to answer, and it’ll be around town before the dinner dishes are cleared. Sure, I knew coming back to Rockland Falls wouldn’t mean I was anonymous, but I was hoping to keep it hidden for a few days anyway. A week would be pushing it.
The woman I remember as Janice Clawson appears on the porch, waving. Whether I’m ready or not, I slide from my car and grab my bag before making my way up the stairs. “You must be Kathryn. It’s lovely to have you stay with us, honey.”
She pushes open the door and steps back for me to enter. Inside, the place has a formal feel to it. Floral curtains and wingback chairs, antique pieces, and a formal dining room. Nothing like the Grayson Bed and Breakfast. Of course, it’s been more than a decade since I was inside it, but the Grayson home had a friendly, cozy feel to it. This one reminds me of my childhood, actually, and makes me worried I’ll wrinkle the linens just by looking at them.
“Here’s a pamphlet with all of the details for your stay,” Janice says, handing me a brochure. “Are you new to the area?” she asks casually while running my credit card.
Her innocent statement is confirmation that she doesn’t remember who I am. It probably helps my last name has changed since I was in Rockland Falls last. Plus, no one would expect Kathryn Elliott-Dunnington to stay at a bed and breakfast when she owns the largest home in the county.
“New enough,” I reply with a smile, not really wanting to tip her off.
“Well, if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask. There are several local shops and touristy places to visit while you’re in town, and I always recommend taking a trip out to the falls. Our town was named after it, you know,” she says with a warm, grandmotherly grin as she completes our transaction.
Janice continues to talk about the history of the bed and breakfast as she leads me up the stairs and toward my room. Each one is named after a president and boasts a large four-poster bed and private bathroom. My room has a small sitting area by the window, something I’m sure I’ll take full advantage of.
When she leaves me to my own accord, I place my satchel bag on the small table and remove the contents. Everything the lawyer gathered before my trip, as well as all the legal papers I’ve reviewed a million times in the last six months. Yet, here I am, pulling them out and scanning them again. First, the will. Then, divorce papers.
Those have yet to be signed.
My phone rings again, a reminder of why those papers haven’t been autographed by both parties. The urge to hit ignore again is strong, but I know he’ll just keep calling. When those calls go unanswered, he’ll find another way to get what he wants, and having Charles Dunnington III show up in Rockland Falls is exactly what I don’t want to happen. This is my new, fresh start, and nowhere in that picture is the man I’m trying to detach myself from.
Sighing audibly, I grab the phone and click accept.
“Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for two days. I was about to send the dogs out for you,” Charles exhales dramatically, making me roll my eyes.
“Well, good evening to you too. No need to send the dogs. As you can tell, I’m alive and well, and also not any of your concern any longer,” I remind for the thousandth time.
Charles huffs another exaggerated breath. “Don’t be like that, Kathryn. Sarcasm and attitude are beneath you.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Charles. It’s exactly where I am.”
Again, a sigh. “I made a mistake, Kathryn. You’ve made your point, now come home.”
My blood starts to boil. “A mistake? A mistake?” I ask, my voice elevating with each word. “A mistake is forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning. Screwing your secretary on your desk isn’t a mistake, Charles.”
I’m greeted with silence.
“You and I both know the love ran out a long time ago,” I whisper, hating how those words still affect me.
“It was never about love, and you know it. We’re a perfect match, darling.”
“On paper.”
“Many couples have this type of marriage, Kathryn,” he says, reminding me of all of the marriages of convenience in our circle of friends.
“And they all screw their secretaries every chance they get,” I state boldly, knowing my words are a billion times true. Most of our friends are accustomed to this lifestyle, where the husband runs around with someone half his age and the wife screws the pool boy. He comes home and gives her a bigger diamond than the previous one, and they all forget no one is happy and they drink their wrongdoings away with hundred-year-old scotch.
The difference was I thought it was love. But the truth is, I just wanted it to be love. I wanted Charles to replace the memories that kept me up at night. I wanted him to prove to me that he was different than all of the other rich assholes out there. Unfortunately, what I wanted and what I got were two totally different things. Charles ended up being exactly like everyone else, including the screwing his secretary bit.
“Listen, I’m tired. I’ve been on the road all day and I’m ready to turn in. We tried, Charles, but it didn’t work. I don’t want that lifestyle anymore. I deserve better,” I whisper, hating I’ve resorted to begging to finalize our divorce. We’ve gone round and round for the last few months, but each time, Charles halts the process with some bullshit filing or delay.
“For the record, I don’t want this,” he says quietly, the resolve evident in his word.
“Well, I do.”
He exhales and I can practically picture him sitting at his desk, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “What am I going to tell everyone?” he says softly, almost absently.
What I want to say is, “Tell them you were caught fucking your secretary and your wife didn’t accept your peace offering.” That she felt relief mixed with her anger the moment she heard the fake moans of pleasure from the bottle-blonde bent over his desk. Fake, I would know. I’ve faked for the last eight years.
Instead, I say, “I don’t care what you tell them. Blame me for all I care. Just sign the papers, Charles. I’ve already given you the company. This is the final step.�
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It’s true. I gave him the company I worked for since graduating college. My dad specialized in high-end real estate and his company grew leaps and bounds when we relocated to New York City. He was always based out of there, but we lived in Rockland Falls. Daddy flew back and forth my entire childhood, until one night, it all ended. We moved.
After my college graduation, I took my position beside him in the company. He had several agents beneath him, including Charles Dunnington III. To my father, he was the son he never had. Smart, driven, and wooing his young daughter. My father nudged me in his direction every chance he got until finally, I caved. Dating Charles was like dating any rich asshole. Gifts out the ass and fancy dinners that cost more than some people’s used cars. But deep in my heart, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I knew Charles wasn’t the man for me. Yet, I refused to listen. He was a balm, a salve to cover the gaping hole in the chest I received when I left Rockland Falls.
Now, I’m looking to right my wrong.
I’m ready to start over.
I’m ready to live my life on my terms, no one else’s.
“I’ve already signed, Kathryn. They were filed last week. I was just hoping you’d give me one final chance, but it looks like it’s not going to happen.”
The relief and joy mixing in my chest brings tears to my eyes. “Thank you,” I choke out, trying to keep the emotions at bay.
“Just know you can’t come back now. I’m not taking you back in, Kathryn. This is your decision and it’s final,” he says sternly.
I roll my eyes, wishing he could see it. He always hated when I’d do that, especially in public. “I’m not worried about ever having the urge to crawl back to you, Charles.”