by Freya Barker
Food as a distraction. I have to remember to thank Rita for that lesson.
With everyone diving into their dessert-before-dinners, I flip through my mail, and find two envelopes addressed to Ms. Trinity Rizzo.
“You’ve got mail, baby.” I toss the envelopes at her, but keep a close eye. One of them had a San Antonio return address.
“It’s a card from Uncle Christian,” she announces. “Ooh, and a gift card. Awesome.”
My brother and I have spoken twice in the past weeks. He called me from jail, where he’s awaiting trial. It’s going to take a while for me to get past my issues with him, but I’ve learned my daughter is much more forgiving—plus she’s now eighteen—so it’s her choice how far she wants him in her life.
“What’s this?” Trinny pulls a stack of official-looking paperwork out of the second envelope. “It has my name on it. I don’t understand any of this.”
“Let me have a look,” Joe says, leaning over her shoulder. Then he straightens up and looks at me. “Montenegro.”
“What?”
“Starting on her eighteenth birthday, she’ll receive a sum of fifty-thousand dollars each year until the earlier of receiving a graduate degree, marrying, or turning twenty-eight. At that time she’ll receive the remainder of the trust currently estimated at one point three million dollars.”
“How is that even possible? Weren’t all his assets seized?”
Joe shrugs, “No idea. We’ll check with Livingston. He’ll be able to tell us how legal this is.”
Trinny suddenly shoves her chair back from the table.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want it.”
“Are you crazy?” Mason cries out. “You could be a millionaire. That’s like, beyond awesome!”
“I don’t want it,” she repeats, looking at Mason, then at Joe, and finally at me. “Mom. I really don’t want it. I know you worked your butt off for eighteen years to shield me from his world, worked hard to give me a future, an opportunity to go to college. Me taking that money would almost be like a slap in the face for you. He already got what he wanted from me: I held his hand when he left his life. I don’t want to drag his shadow along in ours.”
Joe throws his arm around her shoulders and tugs her close, pressing a kiss on her head. “Makes complete sense to me.”
“Me too,” I add, smiling at her.
“Well, I just think you’re all nuts,” Mason contributes.
Ryder has used the distraction to snag himself another slice of cake.
Joe
Three months later
“Boys, bring your laundry baskets downstairs please!”
Ollie is standing at the top of the basement stairs when I walk past, her arms folded over her chest.
“Trouble with the training?” I tease her.
I never had a specific routine, Ollie did. So when she and Trinny moved in the beginning of September, since she works a large percentage of her time at home—and I don’t really give a rat’s ass—I told her we’d follow along in her schedule. That means, for instance, Saturdays are her days to do laundry, and if the kids want theirs to be included, their basket needs to be in the laundry room by noon. She doesn’t have a problem folding, but she expects the kids to carry their own baskets back to their rooms, and put the stuff away.
It’s twelve thirty, and the boys disappeared into the basement right after breakfast.
“It’s like your basement is soundproof. Nothing penetrates,” she mutters.
“Boys!” I bellow down the stairs. “You have two minutes or I’m giving your PlayStation to kids who deserve it!”
There’s movement downstairs and then the sound of my two lead-footed boys barging up the stairs, darting past us and hustle equally loudly up to their rooms.
“That’s not fair, you bribed them.”
I grin at her pout and pull her in my arms. Her hands come up to rest on my chest and she tilts her head back. I drop a kiss on her lips. “That’s not a bribe,” I explain. “It’s using convenient tools at hand to get your point across. Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”
To emphasize my point, the boys come tearing downstairs, each toting their laundry. Ollie rolls her eyes dramatically, trying to push out of my arms, but I hold tight.
“Do what I know you can’t help yourself doing, but meet me for a drink on the back patio after?”
Even before the girls moved in—renting out their place—Ollie was over here a lot of the time, and finished the garden, which includes a small circular patio underneath the trees by the river. Although I can’t tell the difference between milkweed and dogwood, the yard looks fantastic. Especially that patio, with the cool cedar rocking bench she got for a steal.
“If the drink can be fresh coffee,” she bargains with a smile.
“Done.”
She dives into the laundry room, and I go to put on a fresh pot.
Ten minutes later I see her step outside—dressed in a hoodie against the chill—and make her way down the steps, past the pool, and along the path to where I’m sitting under the trees.
“Hey.” She dips her head and gives me a sweet kiss before sitting down next to me. “Another gorgeous fall day.”
“It is.” I twist my body so I’m facing her. “This is my favorite spot,” I tell her. “I love how the bright reds give the garden a second lease on life at the turn of the season.”
I watch as she takes in the bushes before turning back to me with a smile. “Me too.”
“You’re good at that.” I pull the ring from my pocket where it’s been burning a hole for a week since Grace handed it to me. It’s the ring her husband gave her more than fifty years ago. She wants Olivia to have it. “Breathed new life into me too—I don’t want to waste another minute of it.”
Her breath hitches when I take her hand and slide the ring on her finger. “Joe…”
“Marry me, Olivia Rizzo.”
She throws her arms around my neck peppering me with kisses. “God I love you.”
I bracket her face with my hands and lean my forehead against hers.
“Is that a yes?”
Her eyes light up as she grabs my wrists, holding on.
“Yeah. It’s a yes,” she whispers.
“Good,” I whisper back, slanting my head and taking her mouth.
10-CODE
coming to you June, 2019!
www.freyabarker.com
KEEP READING for a sample chapter!
Acknowledgments
First and foremost I would like to thank the fabulous Susan Stoker for graciously allowing me to create my second story in her Operation Alpha World.
It has been an absolute pleasure working with Susan and Amy Hrutkay of Aces Press.
There are a number of people who are crucial in the process of publishing my books. They work tirelessly behind the scenes right along beside me.
Thank you so much; Joanne Thompson & Karen Hrdlicka, my editing team; Stephanie Phillips of SBR Media, my agent; Debra Presley & Drue Hoffman of Buoni Amici Press, my publicists; Deb Blake, Debbie Bishop & Carmie Varella, my beta readers for Covering Ollie. Each and every one of these people are essential to bringing my books to you.
A heartfelt thank you goes out to all the unbelievable bloggers, so generous with their time and their enthusiasm for our books. Without them we would have no platform.
Finally, to all my readers; those who have been there from the start, and those who have discovered my stories along the way. You keep me motivated to write more, and write better
Love you all.
Chapter 1
Marya
“I’ve changed my mind.”
I look to my side where Liam is slouched in the passenger seat of my ancient Jeep Cherokee. We just dropped off his brothers at my mom’s place. They hadn’t been too excited with the prospect of sitting in the bleachers at their brother’s first soccer game of the season at eight thirty on a Saturday morning. Since I’m not comfortable leaving an eigh
t and a thirteen-year old unsupervised, their grandma’s place had been their only option.
Let me tell you, getting my three boys out of bed at six on a weekend, so we can hit the soccer field in bloody Bloomfield fifteen minutes before game time, as instructed, is no mean feat. Theo, my oldest, had to be enticed with a soaked sponge over his face. It did the trick, got him out of bed, but with a foul temper. Harry, I couldn’t even wake up and I spent ten valuable minutes wrangling him in clothes without his cooperation. I had to carry him to my car and again into my mom’s house where I dumped him on the couch. He may only be eight, but that’s still a ton of deadweight to lug around.
Liam, my middle child, was a little easier seeing as he’d been excited about his first game, but apparently that shine is wearing off.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” I tell him. “Out of the eight games on the schedule you only have two early ones, the rest are at a more civilized hour. You’ll get used to it. You worked hard to make this team, don’t tell me you’re giving up before you even get started.” I bite back a reminder that I’d taken on a second job with a cleaning service so I could afford getting him enrolled, which was more than my regular tight budget could handle.
He mumbles something I can’t quite make out and his posture still spells his displeasure, but he doesn’t make a fuss.
I’ll take it. He’s been moody as of late. That is, moodier than normal. Of all my kids, Liam is the one who was most affected when Jeremy bailed five years ago. He was six at the time and idolized his father, so he felt that betrayal deepest.
Theo was eight and had been too aware of what was happening in our sham of a marriage. He just seemed relieved the constant tension we lived under at the time was over.
At three, Harry had been blissfully oblivious, perfectly content to be wherever I was.
But Liam, he felt it deep. It’s one of the reasons I worked hard to make his dream of joining the soccer league come true. The other two have not expressed any interest in organized sports, but Liam craved it. I thought he might benefit from the team bonding, not to mention the male influence of a coach. He doesn’t get much male exposure other than his brothers. His teacher is a woman and then there’s his grandma and me, and we’ve turned avoiding men into an art form.
“Eat your PopTart, kid. You’re gonna need the energy,” I urge him.
My lofty plans to make the kids egg sandwiches for breakfast flew out the window this morning and I barely managed to throw a few quick things in plastic bag for Liam. Parenting fail. Luckily Mom can be trusted to take care of the other two with something far more nutritional.
I know by the tearing of the wrapper he’s doing as asked and I wish I’d thought to throw an extra one in the bag for me. My stomach is rumbling. No coffee and an empty stomach makes the prospect of sitting on the hard bleachers for a couple of hours even less appealing. I hope to God there’s a coffee shop nearby so I can pop out and grab myself a little reinforcement.
The hour-drive is otherwise quiet since Liam seems to have dozed off beside me. By the time we pull into the parking lot of the Chamblee Soccer Complex I can see from the volume of cars we’re probably one of the last to arrive. Shit.
“Grab your gear, we’re going to have to hustle.”
Apparently the nap has done my boy well, since he doesn’t argue and pulls his bag from the back seat before setting off for the field on a steady jog. I follow behind at a much more sedate pace.
Parents and families fill the small bleachers on the sideline and I scan the benches to look for an empty spot when my eyes land on a familiar face and the impressive body it belongs to.
Dylan Barnes. A hard man to miss, not that I’ve been trying.
Since my friend Kerry, who owns the bookstore slash coffee shop I manage, met and married his boss, Damian Gomez, Dylan’s been in to grab a coffee from time to time. Dylan is an agent with the La Plata County FBI field office and looks at least as imposing as his title implies.
Aside from the fact I’ve sworn off men completely, he’s probably ten years too young for me anyway. It doesn’t mean I can’t look, which I do every opportunity I get.
I’m surprised to see him here and briefly wonder if he’s one of the coaches, when I see a boy about Liam’s age jog up and toss a baseball cap at him. His spitting image. Same dark floppy hair, same dimpled smile, same melty chocolate eyes. Holy shit.
I realize I’m still standing at the foot of the bleachers, gawking at Dylan with his obvious son, and notice more than a few faces turned in my direction. The flush I feel on my pale cheeks burns into a full blush when Dylan turns to look at me as well. Not only that, the only open space seems to be on the bench beside him.
Where’s the goddamn coffee when you need it?
Dylan
“Dad, can you hang on to that? Coach says we can’t wear baseball caps on the soccer field.”
I catch the cap he tosses my way and bite down a grin. I told him that five minutes ago when he ran off, eager to join in the warm up starting on the field. Max is a the age where I’m no longer recipient of his blind faith, but apparently his coach is.
“He says I can have the right-winger spot,” Max says with a toothy grin. Last year he played defense and wasn’t to enamored with that. He prefers being in the thick of the play, getting more opportunities to score.
“Good stuff, buddy. Just make sure you listen to Coach and don’t hog the ball.
“I won’t, Dad.”
He runs off and I catch a glimpse of a woman standing ten feet away, staring at me. I takes me a minute to place her. The oversized hoodie, ripped jeans and hair in a sloppy bun are not her usual look when I drop into Kerry’s Korner for a coffee on my way to work. It’s usually a stern ponytail, reading glasses on a chain, nondescript work clothes and sensible shoes.
Marya Berger sure as fuck looks a lot more approachable this way.
I know the woman’s story, I was in Denver at the time, but I heard when I came back. She’d fallen victim to some sleezeball who was using her to get to Kerry. The guy didn’t succeed, but Marya got hurt pretty badly in the process.
I throw her a smile and pat the empty space beside me. When she doesn’t move, I call out.
“Marya—come sit.”
I watch as she takes a few hesitant steps closer and points at the coffee in my hand. “I’m gonna need one of those,” she shares. “Where’d you get it?”
“Sonya’s diner. It’s just up 2nd Street, left on Ash and…you know what, I could use a top up myself. You sit down, I’ll go grab us some coffees. You stay here and keep our spots.” I get up and indicate for her to sit down.
“It’s okay, I—”
“Marya, sit down,” I cut her off. “I’ll be no more than five minutes. What do you take in yours?”
She looks like she’s going to protest again but then shakes her head sharply and plonks down on the bench. “Cream one sugar.”
“Large?”
She lifts her face and slowly raises an eyebrow.
“Large it is. Anything else?”
“Yeah, something to eat. Anything.” She digs through her purse as she mutters. “A muffin or a Danish, I don’t care. I’m starving. Please?” She pulls out a twenty-dollar bill, offering it to me but I wave her off.
“Be right back.” Without giving her another chance to protest I turn on my heel and head for the parking lot.
When I get back ten minutes later with a tray of coffee and a paper bag with food, she’s still sitting in the same spot, her eyes peeled on the soccer field where the game has just started. She looks up when I sit down next to her.
“So who’s your kid?” I ask, handing her her coffee.
“Tall, dirty blonde hair, his socks already slouching around his ankles. That would be Liam.”
I scan the field and pinpoint the boy she describes. “A forward,” I note.
“Yeah, that’s what he told me, but I have to admit, I’m not sure what that means.” She looks down when I
start pulling containers from the bag. “What on earth? That’s no muffin.”
“Nope. Can’t start a day on a muffin so I got us a decent breakfast.” I hand her plastic cutlery and a container with scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries. “You’re not a vegetarian are you?”
Her eyes squint at me. “Raising three boys and looking like this?” she points out, indicating her pleasantly rounded body. For emphasis she shoves half a strip of bacon in her mouth. I grin and dive into my own. “Your boy?” She points at the field where Max is dodging around the defense on the sideline, the ball glued to his foot.
“Max,” I confirm. “Winger.” Things get tense when Max feeds the ball to Marya’s boy, who lands a solid kick but the ball misses the crossbar by a hair. “Nice shot,” I mumble.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she counters, making me grin again.
She surprises me. Very different from the stuffy and slightly grumpy librarian persona she displays in the bookstore. I already knew she’s pretty, but I didn’t know she’s funny to boot. I’m liking this more relaxed version of Marya a fuck of a lot better.
We finish breakfast in silence, taking in the game, before she speaks up.
“Thanks, I needed that. Feeling almost human now.”
“Good.” I grab her empty container along with my own, toss them into the garbage next to the bleachers and return to my seat beside her. “Where are your other two boys?”
She glances over before her eyes drift back to the field. “My mom’s. They weren’t too hip on getting up at this ungodly hour to watch their brother run around a soccer field.”
“How old are they?” I ask, figuring her son Liam would be about the same age as Max who turns eleven in three weeks.
“Harry is eight, Liam eleven and Theo is thirteen. Don’t know what I was thinking having one after the other,” she grumbles cutely. “Hormones are hitting my household hard and the prospect of another ten years of that is giving me nightmares.”