Inflamed: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  Inflamed

  A Love Letters Novel

  Kristen Blakely

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Inflamed

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Jilted

  Love Letters

  About the Author

  Inflamed

  There are no happy endings; not for “The Other Woman.”

  In a small town, there’s just no way to start over.

  Eight years after the worst mistake of my life, my life as a single parent is a grind of exhaustion in between spikes of fatigue—an endless struggle to make ends meet.

  But then Sean Orr, Havre de Grace’s newest firefighter, comes to town and shows my son and I a new and beautiful kind of “normal.”

  The happiness can’t last—not for Sean who is on the run from his past. When it catches up with him, will it bring my fragile normality crashing down around me, or will I find the strength to finally define my own happy ending?

  Chapter 1

  Foot traffic shuffled, stomped, and squeezed its way from the main street of Havre de Grace and into the Coffee Beans Café. The brisk winter day—cold for early February—drove people indoors seeking shelter from the icy slap of the wind. Once inside, the scent of fresh coffee and aroma of freshly baked muffins and croissants drew them to the counter.

  “Your latte and a blueberry muffin. That will be $5.20.” Debra Martinez slid the purchases across the counter to old Mrs. Jenkins in exchange for a credit card. A burst of air whipped through the shop as the café door opened. She glanced up and tossed a smile at the familiar stranger by the door. “Hey, you’re back in town.”

  “Just passing through.” A broad grin creased the young man’s cheeks. He tugged his hands out of his pockets, rubbing them together before cracking his knuckles. For a moment, he stared up at the menu. “Just my usual.”

  “Medium Americano, black, with diabetic-inducing levels of sugar.”

  He chuckled. “You know me.”

  Debra smiled, turning her back on him to fill a cup with steaming black coffee. “You’re as regular as the sun, just every month instead of every day. $3.50 please.”

  The man dug a wad of bills out of his pocket and handed her a $5, waving the change away. “That’s for being kind enough to not compare my regularity to something else, you know—” He grinned. “—monthly.”

  She laughed as she rang up the sale and scribbled her tip amount on a piece of paper next to the register. “You have a safe drive now.”

  The young man—she didn’t even know his name—nodded and maneuvered his way out of the store, past the bulky shoulders of the three men who were walking in. Tension stiffened Debra’s back, but she smiled at the men, two of whom she recognized. “What can I get for you?”

  “Five medium coffees for the boys down at the house.” Jack Landon leaned against the counter, flexing an impressive bicep. He was obviously on duty even though he wore street clothes; firefighting in a small town like Havre de Grace was a casual sort of thing.

  “Didn’t know it took three grown men to buy five coffees,” she teased as she filled the order.

  “Wanted to show the new guy the town.” Jack jabbed his finger over his shoulder at the tall young man standing behind him. “Sean Orr. He’s taking Larry’s place.”

  “Hey.” Debra flashed him a dimpled smile. She estimated his age as mid-twenties, a good eight years younger than she was. “Welcome to Havre de Grace.” She set four cups in a cup holder made of recycled paper and then placed the fifth cup in the middle. “Will that be all, or would you like anything else?”

  Ray Peterson, the third firefighter, pushed past Sean and Jack and rested both elbows on the table. He leaned forward, and Debra retreated from his leer even though her cleavage was concealed behind her turtleneck sweater. Ray chuckled as if he sensed her unease and pressed out his cheek with his tongue. “Do you want to come over this weekend? It’s cold out; great night for keeping warm together.”

  “Aren’t you and Andrea still together?”

  “She’s out of town this weekend. Perfect, you know, for you.” Ray snorted, the sound derisive.

  Jack laughed and elbowed Ray. “Let’s get out of here, man, before the coffees get cold.” He led the way out of the store, but amid the quiet chatter of surrounding conversations, Debra heard Sean ask quietly, “What’s her name?”

  Ray’s answer slapped her moments before the door slammed shut on their voices. “She’s the other woman.”

  Debra was still fuming over Ray’s words when she pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. For several moments, she sat in the car as her breath misted against the glass. She stared at her drab house, about twenty years overdue for a paint job, and her lawn, pockmarked with shriveled blades of grass. She had lived in that house from the day she was born, and had inherited it when her parents passed away several years earlier.

  Home.

  Prison.

  Havre de Grace, with its charming small-town feel, was also the place where the skeletons in the closet ambled out to hang the dirty laundry on the front lawn. In a town where everyone knew everyone’s secrets, there was no escaping her past as the other woman.

  Nine years earlier, while her best friend, Holly Langford, had been out of town, Debra had had sex with her best friend’s fiancé and had gotten pregnant. Not a day went by that she did not feel guilty for what she had done, although she could not bring herself to regret the outcome.

  A school bus rolled to a stop outside her house, and the doors opened. A lanky almost eight-year-old boy galloped out, his jacket bundled in his arms, and charged toward the house.

  Debra blinked back her teary lapse of self-pity. How could she regret the outcome when it included her son? She stepped out of her car. “Aidan! Why aren’t you wearing your jacket? Do you want to catch a cold?”

  He rolled his eyes at her. “You can’t catch a cold from the weather, Mom. You get colds from viruses and bacteria. You catch a chill—”

  “You be sure to thank your English teacher tomorrow—”

  “Miss Darby teaches science.”

  “All right, your science teacher.” Debra unlocked the front door and ushered him in. Aidan stampeded past her and rushed toward his room, but the thud of his sneakers against the wooden planks did not concealed the soft “ruff.”

  “Aidan?” she called out quietly.

  He froze in his tracks but did not turn to face her. “What, Mom?”

  “What do you have wrapped in your coat?” She walked up to him and swung him around by his shoulder.

  The coat in Aidan’s arms wriggled.

  Debra lifted back a corner of the jacket, and a hairy little face popped up. A pink tongue darted out to lick her hand. Debra stared at Aidan. “Were you seriously attempting to sneak a dog into this house without my finding out?”

  “You’re out working all the time,” Aidan gr
umbled. “How would you know? He’s just a little puppy.”

  Who would grow up into a big dog, judging by the size of those paws. Debra stroked the dog’s furry head. “Whose dog is he?”

  “He’s nobody’s dog. I found him in a ditch. He’s just a hungry, scruffy mutt nobody wants.”

  Debra arched an eyebrow. If Aidan’s defensive tone hadn’t given him away, the fact that the puppy appeared well-fed, well-groomed, and perfectly at-home in Aidan’s arms did. “What does the rest of him look like?”

  Aidan set the puppy down on the floor. The dog looked like some kind of Irish or Scottish greyhound, but stockier and chubbier, with tri-colored markings, like a St. Bernard. Debra would have bet every penny in her bank account—not that there was much in there—that the puppy came from the Smiths’ litter. A mutt, most certainly, but not uncared for. The Smiths lavished their dogs with love and were reportedly picky about who they gave their precious puppies to.

  Coldness closed around Debra’s heart. Had Aidan stolen the puppy? Aidan’s reputation as “the troubled child” was almost as solid as her reputation as “the other woman.” The Smiths were practically Havre de Grace royalty; their family was one of the oldest in town and their 18th-century home overlooked Main Street like a guardian angel hovering over the town. Why would the Smiths give Aidan a puppy?

  A stomach rumbled loudly. Debra and Aidan exchanged glances before their gazes simultaneously alighted on the dog. She managed a tight laugh. “We’ll discuss the dog later. For now, let’s get us—all of us—fed.”

  Aidan whooped. “I’ll take him out to the yard. Don’t want him to poop in the house.”

  “Aidan, your jacket.” Debra kept the smile in place until the back door slammed shut. Through the glass, she watched Aidan shove his arms into his jacket before picking up a stick. He hurled it across the yard; the puppy raced after it and sniffed the ground before choosing one stick out of the tangled spread of other random sticks and scrambling back to Aidan.

  Debra found the Smiths in the directory and reached for her phone. She drew a deep breath, trembling as she waited for someone to pick up on the other end.

  “Hello?”

  Debra immediately recognized the voice of Patricia Smith, the elderly matriarch. Patricia had once been a celebrated beauty in Atlanta; fifty years earlier, she had married into the Smiths of Havre de Grace, supplementing their large family fortune with her lavish inheritance. Despite the intervening years, she had not lost the charm of her southern drawl.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Smith. This is Debra Martinez.”

  “Of course it is. What can I do for you, Ms. Martinez?”

  Formality was the hallmark of Patricia’s interactions; Debra tried not to interpret it as personal coolness. “My son found a puppy—one who looks like a mix of your Bonnie and Clyde. I was just calling to ask if…any of your puppies had run away.”

  “My puppies do not run away, Ms. Martinez. Are you asking if I gave Jewel to your son, or if he stole her?”

  Jewel? Debra winced. Bonnie. Clyde. Jewel. How many more bank-robbing analogies did she need to drive home the likelihood of her son’s theft?

  “I gave Jewel to your son this afternoon as we agreed.”

  “You agreed?”

  “He’s been mowing my lawn for the past year in exchange for the pick of Bonnie and Clyde’s next litter. Well, the next litter has just weaned, so Aidan’s claimed his fee.”

  Debra blinked. Just as well, her jaw was attached to her face, or it might have fallen to the floor. She glanced out the backdoor, at the lawn that Aidan flatly refused to mow. “I…see.”

  “Your son is a hard worker, Ms. Martinez, and a great talker. I’ve enjoyed my conversations with him.”

  A glib liar, more like. How had Aidan managed to conceal his activities from her for over a year?

  “You’re out working all the time.”

  Guilt plucked at Debra. She worked long hours seven days a week at the café and supplemented them with hours as an administrative assistant at the clinic, but what choice did she have? Wishes and prayers did not pay household bills, and Peter, Aidan’s father, could not be counted on for regular child support.

  Debra scribbled out Patricia’s instructions for Jewel’s care and feeding before disconnecting the call. She stared at her son and his gamboling pup as they tumbled over each other in a mad sprint around the yard. She smiled, and in spite of the thermostat set low, she felt warm and content.

  Life still had its moments.

  A small part of her mind, cynical from experience, scoffed at her naiveté. Finding life’s magical moments wasn’t difficult; holding on to them was.

  Aidan had been unusually high-spirited and animated all evening—no doubt entirely due to his new furry best friend—and finally settled down an hour past his bedtime. Debra went to bed shortly thereafter, but a dog’s yelping howl yanked her out of sound sleep. A second later, thunder rattled the house. She flung the covers aside and ran to her bedroom door. In the corridor, a trembling bundle of fur huddled in front of Aidan’s closed door.

  Debra’s heart melted as soft puppy eyes turned up to her. She leaned down, gathered Jewel into her arms, and carried the dog back to her room. Jewel sagged against her and snuggled close as she sat on the bed. “I’m surprised Aidan didn’t flat out disobey me on your first night here and let you into his room.” She stroked the soft fur on the back of Jewel’s neck. “You be quiet now, okay? I need to get my rest.”

  Jewel huffed as if she understood and curled into a ball at Debra’s side. Perhaps the dog slept, but for several minutes, Debra stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts whirring over squeezing a dog—the whelp of an Irish wolfhound and a St. Bernard—into her already razor-thin budget. Where on Earth was she supposed to find the money to make sure Aidan could keep his dream?

  Chapter 2

  Debra awoke at the first light of dawn to find a cool indention on the mattress next to her. A peek through the open door of Aidan’s bedroom showed Jewel sprawled over Aidan’s feet. The dog thumped her tail and sat up, her tongue lolling. Debra chuckled; Aidan must have woken in the night and opened his bedroom door for Jewel.

  She smiled at the dog. “I’m getting breakfast. Want any?”

  Jewel scrambled off the bed and landed in an ungraceful heap on the carpet.

  “Four left feet, huh?” Debra stroked Jewel’s head before heading to the kitchen. She peered into the refrigerator, aware of the thump of Jewel’s tail against her calf. There was some leftover chicken, but it was supposed to be reheated for dinner that night. Debra glanced at the dog. “I suppose Aidan and I can have beans and rice tonight.” She warmed the chunks of chicken to room temperature in the microwave before offering them to Jewel. The puppy’s tentative sniff transformed into gulping swallows. The food vanished in seconds.

  “That’s all, folks.” Debra flung up her hands. “But don’t worry. I’ll have Aidan buy you some real dog food today.”

  She scraped butter and strawberry jam over her toast, and prepared a ham and cheese sandwich for herself and Aidan. It was Saturday, and he would have to accompany her to Coffee Beans Café for her shift since there was no one else to watch him at home. On those days, she packed a lunch for the both of them; her perks at the café included discounted food and drink, but it was still cheaper to bring lunch from home.

  Every little bit of savings helped.

  She glanced at the digital clock on the microwave and shouted up the stairs. “Aidan, we have to leave in thirty minutes. Get moving.”

  A loud grunt from Aidan’s bedroom confirmed Aidan was awake. The dog scrambled up the stairs as Debra’s phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID; it was Marcia, the owner of Coffee Beans. “Hey, Marcia. What’s up?”

  “I’m running late today.” Marcia sounded frazzled. “I can’t open up the store. In fact, I don’t think I can get there before noon. The deliveries will be arriving in about fifteen minutes though. Can you open up and meet them?”


  “Yes, of course. I can be there in ten. It’ll be fine.” Debra hung up and strode to Aidan’s room. Her son had flung aside the blanket, but made little progress otherwise. “Hey, look, I have to get in early. I’m leaving now. I’ve got your lunch with me. Can you get dressed and come over on your own?”

  Aidan grunted.

  “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Aidan’s head nodded. His foot twitched.

  Debra stared at her son’s supine form. Aidan had made the trip to the café many times before. It was Havre de Grace; children were safe on the streets in this little town where no one had secrets—at least none that everyone else didn’t know. “Come in through the back door, all right? You can stay in the office and do your homework.”

  Aidan grunted again and swatted her away.

  “Don’t take too long waking up,” she said and scurried away, leaving Aidan and the puppy nestled on the bed.

  The next hour passed in a blur of activity. She reached the café a minute after the delivery van, which had apparently chosen that day to be early. The next half hour was spent carting the freshly baked goods into the cafe and setting out the counter displays. The espresso and coffee machines bubbled and hummed. Water sloshed. The satellite radio chirped out the latest chart-topping hits. Debra tapped her feet and sashayed to the music. She didn’t try to sing. Some things just weren’t done, not even when one was alone.

  At 8 a.m., she flipped the sign on the door to “Open.” Her first customer, Billy Madden, stopped by for his usual cup of coffee a minute later. Within ten minutes, half of the tables were occupied and the café bustled with traffic.