New Page

by Alicia Best

  New Page

  A Shady Piers Clean Romance

  Alicia Best

  New Page © 2018 by Alicia Best.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, actual events, locations or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Mellow Publications 8345 NW 66 ST, Suite #C8309 Miami FL 33166-789 USA

  mellowpublications.com

  Alicia Best may be contacted at: -

  Facebook at aliciabest17

  Website at aliciabest.com

  Twitter at abestauthor

  Amazon at author.to/AliciaBest

  If you enjoyed this Shady Piers Clean Romance story, there’s two FREE stories, ‘Happy Returns’ and ‘Healing Love’ when you’re signed up with my newsletter. If you haven’t joined already, you can do at aliciabest.com/index.php/free-book/.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About Alicia

  Prologue

  Everett

  The first thing I notice is the sweeping light illuminating the whole room in an ethereal and mesmerizing blue glow. I peer out to see what’s happening, for in this sleepy, seaside town, we have our share of problems, just not very often.

  Then there’s a firm and yet thoughtful tapping on the door.

  I make my way across the room, in the dark of my misery except for the intrusive flicker that is already worrying me.

  “Mr. Sullivan?” It is a question rather than a recognition.

  “Yes, Officer, what can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Everett Sullivan?”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. What is it that you want?”

  “And is Sarah Sullivan your wife?”

  “She is.”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you Mr. Sullivan, some very bad news. May we come in?”

  The two officers, with their somber yet empathetic faces, make their way into the still crazily-lit room. I switch on the room lights and move the whisky bottle conspicuously placed by the side of unfinished Chinese takeaway to make room for them to sit.

  “What is it. Please. What’s happened?”

  The older of the two officers, no doubt more experienced in such difficult matters, continues. “I’m afraid there has been an accident, and your wife has passed away.”

  The words don’t have any effect. How could they?

  They cannot possibly be meant for me.

  I only saw her a few hours ago.

  It cannot be my Sarah.

  Chapter 1

  Everett

  The seasons have changed over twenty times since I lost her.

  More than five years of wasted springs, summers, falls, and winters have drifted by. I haven’t smelled a single May flower or caught a shimmering snowflake on my palm in that entire time. I haven’t celebrated a Thanksgiving or a Christmas or a birthday.

  It hurts too much.

  I’d thought it would get easier eventually; that’s what everyone said, but the pain persists. It’s distant now and less raw, but still just as heavy as the day it happened. It’s like my heart has turned to stone, like my soul has withered away: a plant no longer tended.

  Her picture is on the wall here, placed just high enough that the curious children wandering through the open glass doors of the library glance up at it.

  Sarah’s face remains the same: hazel eyes gleaming into the camera, pink-lipped smile pulled back just enough to show off two playful dimples in her apple-round cheeks. Even though she doesn’t change, just as young and vibrant as we were when we married, I’ve noticed my own face changing.

  There are more lines now around my eyes. They aren’t laugh lines though, that’s for sure. I haven’t laughed in so long that I’m not sure I know how any more. They’re weary lines, making me look older than twenty-nine.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  The phone rings shrilly from the corner of the desk, the sound jerking my eyes sharply away from the dark, wood-framed photo of Sarah on the wall.

  I grab it, cradling it to my cheek.

  “Shady Piers public library, this is Everett.”

  “Uh yeah, I need a cab from Main Street—”

  “This is a library, not a cab service,” I grunt.

  “Are you sure?” the guy asks, words slurring together. I can hear the din of a bar behind him.

  Seriously? At two in the afternoon?

  I glance around, gazing over the stacks of books and old computer monitors. “I’m positive.”

  The line goes dead. I roll my eyes and drop the phone back down onto the desk, wincing at the faint clatter of plastic on wood. The noise didn’t matter, the library is empty anyway, but I preferred the stillness of silence.

  Those stupid cab calls are the only ones we get lately. Seven months ago, one of the big cab companies in town changed their number. Now it was only one digit away from ours. I couldn’t even remember the last time somebody actually meant to call us.

  We’d been told to just face the facts: nobody wants to visit a library anymore. Not when they can get all the books they’d ever want online without ever having to leave the comfort of their own homes. But Sarah had worked here for years, since even before we’d graduated from Shady Piers high school, and now I haunted the same bookshelf-lined halls, clinging to the memory of her.

  I’d been terrified that I would forget her. That her voice would drift away. But it hasn’t. It’s still there every night when I’m trying to sleep.

  Everett, listen!

  Her last words to me will remain engraved on my brain for the rest of my life. I’d accepted that now.

  I take hold of a stack of books, flipping open the front covers to scan them into the computer for inventory. The scanner gives a sharp squeal, refusing to correctly input the book into our system. We’ve had so little funding for the library that we haven’t been able to keep up even the most basic of maintenance on our systems and devices, including the four public computers, much less update anything to something even remotely modern. I’m honestly surprised we don’t still have typewriters strewn about.

  The lack of funds was one of the biggest issues that stressed Sarah when she was the head librarian here. She’d come home to our little house disheartened and defeated, and we would curl up on the couch with hot chocolate and a big bowl of popcorn as our dinner. It wasn’t exactly the healthiest of meals, but at least it would get her to smile.

  The doors buzz, spreading apart like two clear curtains gliding back as the click of pointed heels echoes around the corner.

  It’s not one of our half-dozen regulars, typically elderly residents looking for an old paperback favorite, but a woman who looks a bit younger than me.

  Her platinum hair is coiled at the crown of her head: straight, silky strands hanging into her glacier-blue eyes. Her mouth is small and scrunched up, and an iPhone is clutched so hard in her hand that her knuckles are white. She storms hastily around the corner, heels practically digging into the floor in fury.

  My eyes betray me, following her as she turns, watching the way that blonde knot bobs with every step she
takes, the pastel pink of her sundress fluttering just above her knees like she’s being followed by her own personal ocean breeze. I try to force myself to look at anything but the unknown woman, but my mind disagrees, leaving me silently pleading and arguing with my own stubborn will.

  When she turns another corner, hidden now behind a donated stack of so-called new titles that came out almost a year ago, I’m finally free of her spell.

  I suck in a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut and pressing my palms against the smooth wood of the ancient librarian desk.

  It’d gotten harder over the years to pretend that I wasn’t interested in the women around me; to pretend that I didn’t notice the feelings of desire that I had long forced into slumber trying to awaken. But this woman, whoever she may be, strained my will more than any other.

  My feet have moved two steps towards the edge of the desk, preparing to guide me over to where she stands and ask her name. It is a mystery how I had managed to resist.

  I don’t know who she is, and I firmly remind myself that it has to stay that way.

  Chapter 2

  Holly

  I’m so mad I can feel my heart thudding between my ears as my eyes stare down at the source of my anger.

  I see soft pink, painted nails fly heatedly across my cell’s screen, punching in typo after typo that I’m fuming too much to correct.

  How dar he?

  michael really thinks he can treet me this way?

  I’be been patient for almst a whole year!

  What aa jerk!

  Little dots appear at the bottom of the screen, flashing a few times as my best friend tries to figure out exactly what words will best soothe my ire. In the end, a single word appears at the bottom of our scrolling message.

  Jerk!

  Ugh. Thanks, Charlotte. Ever the patient listener and confidant. Before I can roll my eyes too hard, the trio of thinking dots again appears.

  Need wine? She adds. My treat!

  If I hadn’t already been swallowed whole by my anger, that simple offer probably would’ve been enough to calm me down, but now I’m too ready for a battle that has been drawn out long enough. I know I’ve always had a bit of a temper, but I’d truly done my best with this situation. I’d tapped into internal stores of patience I didn’t even know I had.

  Earlier, just before coming into the library, I’d been stuck on the phone for over half an hour, though most of that was spent on hold as I paced around the small perimeter of the building and gentle classical piano tunes flowed through the phone line. I’d been worried someone would hear my conversation, but not a single person had pulled into the parking lot.

  The willowy branches of the trees had bent low, making me crouch a little to avoid the brush of their wispy leaves across my head and shoulders, even though I barely reached over five feet in heels.

  Around and around I’d walked until someone finally answered the phone, that nasty woman’s shrill voice making my eardrum want to explode. I didn’t want to talk to her.

  I couldn’t even remember her name now, I was that mad. It was something boring. Like Janet. Or Ethel. Or Marcia. I’d never met a Marcia I liked.

  “Oh,” she’d said lamely, giving a breathy giggle that let me know Michael was in the room with her. He had that effect on women. I would know. “I’m afraid we’ve asked you one too many times not to try and contact Michael, Ms. Burke. We’ve had our company lawyer draw up a cease and desist letter. You’ll be receiving it in the mail. It’s already on the way, as a matter of fact.”

  “A cease and desist? You can’t be serious; you know I’m just trying—”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about you or your intentions, Ms. Burke. Stop trying to contact Mr. Brock. He’s had a hard enough time recovering his image without you trying to drag him back down again.”

  “Drag him down?” Now it was my turn to shriek. My slow walk around the library had turned into a frenzied march right about then. “Oh please, I wasn’t the one to drag anyone down. You know perfectly well that he dug his own grave.”

  “Are you threatening Mr. Brock? I’ll have to give this information to the lawyer, you know.”

  “What? Threatening?”

  “You’re explicitly talking about putting him into a grave.”

  Even though she was miles away, I could practically see the smug grin she was shooting Michael right now.

  “I didn’t… You’re twisting my words!”

  “Like I said, keep an eye out for your mail. You only have a limited time to fill out the form and send it back to us before we have to escalate this situation.”

  The line went dead then, buzzing emptily into my ear. I’d almost hurled my phone down onto the pavement just to watch it shatter.

  It’s been almost an entire year now since I moved back to Shady Piers, leaving the tall buildings and busy streets of New York City behind. Even though I’d been born in this sleepy Maine town, I’d been a city girl at heart since I could remember. It’d always been my dream to work in one of those flashy high-rises, the ones where you had to tilt your whole head back to see up to the pointy tip parting the clouds.

  At eighteen, I’d packed up my bags, kissed my friends and family goodbye, and set out on my own. It’d been tough, and my dreams had changed quite a bit while I was there. I ended up a teacher instead of a high-powered businesswoman. But I love my job, and I’d loved that city, and I’d been so sure I’d loved Michael.

  Now I was back in Shady Piers with nothing left of those old dreams, and it was all his fault.

  Furiously, desperate to forget the phone call, I’d stormed into the library though I couldn’t remember why I’d come this way in the first place.

  My phone buzzes abruptly between my clenched hands, drawing my eyes back to it.

  It’ll all work out, Charlotte has typed, and I can hear the comforting tone in her voice, but it doesn’t comfort me. Not today.

  I’m so tired of this fight. I’m so tired of this tiny town with its tiny buildings. I want to go back to the city, but I can’t. I’m not a city girl anymore. This whole mess has proven to me that I was never really prepared for the city to begin with.

  Thrusting my phone down into my faux leather purse, I drag it higher up onto my shoulder, clutching it to my side as I whip around one aisle and then another, trying to remember if I’d come here for a reason or just for pleasure.

  I’d always loved libraries.

  New York had fabulous collections, filled with books so old that you could smell them the second you set foot on the aging hardwood floor. Some of the books were fragile even between the most careful of fingers, and, when no one was looking, I’d stroked the yellowed pages with my whole palm, like cherishing a loved pet.

  The books in this little Maine library were old too, but not in an antique or distinct way. These were just worn out and outdated copies that had been manhandled by children and negligent adults. There was nothing special about these books.

  Even so, my hands are drawn towards the shelves, delicate fingertips brushing across bent spine after bent spine, catching dust and grime that hasn’t been lifted off their shelves in weeks, at least.

  I felt kind of like one of those books now. Forgotten and forlorn, put down out of place, never to be hoisted back up again. It wasn’t a good feeling. I sympathized with these books. They’d had a hard life, judging by their dog-eared pages and ripped sides. They probably had nothing to look forward to but the dollar bin at some thrift store.

  Turning another corner, I wandered through the young adult section.

  The man at the front silently watches from where he stands at the entrance.

  He’s tall and grave, all broad shoulders and a tacky, red flannel shirt that makes him look more like a lumberjack than a librarian. When I walked in, I’d been expecting a spinster type, with cat-eye glasses and grey hair piled atop her head.

  I can feel my phone vibrating again in my purse: once, then twice, then three times. It’s
either that bitter secretary or Charlotte asking what kind of wine I’m in the mood for. The answer to that question being, “Right now? Anything, of course!”

  With a sigh, I dig through my purse, fingers just barely grazing over the corner of the buzzing phone as my foot catches on the edge of the new-release table.

  The thin metal of the leg snaps sharply to the side, and the entire table flings itself over, sending books and papers flying up into the air as it bangs noisily on the ground, dragging me down with it.

  Chapter 3

  Everett

  I can honestly say I’ve never heard a slew of imaginative curses like the ones flying from the woman’s pink-glossed lips.

  “Here,” I grunt, cutting off her colorful language as I stick a hand out to help her up. “Let’s get you off my floor.”

  Her mouth forming a hard line, the woman reaches up and slides her cool palm against mine, curling her legs underneath her to propel herself back upwards from the ruin of the table I’d spent two hours putting together three months ago.

  When her long, smooth fingers brush mine, something happens. Something that I can’t explain.

  Even though her hand is cool to the touch, it burns me. I feel an inner heat emanating from her very core.

  With a hiss, I jerked backwards, letting go of her hand as she tumbles back down onto the floor, the coiled bun of her hair falling loose.