by Beverly Farr
Her Ex Next Door
By Beverly Farr
Copyright 2012 Beverly Farr Giroux
Smashwords Edition
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Rita Toews www.yourebookcover.com
Cover image by: Yuri Arcurs/Shutterstock.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Ginny Russell sat at her antique Stickley desk and scanned the balance sheets on her computer screen. She’d been denying reality for several months now, but the numbers didn’t lie. She had a cash flow problem, and if she didn’t land some big clients this quarter, she might as well kiss Innovative Designs goodbye.
Charlotte, her assistant, knocked on her office door. “I’ve finished the invoices,” she announced. “Do you need anything before I go home?”
Other than a million dollars? Forty thousand would tide her over for a while, but if she was going to dream, she might as well dream big. “No, thank you,” Ginny said with a smile. There was no point in worrying her staff until it was time to hand out the pink slips.
Charlotte started walking to the front doors, then turned back. “Oh, and your mother called. About the shower.”
If her mother couldn’t reach her private cell phone, she would call the office. “Thanks, Charlotte. Good night.”
Ginny sighed and leaned back in her padded leather chair, putting her hands behind her head. She was glad she was marrying Phillip Stewart, but many of the preparations that her mother deemed essential for the perfect wedding, seemed excessive to her. It had been a lot simpler nine years ago.
At the University of Arizona, there had been no wedding showers, no big church ceremony with expensive flowers, and no lavish reception afterwards. Instead, she had taken a quick trip to Nevada, said a few words before a justice of the peace, and made love in the back of Derek’s van because they didn’t have money for a hotel.
Ginny felt her face flush at the memory, then pushed herself away from her desk. She would not waste any more time thinking about Derek Landon and their disastrous marriage. Great sex wasn’t enough to make a marriage last, she reminded herself sternly. Marriage required honesty and trust. This time, she was going to do it right.
But first, she had to take care of her business. She ruffled through the pile of bills on her desk. Was it time to mortgage her condo or call it quits?
A traitorous little voice in her mind reminded her that she could ask her mother for a loan, but she pushed the temptation aside. She looked out the large windows at the Dallas skyline. If she couldn’t stand on her own two feet as a professional interior designer, then she deserved to fail. But Innovative Designs was her baby, everything she’d worked for. What was she willing to sacrifice to make it succeed?
Ginny glanced at her watch. No more procrastinating. There wasn’t time to go home and change, but she should be able to get to her mother’s house on time, if all the traffic lights were green.
As she neared the quiet, beautifully landscaped streets of Highland Park, she took a deep breath and felt the tightness in her shoulders relax. John Armstrong had known what he was doing back in 1907 when he hired Wilbur David Cook, the landscape artist who had planned Beverly Hills, California to design Highland Park. The tiny town, only two point two square miles, was an oasis of beauty surrounded by the hustle and noise of Dallas on three sides.
She drove past one of the city’s numerous public parks and turned into the quiet cul de sac where she had lived as a child. When she was younger, she thought Adele Circle was the center of the universe, and for her mother, it still was. Miranda had obtained title to the house in her divorce from Harold Russell, her first husband and Ginny’s father, and with each of her subsequent marriages, she had insisted that her husband move in with her. She often joked that “husbands come and go, but Highland Park is forever.”
As Ginny walked up the stone walkway to her mother’s massive limestone and brick three-story home, she saw that the gardeners had redone the front flowerbeds. She also noticed the construction sign and large waste receptacle parked in the circular driveway next door. It had been there for weeks. Miranda said the new owner had gutted the place. Ginny could hear what sounded like an electric saw. She was surprised. It was a late for workmen to be there, but perhaps the new owner was paying overtime. Ginny glanced briefly at the darkened windows, wondering what it would look like when it was finished. One of these days, she’d love to have a tour.
Crandall her mother’s butler opened the ten foot oak front door before she had a chance to knock. He must have been staring through the peephole. “Miranda is waiting for you in library,” he said in a deep tone that implied that her mother was not pleased.
“Thanks, I’ll hurry.” The heels of her taupe pumps clicked on the gleaming marble tiles. Poor Crandall. Her mother paid him well, but he earned every penny. Ginny glanced at her reflection in the Louis XIV mirror in the front hall. She hadn’t retouched her make-up or combed her hair. She smoothed a wrinkle in her salmon tweed skirt.
“Virginia, darling,” Miranda said, setting aside a magazine and gracefully rising to her feet. “I hope you’re–” she paused, and made a little frown. “A cream blouse would go better with that suit than white, dear. Do you want to change into one of mine?”
Her mother’s taste in clothes was impeccable as evidenced by her elegant linen pants suit, but Ginny said calmly, “No, thank you. I don’t want to be late.” Her mother was two inches shorter, and thanks to a rigorous exercise regimen, a size smaller. The last thing Ginny wanted tonight was to spend the evening afraid to take a deep breath or tugging at her shirtsleeves, wishing they were half an inch longer.
Miranda dismissed her concern with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “You’re the guest of honor, dear. If you’re a few minutes late, they’ll think you’re making a grand entrance.”
Miranda was famous for her grand entrances, but Ginny preferred less drama.
“Besides, Lucy Broadbent’s parties never start on time.” Her mother’s eagle eyes narrowed as she surveyed her daughter. “You’re missing an earring.”
“I must have left it on my desk when I was talking on the phone,” Ginny said pleasantly, removing the lone earring and dropping it in her leather purse. Better to wear no earrings than only one.
“I can’t let you go to your bridal shower with naked ears!” Miranda exclaimed.
“I hardly think the scandal will make the front page of the Park Cities News,” she said dryly, but her mother had already left the room.
Miranda returned a few minutes later, with three choices. “Do you want the pearls with diamonds, the pearl clusters, or the gold coins?”
Every one of the pairs was bigg
er than the earrings Ginny usually wore, but she had learned long ago to pick her battles. Sometimes the path of least resistance was the wisest choice. “These will be fine,” she said, choosing the pair in the middle.
“Do you want to freshen up before we go?”
Translated, that meant, “Redo your hair.” Ginny quietly slipped into one of Miranda’s six bathrooms. She brushed out her shoulder length light brown hair, twisted it into a French roll and secured it with a tortoise shell comb. She redid her lipstick and grimaced at her reflection.
She didn’t look forward to tonight’s party, but there was no avoiding it. Technically, the bridal shower was for her, but the guests were Miranda’s friends, not hers. Most of the guests were neighbors on Adele Circle or acquaintances from Miranda’s numerous charities. The party was Miranda’s chance to be “mother of the bride,” - a new role for her. Ginny’s role was to smile and be appreciative.
“You look lovely dear,” Miranda said as she returned. “It’s so difficult to believe that my little girl is finally getting married. Give me a hug.”
Ginny felt a brief twinge of guilt, as she embraced her mother, being careful not to hold her too tight and mess her hair. She hadn’t told her mother all her secrets, and now was not the time to start. Her mother knew nothing of her whirlwind marriage and divorce.
Nine years ago, she’d been only twenty and afraid of her mother’s reaction. Now the entire episode seemed irrelevant, no more than a three-month lapse of judgment. There was little point in telling her mother. Miranda would only be offended that she hadn’t told her earlier and blow the entire situation out of proportion.
Miranda stepped back. “By the time I was your age, I had been married twice! Do you remember when I married Edward? You were the sweetest flower girl.”
Ginny shook her head. She’d seen the photographs, but she had no accurate memory of her mother’s second wedding. She’d refused to attend the third wedding -- she was going through some sort of pre-teen angst at the time -- but by the time her mother tied the knot the fourth time, she’d grown up and accepted the fact that Miranda’s marriages weren’t permanent.
“Here, hold this,” Miranda said, handing her a flat rectangle wrapped in silver paper with a large white bow.
“For me?” Ginny said with mock surprise.
“Actually, it’s for Phillip. To get his blood pumping.”
Ginny knew her mother. It was probably some skimpy bit of lingerie.
“I’m going to want grandchildren one of these days,” her mother added, confirming her suspicion.
Miranda a grandmother. That was a thought to give one pause.
Ginny chose to ignore her remarks about Phillip. Miranda seemed happy that she was finally getting married, but Ginny knew she didn’t completely approve of Phillip. “He’s too calm, too quiet. You need someone with more zip,” she’d said when Ginny told her they were engaged.
Zip. Ginny had enough zip with Derek to last a lifetime. This time she wanted someone steady, solid and reliable. Phillip was exactly what she wanted.
They walked along the sidewalk, toward the Broadbent’s house, two doors down. Although it was already early May, the evening wasn’t unbearably hot, and it was easier to walk than to take one of the cars. Both sides of the street were already lined with the cars of the other guests.
As they passed the house being remodeled, Ginny bent down to pick up a stray nail on the sidewalk. She tossed it into the trash container.
“There’s that buzz saw again,” Miranda said irritably. “Ginny, would you mind going around back and finding out how long they intend to work tonight? You know Lucy, she won’t say boo to a flea, but something has to be done, or we won’t be able to hear ourselves think.”
Miranda avoided the unpleasant jobs, whenever she could. “I’ll see what I can do,” Ginny said.
She walked around to the side gate. The sawing noise stopped. She knocked and opened the wooden door. “Hello,” she called out.
A man stood with his back to her, bending over a worktable. He was tall, with broad shoulders, tapering nicely down to some paint splattered jeans that looked as if they had been put on wet and then dried, hugging every curve.
He turned. His thick hair was dark brown, almost black. “Yes?”
“I don’t mean to pester you, but we’re having a shower next door and wondered how long you’d be work—”
He took off his safety glasses, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes, and for an instant she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. It couldn’t be, but it was: Derek Landon in the flesh, less than six feet away.
Ginny’s throat tightened.
Derek was older, but even better looking than before, if that were possible. He looked strong and fit in a faded blue cotton shirt. His jaw line was dark with the shadow of his beard.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He sounded as stunned as she felt.
“I could ask the same of you.”
His voice was harsh. “I live here.”
So he wasn’t the workman. He was the owner of a house that cost at least six million dollars? That was impossible.
Ginny’s brain refused to work. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
He said, “Last I heard you lived in Chicago.”
“I did. But I moved back to Dallas.” She was pleased that her voice sounded flat and unemotional, even though her stomach felt like she’d gone down the first drop of a roller coaster. This was good. Maybe finally, after nine years they could have a conversation without sparks flying.
“Don’t tell me you live next door.”
“No, but my mother does.”
He frowned. “Lucy Broadbent is your mother?”
“No. Miranda.”
“You said she was married to a rich old man with one foot in the grave.”
Ginny flinched. She must have had a lot less tact back then. “Simon died two years ago.”
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “My condolences.”
Ginny murmured, “It was for the best. He’d been ill a long time.” She still couldn’t believe that she was standing there, making small talk with her ex-husband. Of all the towns in Texas, why did he have to show up in Highland Park?
There was an awkward silence, and then Derek said, “So Miranda is your mother.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Naturally I’m surprised, but it explains a lot.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he said, avoiding her question. “Water under a bridge.” He stepped forward, taking off his work gloves, watching her with a wary expression. At least he didn’t make a comment about it being a small world.
He asked, “You doing okay?”
So that was the way he was going to play it. Calm, cool, and civilized. Two could play that game. She lifted her chin. “Yes, I’m fine. I have my own design company,” -- no need to tell him how poorly it was doing -- “and I’m getting married in six weeks.”
He glanced briefly down at her left hand, noting the large diamond solitaire. “Congratulations. Do you love him?”
She snapped, “Of course I love him. What sort of question is that?”
“I’m just trying to make conversation, Ginny,” he said smoothly. “No need to jump on me. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
His polite platitude meant nothing. “We will be,” she said fiercely. “He’s a college professor. He writes books.” Inwardly, she cringed. Shut up. Trying to convince him how happy you are will only make you look pathetic.
“And you?” she asked, striving for a light tone. “What are you doing now? You must be doing very well to buy a house in Highland Park.”
“I do all right.”
Was he being modest or did he just not want to share the details of his life? Where did he get the money? Nine years ago, he’d been a dreamer, full of plans. One of them must have finally succeeded. She said, “I’ve always wondered. Did you finish your degree?”
His blue eyes grew colder. “I didn’t need to.”
Inadvertently she’d touched old battle scars. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have –”
He interrupted. “That’s right. It’s none of your business now.”
“Are you married?” She hoped so. She wanted him happily married with a wonderful wife and three children. She wanted him settled and safe and no threat to her equilibrium.
“Do you think after our little experiment, I’d want to try again?”
Ginny felt the blood rush from her cheeks.
The gate opened with a creak. “Virginia, what’s holding you up?” Miranda called. “Oh hello, Derek,” she said, her voice suddenly softer. “I didn’t realize it was you. I thought it was one of your workmen. What are you building here?”
“A deck.”
“All by yourself?” She looked around the yard with approval. “How ambitious.”
Ginny watched Derek’s amusement grow as he listened to her mother. She could almost see the mechanical gears turning in his mind. Miranda knew his name, and yet didn’t know his significance. Ginny stiffened. She must get her mother out of here before he connected the dots and said something outrageous.
Ginny said quickly, “We wondered if you would turn off your machines for the next two hours while we have our shower.”
His eyes gleamed. “That must be some shower.”
Miranda laughed a tinkling laugh at his attempt at humor.
“A wedding shower,” Ginny said grimly, trying not to think of showers they had taken together years ago.
“Good. I’d hate to think of you getting all wrinkled like a raisin.”
Miranda smiled up at him. “You don’t mind taking a break?”
“No problem. I’ll stop right now. But under one condition.”
Ginny’s stomach tightened into a knot. Her gaze searched his face, trying to read his expression. She didn’t trust him. What condition?