Undone

by Shannon Richard

  “Twenty-three.”

  God, that was two years younger than Paige was now. She couldn’t even imagine having one kid by herself, let alone two.

  “How old was she when she had you?” she asked, putting the frame back and looking at Brendan.

  He was still staring at the picture. After a second, he cleared his throat and looked at Paige. There was a deep sadness etched all over his face. She just wanted to reach up and brush his pain away, but that was impossible.

  “She was eighteen.”

  Eighteen. It made her heart hurt.

  “How old was she when she died?” Paige asked, reaching out for him and wrapping her arms around his waist.

  “Thirty-four.” He brought his hands up to her back and started moving them up and down.

  “I—I can’t even imagine,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, Brendan,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his jaw before she settled her head on his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. His arms tightened around her and he buried his nose in her hair, pressing his lips against her temple.

  * * *

  Shep lived in his grandparents’ old house that was just a couple of miles from Brendan’s place. When his grandfather had died, his grandmother had moved in with his parents and Shep had gotten the house.

  The grill was going and everyone was out on the deck, beers in hand. Brendan was leaning back against the railing and Paige was leaning back against his chest. He rested his free hand on her hip, his fingers tracing the lace hem of her white tank top. Paige was laughing about something with Grace, but Brendan wasn’t paying attention. He was too distracted finding shapes in the freckles on her shoulders.

  Talking about his mother had always been a difficult thing for him. Her death had never gotten easier. When she’d died he’d felt like he was drowning, and then with time, he’d figured out how to breathe underwater. But when he’d talked to Paige about Claire, he’d felt like he was coming up for air again. She’d asked him questions and he’d wanted to talk, he’d wanted to tell her about the woman who had raised him. He’d wanted her to comfort him, to wrap her arms around him, and she had. He wanted her to know him in every way.

  Brendan pressed his nose into Paige’s hair, breathing in the citrus scent of her shampoo. She felt so right pushed up against him, like she fit here, in his arms and in his life.

  * * *

  Paige got up early on Sunday and drove over to Brendan’s. When he’d dropped her off the night before, he’d asked her if she’d go out on his boat with him for the day.

  “Just you and me? Out in the middle of the ocean? Fishing?” she’d asked as they stood on her parents’ porch.

  “Among other things. You scared?” he challenged.

  “Do I have a reason to be?”

  “No.” He grinned.

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because you’re a smart girl.”

  Yet she’d said yes anyways.

  She parked in his driveway and headed up the stairs to his front door. She knocked and he opened the door a minute later, Sydney at his side, her tail whipping him in the leg.

  “Morning.”

  “Morning,” he said, pulling her inside. As soon as the door was shut he pushed her up against it and kissed her. When he pulled back sometime later he looked at her with a dazed expression that she was sure mirrored her own.

  “You hungry?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said as her eyes dipped back down to his mouth.

  “I meant for breakfast.” He laughed. “Glad to know your mind is in the gutter.”

  “And where’s yours?”

  “Right next to yours,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the kitchen. “Sit. I’m going to make you breakfast,” he said, depositing her in one of the bar stools at the counter.

  “I thought we had to get an early start.”

  “The fish will still be there in an hour. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

  For the next thirty minutes she sipped her coffee while he made breakfast. He moved around the kitchen with ease, dicing vegetables and whipping up eggs.

  “Did Lula Mae teach you to cook?” Paige asked while he sprinkled cheese over the cooking omelet.

  “Yes, but so did my mom.”

  “She was a cook too?”

  “Yeah,” he said and nodded, slipping a piece of cheese to Sydney. “She worked at Café Lula too.”

  “How long has it been there?”

  “My grandmother opened it twenty-six years ago. She had a job at a diner and she saved up for over twenty years. When she had enough money she bought that old cottage.”

  “That’s amazing,” Paige said, twirling her spoon around her coffee. “To be able to do that. Follow your dreams and start out on your own. And your grandfather did it too.”

  “What are your dreams?” Brendan asked, looking over at her.

  “My dreams?” she asked, touching her chest with her hand. “To sell my art in a gallery.”

  “Have you sold any of your work before?”

  “No. After I got out of school I got a job at the advertising agency. I didn’t really have a lot of free time to paint or take pictures.”

  “So the advertising agency, not your dream job?” he asked as he turned back to the stove and ran the spatula around the edge of the pan.

  “No,” Paige said, shaking her head. It really hadn’t been. She’d been too confined in her work. She’d never been able to do what she’d really wanted. Whenever she’d “colored outside of the lines,” as her supervisor had liked to say, she’d been reprimanded. She’d often come home with blinding headaches from being frustrated all day. There hadn’t been reprieve either because on most days she’d had to bring her work home with her.

  “I hated it,” she said before she realized she was speaking out loud.

  Brendan looked at her again, surprise in his eyes.

  “I never realized it before. But I really hated that job.”

  “Well, maybe now’s your chance to do what you love.”

  “Maybe,” she said and nodded.

  Brendan finished cooking and they shared the omelet and fried potatoes; everything was delicious. They both cleaned up the kitchen, since Paige refused to let Brendan clean up by himself, and then they loaded up his boat.

  “Have you ever been fishing before?” Brendan asked as he pulled the boat away from the dock.

  “Yes,” she said, leaning back against the seat. “I used to go with my dad all the time.”

  “Really?” he asked, looking genuinely shocked.

  “Why does that shock you?”

  “I don’t know. I just can’t picture you fishing.”

  “If you didn’t think I liked it, why did you ask me to come?”

  “It isn’t that I didn’t think you liked it; it’s that I can’t picture you doing it. And I asked you because I wanted to spend the day with you.”

  And that’s what they did. They fished for a couple of hours, both of them catching flounder and redfish. Multiple times during the day he’d put his pole down and come up behind her, pressing his mouth into her neck.

  When they got back to Brendan’s house it was just past four. He cleaned the fish while she cut up a fresh watermelon and made corn on the cob. He froze what they weren’t going to eat and covered a piece of the flounder in spices and lemon juice, then wrapped it in aluminum foil and shoved it in the oven. He poured them each a glass of wine and they sat out on his deck, Paige curled up in his lap. After dinner, and two more glasses of wine each, they snuggled up on his couch to watch a movie.

  Chapter Eleven

  Trials and Tribulations

  Paige slowly came to consciousness before she opened her eyes. She was so comfortable and every time she breathed, she inhaled a subtle spicy sent. She pressed her face farther into her pillow and that’s when she realized it was moving and not as squishy as she was use
d to. She opened her eyes to find herself firmly wrapped in Brendan’s arms, her head on his chest and her legs tangled with his. She slowly reached for his left hand, pulling it off her hip and bringing it to her face. It was almost seven o’clock in the morning.

  “Shit,” she said scrambling up.

  “What?” Brendan sat up so quickly that they almost banged heads. It would have been comical except it really, really wasn’t.

  “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. We fell asleep,” Paige said, shooting up from the couch and tripping over Sydney.

  “Be careful.” Brendan’s hands shot out for her waist, steadying her before she fell into the coffee table.

  “I’m going to be late. I’m supposed to be at work at eight. Shit, shit, shit,” she said, grabbing her sandals from the floor and jamming them onto her feet. She ran into the kitchen to grab her bag and when she got to the front door, Brendan was already standing there, looking a little bit tousled and more than a little sexy. She stopped in front of him to give him a quick kiss but she lingered for a second before she forced herself to pull away. “I’ll see you later,” she said, pulling back from him with a smile before she sprinted down the stairs.

  It took her five minutes to get home. She threw her car in park and ran up the steps to her parents’ front door, fumbling with the keys and dropping them.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, bending down to pick them up.

  The front door opened and her mom stuck her head out.

  “Paige?”

  “Oh thank God. Sorry, Mom,” Paige said, running past her and dashing down the hallway to her bedroom.

  She threw her bag down on the bed and started stripping before she even made it to the bathroom. She jumped into the shower and turned it on, the cold water sending a shock into her system.

  “Shit,” she screamed, jumping back.

  “Paige, what’s going on?” Denise asked behind the shower curtain.

  “I feel asleep at Brendan’s,” Paige said, tentatively sticking her hand in the water to check if it had warmed up.

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “No, Mother.” Paige groaned. “We were on his boat all day and then we drank some wine with dinner and the combination of the sun and alcohol must have made us fall asleep,” she said as she grabbed her shampoo and started scrubbing her hair.

  “Good, because it’s too soon to sleep with him.”

  “I know that, Mother,” Paige shouted over the stream of water. “Right now is not the moment to give me a lecture. I’m going to be late for work.”

  “I’m not lecturing you. Just giving you some advice. Now, do you need me to do anything to help you get ready?”

  “Can you iron my pencil skirt?”

  “The hot-pink one?”

  “Yes please,” Paige said washing the soap out of her eyes. “And coffee. I need coffee.”

  “You always need coffee.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Paige called out as the bathroom door snapped shut.

  Twenty minutes later Paige was running out of her parents’ front door, her wet hair soaking into the back of her blouse. Her heels were in one hand and a cup of coffee was in the other.

  “Have a nice sleepover?”

  Paige looked up to see Mrs. Forns standing on her porch, pink rollers in her hair, wearing a floral-print bathrobe. Paige just kept walking toward her Jeep.

  “You know, only smutty girls sleep with boys before they’re married.”

  Breathe in and out. She’s just a bitter old hag.

  “I’m talking to you, young lady,” Mrs. Forns screamed at her.

  And I’m ignoring you.

  It normally took Paige thirty-five minutes to get to work, and when she got into her Jeep it was already past seven thirty. She was going to be late.

  Awesome, just fan-freaking-tastic.

  This was all she needed. She had an appointment with a client and she was going to be late for it. It was ten after eight when she pulled into the parking lot of Adams and Family Funeral Home.

  Paige grabbed her purse and her shoes. She slammed the door of her Jeep shut and ran up the steps. When she got to the front door she slipped on her shoes, hopping on each foot as she used the doorway to keep her balance, and then opened the door and walked inside.

  “Are the Limonites already here?” she asked as she stopped in front of Tara’s desk.

  “No.” Tara shook her head. “They’re running late.”

  “Oh, thank you, God,” Paige said in relief.

  “You look like a drowned rat.”

  Paige turned to see Verna standing in the hallway.

  “Is this what’s professional these days? A wet head of hair and a flashy skirt?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at Paige. “You look ridiculous.”

  This was one of those times that it took everything in Paige to keep her mouth shut. But somehow she did.

  “Verna, did you forget to eat your prunes today?” Tara asked. “I know how cranky you get when you’re constipated.”

  Verna didn’t say anything; she just stomped off up the stairs.

  “Late night?” Tara whispered.

  “Yes, but it wasn’t what you think. I’ll tell you about it later. I have to go prepare for the Limonites,” Paige said, heading for the stairs.

  “Alright, but I’m anxiously waiting,” Tara called out after her.

  Paige made it out onto only the landing before she ran right into Missy.

  “So punctuality is apparently just a suggestion to you? You have absolutely no regard for other people’s time, do you? This is completely unacceptable,” she said, standing in front of Paige and tapping her high-heeled shoe on the wooden floor.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. That’s on me.”

  “Yes, it is. And it better not happen again. This is getting taken out of your pay check.”

  “I get paid by the hour.” Paige frowned.

  “Exactly, when you’re not here, you’re not getting paid.”

  “I understand how hourly works, Missy. Would you like to continue to explain it to me, or can I go get ready for this meeting?”

  “Go, but we’re not done with this.” Missy glared at her. “We’ll talk later.”

  “I can’t wait,” Paige said as she stepped around Missy and walked down the hall.

  She dropped her stuff off behind her desk and sat down, booting up her computer. The Limonites still weren’t there five minutes later so she pulled up her e-mail.

  When Paige had worked on the Web site, she’d added her work e-mail address. She also put it into the obituaries that she wrote, telling people from the community that if they had any pictures of the deceased that they wanted to share, they could e-mail them to her. She scrolled through her e-mails looking for anything that might be of interest to the Limonite family.

  Wendell Limonite had been fifty-six when he died of a massive coronary heart attack. He’d left behind a wife and two kids and a town that had loved him. She’d gotten multiple e-mails over the last couple of days filled with pictures.

  When she got to the second to last e-mail, her heart stopped as she read through it. It had nothing to do with Mr. Limonite. It was a blog article written by Bethelda Grimshaw, sent from an anonymous e-mail address, and it was about Paige.

  THE GRIM TRUTH

  NEW GIRL STARTS TROUBLE

  Brazen Interloper has lived in Mirabelle for almost four months now. She moved down to live with her parents, and since stepping foot into our quiet little town, trouble has followed her everywhere. Coincidence? I think not. Brazen’s parents moved to the area a couple of years ago, and they’ve managed to adapt to small-town life fairly quickly, but their daughter is an entirely different story. And she does not belong here.

  Sweetie Pie has lived in Mirabelle all her life, and as Brazen’s parents’ next-door neighbor she’s had the opportunity to observe Brazen for the last four months. “That girl is up to something,” Mrs. Pie said while serving me a glass of sweet tea. “S
he’s always in and out of that shed in her parents’ backyard, doing Lord knows what. I think Deputy Ginger needs to start keeping an eye on her.”

  The problem is Deputy Ginger is none other than Rogue Whoreson’s best friend. And what might my readers ask is the connection there? Well, Mr. Whoreson has been seen in quite a few compromising situations with Brazen in the past couple of weeks. Just last Monday, they were seen running around town to all sorts of different locations. Multiple eyewitnesses say that they saw the couple kissing everywhere that they went.

  The most interesting part of this: Brazen was supposed to be working at her new job. I’m not exactly sure how things go on in Philadelphia, but here in Mirabelle we value hard work and don’t look kindly on outsiders taking advantage of the good people who give them opportunities, opportunities that they apparently do not deserve.

  “I had to call the authorities on Friday night,” Mrs. Pie told us. “That troublesome girl and Rogue Whoreson were outside in that truck of his for a long time, the windows going all foggy. She’s a right little temptress, she is, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay far, far away from her, otherwise she’s going to corrupt him even more with her immoral ways and those hippie drugs that she does.”

  “I’ve heard her say that she was participating in group sex acts out in that shed of hers,” Mrs. Pie continued. “She has a trashy mouth and a trashy personality. I just don’t know why her parents let her get away with it. And now she’s moved on to public indecency right on our very streets. She has to be stopped.”

  As my readers will remember, Rogue Whoreson has a colorful past of his own. His father, Dick Splits, abandoned Rogue before his mother, Jeze Belle, even started showing. And let’s not forget Little CoQuette, Jeze Belle’s daughter, whose father is still unknown. Apparently, Rogue is going after a woman who is just like his mother was, God rest her soul.

  A source, who wishes to remain anonymous, says that “Brazen has caused nothing but havoc ever since she’s come down here. She’s full of liberal ideas on changing our small conservative town. But we don’t need her scandalous ideas and outrageous morals here.”

  What brought Brazen Interloper down here? What sordid past is she hiding from? Why did she leave the big city that she’d lived in her entire life? And what is she going to do to our town?