Every Time He Leaves (The Raeven Sisters Book 1)

by Karington, Anna

  A NOVEL BY ANNA KARINGTON

  Edited by Alicia Notarainni

  Every Time He Leaves © 2015

  Published in the US

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Every Time He Leaves

  (The Raeven Sisters, Book I)

  by

  Anna Karington

  Dedication

  To Jonathan, who left without saying goodbye.

  Chapter One

  I adjust a flower arrangement on an accessory table and make sure the appetizers look aesthetically pleasing. My mother is responsible for hosting the Women's Club's annual charity event, and I agreed to help out, as I usually do. This wasn't a great idea, since I have plenty of work to catch up on, but considering I bailed on Mom's past two events, I had to step up to the plate.

  A few yards away, two waiters cross paths before a cluster of guests. The room is packed, which surprises me, since last year was a bust. From my work as an event coordinator, I've learned this is the nature of charities and fundraisers—depending upon the year, some are more fashionable than others. One year, breast cancer support is all the rage at the expense of heart disease or Parkinson's. The next year, Alzheimer’s gets all the attention and the color pink makes people want to vomit.

  As much as I’m a fan of helping people, the sorts that show up to these charities seem more interested in write-offs and appearances than generosity. How appropriate that my mother is involved in the sort of ostentatious events that cost as much to host as they manage to raise for whatever organization or group they’re benefiting. I can't judge, though, considering I work for a major organization that exists exclusively to profit off major nonprofits.

  “Sis.” I whirl around. Janet holds a plate covered with fragments of glass.

  “What in the—”

  “I had an accident,” she says. It reminds me of when we were little and she approached me covered in red marker, terrified Mom would discover what a mess she'd made in her room.

  “What is it?”

  “Maybe a really expensive statue…”

  “Oh, God.”

  Mom asked for permission from the Atlanta Historic Society to use the Kinderly House, the mansion of a wealthy family known for prestige in the arts community. The place is decorated with beautiful and surely expensive furnishings.

  Janet holds the plate out. The moment I take it from her, I will have silently agreed to take responsibility for what she has done. However, that's my life with her, so I figure I might as well take it now.

  “That's what insurance is for, right?” she asks.

  I glare at her. She always makes light of the messes she makes. Maybe as an older sister, I have a harder time seeing the amusement when I'm always the one who winds up in trouble. Did Janet get yelled at for the red marker incident? No. I was evidently negligent by not keeping an eye on my little sis to make sure she stayed out of trouble. And Mom made her rage clear with a red-faced fit and a few thrown stuffed animals.

  I gaze at the mess, my mind reeling through possible solutions. “I'm just going to find somewhere to stick it until I can get my head on straight, okay?”

  “I have to get some more flour to the crêpe chef outside anyway,” Janet says as she heads off. It doesn't surprise me that she found a responsibility that would put her as far away from this as possible.

  I curb my frustration by reminding myself that she has always here to help Mom with these gatherings, which is helpful since I'm considered the official event planning expert and somehow end up responsible for making sure everything goes off without a hitch. My current job stems directly from Mom's involvement in these sorts of events, since I have been doing this since my late teens. Mom always has some party or another to throw or attend. She sits on the boards of several charities and committees, and each requires various events that I have been involved with (in some form or another) for many years.

  I navigate through the crowd with the glass-covered plate, occasionally pulling it out of reach of patrons who are either so unthinking or so blind that they reach for it, expecting to snatch a glass of champagne, I suppose.

  A tug at my shoulder.

  I turn to Kelsey, my older sister. The black dress she wears has a severe dip between her breasts, exposing an ample (yet surprisingly not inappropriate) amount of cleavage. She has always dressed like she’s trying to capture the interest of a new man, even when she was married. Despite my familiarity with her outfits, I can't keep my gaze off the crack between her breasts. Sometimes when I look at them, I can't help but blame them for Janet's and my modest chests, like some part of me believes, despite the scientific impossibility of it, that Kelsey selfishly hoarded the good boob genes.

  “Lana, I want you to meet my friends!” she exclaims. Kelsey has been in town less than a month. After her divorce was finalized, she moved into a condo in Buckhead. She's always been good at making new friends, so I'm not surprised she's created a girl gang.

  “This is Carol Radner...” She indicates a blonde in a black jump-suit. “...and this is Melanie Farrar.” Her gesture shifts from Carol to a girl who, despite her freckles, must have dyed her hair a darker shade because it is far too vibrant to be real. “This is my sister, Lana,” Kelsey says.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Melanie says, extending her hand. We shake, and then I shake hands with Carol.

  “Glad you all could make it,” I say, eyeing the demolished glass in the plate I'm still carrying—my not-so-subtle way of alerting Kelsey to the issue I'm trying to handle right now. Hopefully that will excuse me from this meet and greet.

  Unfortunately, no one seems fazed by the presence of the mess. “Kelsey tells us you're in event coordinating,” Melanie says.

  “Working to be. I'm still in training, technically.”

  “Lana's being modest,” Kelsey says. “She's been doing this stuff forever. And she's with Farcon & Williams.”

  Carol's eyes widen as if she's impressed. It makes me regret where I work, since I don't work there to get this sort of attention. “You must be incredibly busy, then,” Melanie says. Farcon & Williams handles mega-million-dollar nonprofit accounts. If a charity needs to host a money-making fundraiser, our company is assigned the responsibility of putting together everything from the venue and entertainment to the advertising. Our company works off of commission for each gig, so it's in our best interest to make sure each client's fundraiser makes as much money as possible.

  “I just started a little over a year ago,” I say. “I used to freelance until Farcon & Williams approached me.”

  “She's being modest,” Kelsey insists. “She's in charge of a fundraiser at the end of the month. Isn't that right?”

  I don't want to discuss this, especially since my career is riding on this opportunity. Up until this event, I have been at the mercy of
my superior, organizing with her. This is the first fundraiser I'll be managing on my own, and the past few weeks have been incredibly hectic and unnerving, to say the least. A recent billing fiasco with our last major client has left us scrambling for an internal audit, one that has hardly given me time to focus on the fundraiser that will determine my future with this company.

  “What's the event?” Carol asks.

  “We're working with the Damon Gray Foundation. They raise money for educational programs for children with special needs.”

  “That's wonderful,” Carol says.

  I try to sneak away again, offering a polite, “I'm sorry. I really need to—”

  “Need to spend more time with me now that I'm back in town,” Kelsey says. “You know, I've been here the past three weeks, and I think I've seen you a whole two times.”

  That's because some of us have to work. I'm not going to say that, but it must be easier for Kelsey when her biggest daily worry is who she will find to play tennis with or go shopping with at Phipps Plaza.

  “Just give me a call and we'll set something up,” I say, hoping to refresh her memory about all the times she hasn’t called me to set up plans. I'm fairly sure the only reason she brought it up in front of her friends was to distract from her own negligence. I stare at the plate again and say, “I should really...”

  Kelsey waves to a girl nearby. “Hey, Marisol!”

  “Oh, who's that?” Carol asks, eyeing someone behind me, and judging by her impressed look, it's an attractive man.

  “I don't know,” Melanie says, “But I think I should find out.”

  Their distraction gives me the perfect opportunity to escape. I whirl around and head for the door.

  I'm about to pass this mystery guy. I don't want to check him out because if he's as attractive as they let on, I don't want to make the same vacant, doe-eyed look that Melanie and Carol did. As I pass him, I keep my gaze straight ahead, but a part of me is just too curious. I have to look, don't I?

  As I catch a glimpse of his suit and tie out of my periphery, I admit there's no reason I shouldn't enjoy the aesthetic beauty that Carol and Melanie appreciated. I take a quick peek— then do a double take before stopping in my tracks. A force behind me pushes me forward. Though I manage to stay on my feet, the plate flies out of my hand, crashes against the floor, and explodes—ceramic shards from the plate mixing with the glass statue my sister destroyed. Even though I just royally fucked up, my attention can't remain on the glass. I turn back to the man who just walked back into my life: Jarek Dean.

  My thoughts race through a series of questions: What is he doing here? Where has he been all these years? What do I do? How am I going to clean up this mess? I turn from him and start picking up the glass. I want to believe he's a figment of my imagination. There's no way I could be seeing this phantom from my past.

  He kneels beside me and assists, picking up shards with those thick fingers I remember weaving through the wires and pipes under the trunk of his scratched and mud-patched truck. Why is he here? Why is he helping me? What's going on? Is this a dream? A nightmare?

  “I'll get a broom,” I say to him. I'm curt because I don't know how I should react. I'm in shock. It's been years since I thought there was even a chance of seeing him, so what am I supposed to do now that he's found his way back into my life?

  I don't wait for him to respond. I hop to my feet and head to the kitchen, which is isolated enough that I'll have an opportunity to search for a broom and have a nervous breakdown.

  As I push through the swing door, I see it's as empty as I hoped. I bury my face in a nook between the fridge and a pantry.

  It's difficult for me to pinpoint the emotion I'm feeling most. I have a few ideas about how I should feel. Angry. Hurt. Devastated. I vacillated between these emotions when he destroyed me nine years ago.

  My heart beats so fast I wonder if I'm about to pass out. Get it together, Lana. Just get it together. How am I supposed to get it together when the man who left me isn't just standing out there, but probably waiting for me to return with a broom? Where the hell is a broom around here anyway?

  My worry about that stupid glass statue has evaporated. My only concern is Jarek Dean. He didn't just leave me. He left my family at a time when we needed him most, after Daddy passed away. After all my father did for him, after all the care and tending—after he treated Jarek like he would treat a son. For Jarek to dismiss us like that was too much for me. It filled me with rage, beyond anything I thought possible. It was more than the abandonment of my family, though. The night before he left, I was filled with grief over Daddy's death, and he was there for me. He held me in his arms. He stroked me gently and soothed me with tender kisses. We had a beautiful, magical, sensuous experience—my first experience—and the next morning, he was gone.

  I haven't seen him since, and I never thought I'd see him again, so having him walk back into my life like this has left me in shock. Frazzled as I am, I know one thing for sure: he won't destroy me again. I won't cower from this or him, because I'm not that little, helpless girl he so easily wounded.

  I search through the nearby cabinets and closets. When I find a broom and dustpan, I march back into the main auditorium, like a soldier heading into a battle. You can do this. You can do this.

  I return to the mess and Jarek. He's collecting the fragments with the suddenly incredibly helpful Kelsey, Melanie, and Carol, who are on their knees helping him gather the shattered glass and ceramic shards.

  “I've got a broom,” I announce as I approach, calling off the ill-intentioned maids. The girls hop up, as if they would have preferred to be anywhere but on their knees. In fairness, I'm sure they would do anything on their knees if it involved Jarek.

  He stands, his shoulders and chest bulging in a slick, navy-blue blazer. Beneath a curl in his golden locks, his eyes are locked in a cringe, as if he's struggling to see something in the distance, as if he's seeing something disturbing. That piercing gaze used to catch me off guard and make my voice rise a few octaves, but I doubt he can have that effect on me now. But even just kneeling here, I find he stirs so many of those early emotions, the ones I'd feel when I caught him working shirtless on his truck in the driveway.

  I sweep up the mess, pissed at my body for warring against my feelings like this.

  “Lana,” Kelsey says behind me, “It's Jarek. Don't you remember him?”

  How could I forget him?

  “I hardly recognized him at first,” she continues. “Can you believe it? He's here for business. Isn't this an amazing coincidence?”

  “That's lovely,” I say, sounding as underwhelmed as I can manage. I'm trying to let him think I don't give a shit, but I worry it will let him know how many shits I really give.

  After I collect the pieces into a pile, I kneel and sweep them into the dustpan. I stand back up, keeping my eyes everywhere but on Jarek. I head off with the mess to dispose of it in the kitchen.

  I empty the dustbin in the trash and hurry out the back door. The chilly spring air wraps around me. The temperature will surely protect me from the party guests, discouraging them from venturing outside. It'll permit me a moment with my thoughts, allowing them to wander where they've wanted to since I set eyes on him again.

  They drift back to the day we returned home from the movies, discovering a broken front door and missing artwork and décor. Daddy had a disappointed look in his eyes while Mom raced around frantically, taking inventory. A police officer came to the house, and Daddy and Mom gave him a tour as he took photos and left with Mom's list of missing items. Several days passed before the police phoned to let Daddy and Mom know they'd caught the culprit, who had naïvely sold several of our pieces to a local pawn shop.

  Despite Mom's insistence on a hanging, Daddy refused to press charges. The burglar was a vagrant, a homeless kid who'd pawned our belongings to buy food. Daddy wasn't a vengeful man, and his generosity was one of his weaknesses, so much so that for many years, our family s
truggled because of what little money he left behind—something Mom manages to bring up every chance she gets.

  Shortly after the discovery of this burglar, Daddy introduced him to us. I was thirteen at the time, and I didn't understand why he was insistent upon us meeting him until, after great turmoil with Mom, we allowed him—this criminal—into our home. He bought Jarek new clothes and got him a job with Jermaine Quagley, the local mechanic, who trained him so that Jarek could work off his debt for some of the things he'd broken during the burglary.

  Daddy fixed up the garage for this deviant, who after a very short time became a son to my father and a friend to me. I can't say he was such a friend to my sisters. He was closer to Kelsey's age, but she seemed as enthusiastic about him as Mom was. I, on the other hand, found we always had a very good time whenever we watched TV together, which was how it began. After dinner, we'd sit in the living room and watch Jeopardy and then whatever movie we could catch on cable. He was so kind, sincere, and funny that it was easy for me to let my guard down. After even more time I found myself feeling something deeper for him, something I finally acted on after Daddy's death. I nestled against him for comfort, and in my weakness, he took me—with a passion and intensity that was all I could have ever dreamed of. I believe it may have been the severity of my depression that made it stand out above all the other experiences I've ever had, but that would be the last night I ever encountered Jarek Dean. He left the following morning, without so much as a goodbye, breaking my heart in two, snapping it like a twig, and leaving me dying inside. I don't know that it was because I wanted our relationship to be more serious, though I did. More than anything, I needed a friend, and my family needed someone strong to keep us together. We had nothing. We were on our own, struggling to survive, and Daddy had left us in greater debt than Mom had realized.