Finding Bliss

by Dina Silver

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Dina Silver

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477807361

  ISBN-10: 1477807365

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903607

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  I checked the clock before tucking the last few strands of my long auburn hair under my swim cap. It was a quarter to three, which made my mother officially forty-five minutes late. At least Jacob Denny could tell time. He was my boyfriend then, in the seventh grade, and he’d come to watch me swim the hundred-meter butterfly with his older sister that Saturday. As the swimmers in the heat before mine were exiting the pool, the coach raised a finger and looked in my direction, indicating I had one minute before I needed to get up on the block. I scanned the entry doors for spectators and sighed because they remained closed and vacant. I paced the pool deck for another thirty seconds and then took my place at the head of lane number four, bouncing and shaking out my arms and legs before taking my position.

  Just then, one of the large exterior doors at the opposite end of the pool flew open and my mother entered with another woman I’d never seen before. Every whisper in that arena was magnified, and their boisterous arrival was like sounding a bullhorn in a library. They were hanging onto each other, laughing and shushing as they made their way through the humid chlorine-infused air. No one moved but them. Everyone—in the bleachers and on the pool deck alike—was mesmerized. Not even the eighty-two-year-old security guard got up off his folding chair to stop them.

  And then she spotted me.

  “There she is!” Mom hollered to her friend and pointed. “I made it, sweetie!” She waved frantically at me across the length of the pool, and then held up her thumb like it was a cigarette lighter at the end of a concert. “Where’s my camera?” she asked her giggling friend, and then smacked the woman on the arm, causing her to crack up further. Mom moved closer to the pool and shuffled through her large purse. “Got it!” she screamed waving it in the air.

  I glanced over at my coach; his arms were crossed, and his eyes were fixated—like everyone else’s—on my mother and her friend. The rest of the swimmers, who’d been in starting position only seconds before, were now standing up straight, leaning back on their heels, and shifting their gaze from me to the spectacle at the end of the pool. I lowered my chin and rolled my eyes over to where Jacob and his sister were seated in the bleachers two rows up. His mouth was agape.

  The woman with my mother was stumbling in place as she applied lip gloss and watched my mom position the camera in front of her face with one hand while still waving at me with the other. “Good luck, Chloe!” she screamed.

  She blew me a kiss and then took one more step before slipping on some water and tumbling, camera first, into lane three.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I checked the locks, pulled the shades, then fell asleep on the couch after putting the Reed twins to bed. Two hours later, I awoke to a crunching noise and nearly had a heart attack at the ripe age of twenty-one. Tyler, the Reeds’ eldest son, was seated on the coffee table in front of me, eating a bag of chips inches from my face. I shivered when I realized it was him. Although we’d gone to the same high school, we’d never officially met.

  But I knew exactly who he was.

  As far as my hometown of Glenview, Illinois, was concerned, Tyler was the most physically gifted athlete on the planet, and had gone on to be the starting quarterback for Notre Dame after high school. He stood six foot three inches, had a body like a Greek god, and an ego to match. All of which were on display among the many photographs that peppered the walls and built-in shelves of the Reeds’ home. Pictures of him kneeling on the field next to his helmet. Candid shots of him screaming with victory, fists clenched in the air. Newspaper clippings of his accomplishments framed with little placards on the matting. Chin held high in every shot, with his emerald green eyes gazing at me through the glass, mesmerizing and inviting. He was known for his good will as well. Tyler worked with inner-city kids in Chicago, coaching sports clinics and teaching the importance of physical fitness. His reputation had preceded him…and intrigued me.

  Most of my income during my college years had come from babysitting and working as a summer girl for Tyler Reed’s siblings, Sammy and Sarah, who were twelve years younger than he was. His football schedule kept him in South Bend at summer school and training camps, so we’d never crossed paths. It wasn’t until eleven o’clock that night, lying bleary-eyed on the Reeds’ couch, that I finally got my chance. And despite every sensible bone in my body, I’d already developed a full-blown schoolgirl crush on him.

  Many women were attracted to him, so my fascination with a good-looking football star wasn’t all that surprising. However, as an ambitious college-educated woman with hopes of revolutionizing the field of divorce law one day, falling for the handsome hometown hero was not what I’d have imagined for myself. I was much more practical than that. Besides, I was sure he had no idea who I was.

  “You must be Chloe Carlyle,” he said with a grin that put me instantly at ease. Tyler’s eyes were as magnificent in person as they were on the mantel. His thick dark hair was longer than in the pictures and hung in loose strands around his face. A square jaw, long eyelashes, and a disarming grin rounded out this mythological creature.

  I nodded as he continued chewing and rustling the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos with his giant hand. A combination of intimidation and infatuation caused my breathing to speed up. I pulled the rubber band off my wrist, quickly threw my hair into a ponytail, and then took a deep breath. “Yes, I’m Chloe, and I’m hoping you’re Tyler,” I replied. “If not, you’ll have to excuse me whil
e I call the police.”

  He laughed.

  I took a deep breath and regained my composure. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you want? The kids only ate a few slices,” I told him.

  “Not anymore, there’s not,” he said. “So how much are my cheapskate parents paying you?”

  The Reeds were one of the wealthiest families in our neighborhood. Dr. Reed was a well-known heart surgeon, and notorious for turning Tyler into the Astroturf idol that he was. He had even hired retired Chicago Bears players to coach Tyler privately during his years at Glenbrook South. Dr. Reed’s sideline tirades were legendary, and rumor was they hadn’t lessened any at Notre Dame. I’d heard he once pulled the coach’s headphones off and screamed in his ear, for which he was banned from the field for a while. Afterward, he was required to attend each game with a security guard.

  By contrast, his wife, Dixie, was a consummate Southern belle who hailed from Atlanta society—and whose penchant for passive-aggressive behavior was artfully hidden behind her batting lashes and Southern twang. I had met Mrs. Reed while volunteering at a PTA fund-raiser and offered my holiday babysitting services when I found out she still had two small children at home. The Reeds had a full-time nanny who worked daytime hours, and I covered everything else when I was home from school. Dr. Reed traveled a great deal, speaking at hospital conferences all over the country, and his wife accompanied him most of the time. She was also a board member at Evanston Hospital and the social chair at her country club, leaving little time for things like child rearing and housework. Nothing could tear her away from a commitment that included flowing Chardonnay and silent auctions, which had left me caring for their feverish, nauseated children on more than one occasion. My mother described Mrs. Reed as cold, but at twenty bucks an hour, I found her plenty warm.

  Theirs was a world I longed to be a part of. Accomplished, married parents. Siblings to share a meal with. A beautiful home with two fireplaces and crown molding in every room.

  But our upbringings couldn’t have been more different.

  I moved from Miami, Florida, to Glenview with my mother when I was a freshman in high school. I spent my years at Glenbrook South as the new girl. Not the shy, nerdy one—more like the tall, athletic swimmer with big dreams. I met my best friend, Grace, a couple of days after Mom and I moved into our new home. Grace and I were both tall for our age, a little too studious to be truly cool, and inseparable during those four years. I had big plans for myself even then, and went after straight As with single-minded purpose.

  Swimming and studying were two of the many ways I managed to escape from my mother, who’d lost not only her Wedgwood china but also her joy for life in her divorce when I was two years old. She rediscovered both in a bottle of vodka a year later. Luckily for her, she was the product of a father whose grandparents had built a manufacturing dynasty and left generations of descendants with monthly trust-fund checks. Mom was set for life, with just enough money to keep a roof over our heads, ensure that she never had to work a day in her life, and provide a means to fund her shopping and alcohol addictions. As I got older and threatened to dent her stipend with demands like winter coats and school supplies, she began to parent me. “You can’t always get what you want,” she’d say. “It’s time you learned to take responsibility for yourself and earn some money.” She had no concept of what it took to hold down a job, but she was very proud of herself for insisting I get one.

  When I was twelve, I realized she was an alcoholic. The day she tumbled into the pool in front of my teammates and classmates, I was stunned by everyone’s reaction to her. Jaws dropped, heads shook, and whispers filled the air, lingering in my mind for months. I’d always thought that was just who she was. Fun, vivacious, full of life. Loud.

  A week after that swim meet I was watching TV one morning when a commercial came on and asked, “Do you or someone you love have a drinking problem?” I turned and looked at my mother, who was on her second pack of cigarettes and fourth vodka martini, and dialed the number.

  A therapist scheduled an intervention for the next day, which included said therapist, my uncle Justin, his fourth wife, and me.

  “We’re going to each present her with a hamburger,” the therapist instructed us.

  “I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “Did you say hamburger?”

  “Yes, Chloe, a hamburger. Your ‘bun’ will be your opening statement: the first layer of your speech where you’ll simply state how much you love your mother and what she means to you. Next will be the ‘meat,’ where you outline—in your own words—what she’s done to hurt you. Last will be another bun where you reiterate your love for her, and how you’re willing to do whatever it takes to support her through her recovery.”

  “She’s a vegetarian,” I said.

  However, my mother digested her four hamburgers and willingly checked into rehab that afternoon. Saying good-bye to her was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I’ll never forget the look in her eyes when she left that day. Addiction or not, she was all I had. I went to live with my aunt and uncle for three months, which I mostly spent worrying about my mom. I was overwhelmed with guilt and uncertainty—and scared I’d never get my mom back. And in some ways I never did. She emerged three months later with nothing to mask her unhappiness, and moved us to Glenview for a fresh start. Her lust for life had been sucked away. This new mom was sober and somber. And quiet.

  “Your parents take great care of me,” I told Tyler. “And I love Sammy and Sarah, they’re a pleasure to be with.” I watched him walk over to the TV where he grabbed two DVDs from the shelf. I couldn’t look away. I’d been staring at pictures of him on and off for about three years, and there he was in his parents’ living room, close enough for me to touch, without a piece of glass between us.

  “Oh yeah, those two are a barrel of laughs,” he said before sitting down next to me on the couch, bumping my knee as he settled in. “So what’s your story?” he asked.

  I sat up straight. “I’m just home for winter break. I’ll be graduating college this year and starting law school at Northwestern in the fall,” I said, my heart beating like it did after a long swim.

  He scanned me from head to toe with a predatory expression that was somewhere between perplexed and amused. I could tell he was fully aware of the effect he had on most women, including me.

  “You went to South?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was a year ahead of you.”

  “Thanks, counsel, I figured that part out all on my own when you said you were graduating this year. You got a boyfriend?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Easy killer, I’m just making conversation,” he said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “You really shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Tyler swallowed. “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “Brian,” I said and nervously picked at my nail polish. “His name is Brian, and we’ve been together for about a year.” I was in a casual relationship with a guy named Brian at the time, but for some reason I felt compelled to make it sound more serious than it was when Tyler questioned me.

  He nodded. “You like Brian?” he asked mockingly.

  “It’s really not your concern.”

  He shrugged his mile-wide shoulders and then stood. “I hope to see you around, Chloe,” he said my name slowly, with deliberation. Then he grabbed a bottle of tequila from the bar and left the house. Gone as quickly as he’d appeared.

  I exhaled and smiled.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following summer, the Reeds asked me to accompany them to their vacation home in Lake Geneva for three weeks. Lake Geneva is a quaint little town in Wisconsin about an hour north of Chicago, but it feels worlds away. High-rises and buses are replaced with pubs and trolleys, while fish fries and boat rides are the town’s most coveted delights. And although Lake Geneva has added a Starbucks and a Home Depot to appease some of its fastidio
us urban transplants, the place has still managed to capitalize on its biggest assets: fresh air, farmland, and Fourth of July.

  Every summer the Reeds planned their summer vacation around the Fourth of July festivities at the Grand Geneva, a huge resort that anchors the town and used to be the old Playboy Club. These days it’s a luxury resort boasting two championship golf courses, a spa, and walking trails. It may be the closest thing to the Berkshires in the region. Minus the mountains.

  Mrs. Reed informed me that she and her husband would be in and out of town while I was there with Sammy and Sarah. I gladly accepted their offer, and looked forward to the break and the income after graduation. Despite being raised by nannies, Sammy and Sarah were two of the most well-behaved eight-year-olds I’d ever met. They knew their place and were fearful of the repercussions that came with misbehaving around their father. The kids and I got along great because I let them do what they wanted when their parents were away, which was always, and they agreed to keep quiet about it. If they wanted to jump in the lake with their clothes on, I’d let them. If they wanted to sit in front of the TV and eat spaghetti with their fingers, I let them. If they wouldn’t tell, neither would I.

  Two days before we were set to leave, Mrs. Reed called me to go over some last-minute details.

  “Hello, Chloedear,” she said as though it were one word. “I’m just confirming that we’ll pick you up Saturday afternoon around four o’clock, and then we can all have suppah together,” she said in her unmistakable drawl. “Dr. Reed and I have to leave early Monday morning to head back into the city. He has a vereh important meeting, and then we’ll return to the lake sometime midweek. You’ll have the Jeep at your disposal while you’re there,” she said. Formalities were very important to her. Referring to her husband as Mr. Reed instead of Dr. Reed would have been like insulting her grandmother’s sweet tea.

  “Oh, I thought we were all leaving on Sunday?” I asked.

  “No dear, I mean, I guess we could leave Sunday if that’s better for you.”