“She’ll be fine.” Whitt smiled deviously. “I wonder how big a trust fund he left her.”
“You are incorrigible, Whittaker!” Mama tapped Whitt’s arm playfully. “Let’s go! We have things to do.”
“That reminds me. Did anyone get the glass from the lawn?” Finley asked.
“Nope. I forgot,” Whitt said.
“Let me grab it and then we can head out.”
“To the lighthouse!” Mooney called out, recalling the Virginia Wolf novel of the same name, as they loaded up the car for the ten-minute drive to the eastern-most point of the island.
The Montauk lighthouse was well worth the trip. The oldest of the twenty-five lighthouses on the island, it was built in 1794, under a commission by George Washington. The site upon which it was built had a role in the Revolutionary War and gave way to a panoramic view of the Sound and the Atlantic Ocean.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Mama had come up behind Finley and wrapped her slender arms around her eldest’s shoulders. “You feeling better, sweetheart?”
Finley knew Mama was checking her status at present as well as gauging whether they were in for stormy weather going forward. She suspected that Mama was asking more on Daddy’s behalf than for herself. If it were for her account, Mama would just come out and tell her when she had been wallowing in self-pity for too long. Clearly, since she hadn’t called her on it, Finley had not exhausted her sympathy quotient.
“I am feeling a lot better, Mama,” Finley finally answered. “This weekend was good for me, despite Mike’s murder. And Daly trying to take us out. It let me shake off some old stuff and get ready for something new.” Finley snickered at her reference to Max as “old stuff.” He would not take kindly to the reference, but then again, he wasn’t here to hear it.
“Daddy and I just worry about you. That’s all,” Mama said quietly, her head resting against Finley’s.
“I know. I just needed some time to set myself right. Work starts next week, and I’ll get back into a rhythm. Life is good, Mama. And if it isn’t now, it will be. Soon. Promise.” Finley turned in her mother’s arms and planted a kiss on her cheek.
Mama wanted water views for her final lunch in Montauk, so Whitt pulled the SUV into Laddie’s on the Lake. The restaurant boasted both lake and sound views and was constructed with floor-to-ceiling windows that took full advantage of the setting. The temperature had stayed in the high seventies, so the doors on both sides of the deeply weathered, salt-shingled octagon were thrown open, allowing a continuous breeze to blow through.
As was becoming habit, Whitt took care of ordering drinks for the group, and when the waiter had poured a fragrant, salmon-pink prosecco for all of them, Mooney took advantage of the lull in conversation to offer a toast.
“To the fantastic women who have embraced me as family this weekend—and hopefully, forever after. Thank you so much. You are treasured!” She looked at each woman in turn until she got to Finley. With her, she couldn’t resist the urge to hug her. “You are one in a million, girl.”
Mama stepped in next. She raised her glass to the group. “To my loving family and their amazing friends.”
“Well. I am not going to be left out here,” Whitt said, glass in hand. “To more girls’ weekends—on Daddy’s card!”
At that, even Mama had to laugh. She knew Daddy—Ry—had arranged for no expense to be spared this weekend. She knew it was a blessing to be so completely loved. And she considered it an honor to love Ry so completely in return. She hoped each of her girls had the opportunity to experience a love that profound.
Finley knew her turn to toast was coming. She wanted to convey her thanks to the women who had nurtured and supported her over the past few months, each in their own special way, plugging holes in her soul with love until they healed over. She wanted to tell them that life was good now because of them and that she knew it would get better. She wanted to say something wise. What came out instead was what had become her mantra these past few months: “To life, laughter, and love, and the growth that comes from it! Happy Birthday, Mama!
The End
Acknowledgments
I don’t know where to start with my thanks and expressions of deep gratitude. As a freshman in this effort, I was, and am, such a babe in the woods that I didn’t know what I didn’t know. There were so many people who took me by the hand and led me through what has indeed been a walk in the woods rather than a tramp through the swamp.
My cousins—who were my inspiration for this series, which will offer readers a virtual journey around a world that they have circumnavigated for years now.
My friends—you know who you are—who have repeatedly said that I had a book in me. Little did I know that it wasn’t just one, but several.
J. Thorn, Emma Dhesi, Alexa Bigwarfe, and Belinda Griffin, who answered my early emails, which contained the most embarrassingly basic questions, with encouragement and direction.
My beta readers in the Corona North Writing Club who welcomed me into the group and gave me critical feedback.
The team at Bublish—Kathy Meis, Shilah LaCoe and my editors, whom I only know by the initials, AV—who babystepped me through the editorial process.
And finally, my parents who always focused on what I could do rather than what was holding me back.
Thanks for having my back and pushing me forward. This is just the beginning of what promises to be a wild ride!
About the Author
First-time author Carter Fielding is a millennial with an old soul. She likes old maps, old photographs, vintage records, and vintage champagnes. A Southerner with roots in Anderson, SC, she likes a good bourbon, a day that calls for wearing a barn jacket and wellies, and the smell of wet earth after a good rain.
After graduating from Williams College and Georgetown Law School, Fielding worked in banking before returning to the DC area as a management consultant. She lives in Northern Virginia with her Boykin spaniel, Trucker, and uses her passion for books and travel to create characters she hopes readers will come to love.
One
Finley Blake wasn’t sure what to expect when she walked through the doors of the nondescript brownstone on West 23rd Street that housed the offices of Traveler’s Tales magazine. She had decided after six years of fifteen-plus hour days at that major league consulting firm that she had had enough and needed a break. Being a partner had its benefits, but it wasn’t worth the burnout she was experiencing. Maybe it wasn’t burnout, just boredom.
So, there she stood, looking at a sea of cubicles surrounded by a wall of glass-fronted offices. She prayed that she would be given an assignment soon. Living in a cube wasn’t her style. She signed heavily. From the frying pan into the fire, as her granny used to say.
“Excuse me, I was looking for Dan Burton,” Finley asked tentatively of the only person who wasn’t screaming into a phone or deep into their headset.
“Sarah should be back in a minute,” replied the smartly dressed woman in her late twenties who walked by without a backward glance.
After ten minutes or so, the receptionist—or the person Finley thought might be the receptionist—returned to the stark Formica barricade that was her desk.
“May I help you?” she asked in a voice that could barely be called a whisper. The smallness of her voice was surprising given that the woman from whom it came rivaled Finley’s five-foot eight-inch height and had at least a twenty-pound advantage on her in size.
“I have an appointment with Dan—” Before Finley could finish the sentence, she was wrapped in a hug from behind by a giant of a man who towered over her.
“Finley, kid, what have you been up to? Come on back. Sarah, can you get us some coffee? Finley likes hers strong and black if I remember correctly. And I will have my usual. We’ll be in my office—and hold all my calls for the next half hour or so!” he called out in a staccato voice as
he led to the offices along the hallway to the right.
“So, fill me in on your life. You said that you were looking for something different, daring. Well. Here it is. Travel. Adventure. You’ll have it all!” Dan continued in an over-enthusiastic voice that made her feel like she was listening to a snake oil salesman, and she wasn’t buying the schtick.
Dan’s sandy curls flopped over his eyebrow as he rounded a doorway and turned to show her a chair in his over-stuffed office. He was a big guy, well over the six feet, three inches he claimed when asked his height, with a barrel chest and arms that were well-muscled. He had been a rugger in college and must still be playing. If not, it was a waste. An affable man with a quick wit and a machine-gun mouth, he was also one of the brightest people Finley had ever met.
The two had met in law school that first week and had often sat side by side over the first year because of their last names, Blake and Burton. But after that, their paths had diverged. She had focused on international corporate law and he on First Amendment issues. Yet, somehow, they had kept in touch, running into each other at friends’ houses or professional events over the past decade.
He was one of the first people she had called when she decided to leave the firm. He had left the law behind, as had she, but he had managed to recreate himself a couple of times professionally before settling into journalism. She thought he might share his experience making those transitions.
Besides, he always seemed to know how to lay the issues out, evaluate the options, and move to a decision quickly. And she needed “quickly.” She had some money tucked away that would last her for a while, but the indecision and uncertainty that surrounded her change of career made her antsy. She was afraid that she would back out and rescind her resignation, going back to the familiar because it was familiar, not because she liked what she was doing.
“So?” Dan’s question was hanging in the air when Finley finally rejoined the conversation.
“I need a change. Life is too short, and I feel like I’m coasting. So, I am ready to travel to far-off places, do interviews, take pictures,” Finley started. “Tell me what you need. What angles work best with your audience?”
Finley’s time writing for Vanity Fair right out of college, before the law school bug had bitten, was what had gotten her the interview, but it had been a tough sell, even as a freelancer. She would be on six-month probation: bring in sellable stories in that time or get cut. Dan had been honest. Her background was impressive, but all his magazine cared about was a story that readers liked. Give him that, and she might find a regular outlet for her work.
“Look, we had a staff writer pull up sick for an assignment in Morocco. We could cut the story and put something else in, but this might be a good one for you to cut your teeth on. Small story, so small budget, but see what you can do. I managed to find you an advance—not normal for freelance, so don’t expect it next time,” he growled good-naturedly.
“What’s your deadline? And when do I leave?” Finley asked, gently touching the passport that was always in her handbag. Past experience had made its presence necessary—as was the case with the bag she kept packed in the front closet, ready for the client who demanded that she be in Zurich or Hong Kong the next day.
“Will two days be enough for you to make arrangements and get over there?” He pulled out the file that the Tales’ writer had compiled with ideas, background, possible interview subjects, and regular contacts. Things to get her started, and she could take it from there.
***
“Morning, Miss Blake.” The doorman, Mr. Byrne, a middle-aged man of fifty or so with a strong Brooklyn accent, pulled open her building’s large brass door. He had been the doorman for as long as Finley had been in the building, almost five years now. “Finally stopped raining. Looks like it might be a nice day after all.”
“Indeed. Morning, Mr. Byrne. Mail here yet?” Finley asked.
“Mailman’s putting in the boxes right now,” Byrne replied.
“Good deal. By the way, I’ll be away for a while, so I’m going to ask that my mail be held. If anything else comes, can you be sure that you keep it behind the desk?” she asked.
“Where are you off to now, Miss Blake? If you don’t mind me asking,” the doorman queried quietly. He knew that she had traveled a lot for her previous job, but he also knew that she had made a career change and wasn’t sure what this new path was yet.
“Morocco!” Finley replied. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there, and I’m looking forward to going back.” Her thoughts were drawn back to a time not too long ago when Morocco—and a certain gentleman there—had held a special place in her heart. But that time had passed. “You would really like it there, I think, Mr. Byrne. Good coffee. Great food. Warm sun.”
“Morocco. Makes me think of Arabian nights and all that exotic stuff,” replied Byrne, shaking his head. “I think I’ll just stay right here in good old Manhattan.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. See you later.” She headed across the lobby to the elevator.
Byrne skirted around the desk and hit the elevator button, holding the door back once it had opened. Finley stepped into the elevator and pushed number 9 for her floor.
The apartment was warm; sunlight poured in through the bank of windows that ran down the street side of the wall. The adjacent wall, which faced the alley, had fewer windows but more wall space for the artwork that Finley had collected over the years, art that held memories of places and people. She walked to the dining table and dropped her bag and the junk mail that had been in her mailbox on it. She looked around and sighed. She was going to miss the comfort of the place, even as she looked forward to this new adventure.
While she pulled her suitcase from the upper shelf of the front closet, Finley asked Alexa to call her sister. Whitt, her baby sister by six years, lived in Manila, working in development banking. The two saw each other a couple of times a year, more when they figured out how to arrange their work assignments so that at least part of their projects were in some part of the world that was proximate enough for them to wrangle a weekend in a spot between their respective locations.
Sometimes it was Dubai for a couple of hours during a layover, or better still, London where the stop could give them as much as twelve hours to catch up. Last time, it had been a whole three days in Istanbul, a city that Whitt loved and knew well. Finley was hoping that Whitt might have a trip planned that would take her near enough to Tangier so that they could grab a few days of girl talk.
“’Lo!” came a dusky voice, muffled by sleep.
“Sorry, kid! Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Nope, it’s only eleven here. I must have nodded off.” Whitt yawned into the phone. “Sorry. What’s up?”
Finley explained the Moroccan assignment with Traveler’s Tales and the timing. She had already told Whitt about her need for a career change, the opportunity—however temporary—that Dan had offered, and her concerns, her uncertainty. Whitt had been encouraging, assuring her about her ability to make the change and talking about all the places they could travel together.
“So, you stuck in the office, or are you on the road?” Finley asked.
“I head to Tbilisi week after next for meetings with the Central Bank. When are you heading out?”
“Day after tomorrow. I need to book my flight and hotels today and see if I can set up a few calls for as soon as I get there. The person I am standing in for has done a lot of the grunt work, so I think I am good to hit the ground running,” Finley ventured hopefully. “You up for a little adventure? A bit out of the way, but still good fun.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Whitt answered, now wide awake. She was up for the challenge. It would mean that she would have to do all the preparations for her trip to Georgia as well as book a flight to Tangier in the next day or so. Her meetings weren’t for another ten days, so she co
uld use some of that vacation rollover that was accumulating. It would be great to see her sister after five months apart. More importantly, it gave her a chance to be sure that Finley was doing okay and that the decision to leave consulting was a good one.
“I’ll shoot you a message with my flight info. I think it will work,” Whitt relayed, before dropping off the call and pulling up Expedia. “This is going to be fun.”
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