Drawn to You

by Jillian Anselmi

  Copyright © Jillian Anselmi

  Drawn to You

  Book 1

  Cover Photography & Designer:

  Regina Wamba, Mae I Design & Photography

  www.maeidesign.com

  Literary Editor:

  Caroline Tolley

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  www.perfectlypublishable.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Drawn to You

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Nicolet is full for this time of year. It’s six thirty P.M. on a Thursday in the middle of June, and I am starting my vacation. With my Master’s program complete, I need to relax for the summer before I worry about getting a job in the fall. I‘m going over to Davis Park, Fire Island a week later than I normally do, and this is what I get for waiting; a full ferry. I buy my ticket and board the teeming boat.

  The beginning of summer brings hot and sticky temperatures. My blonde, curly hair is having some major issues in this oppressive humidity. Rather than let it poof up like a poodle, I throw it up in a ponytail. It’s days like this I wish I had thin, straight hair.

  To accompany the blazing summer heat, tourists from New York City and beyond flock to the island in droves. The top deck is overflowing, along with the inside, so I stand by the back of the boat and stare out across the water. The hum of the motor is comforting, putting me in a trancelike state.

  I’ve been staying at the same beach house at Davis Park every summer for as far back as I can remember. My dad took my mom and I here for a couple of weeks starting when I turned eight. He knew how much my mom loved the beach.

  After twenty years as a city cop, my dad retired with enough money saved to buy the house that had once been our rental. He surprised us with the news the summer I turned fifteen. Being a detective, he was always on cases and rarely home. But, the beach was his quality time with his family. I always looked forward to my summers at Davis, and spending the lazy days with my parents.

  This summer is different. I’m here not for the pleasure of listening to the tranquil sounds of the water but to go into seclusion.

  I started dating Evan Gallagher almost eight years ago on my seventeenth birthday, and just over a week and a half ago, I walked in on him cheating on me with my college roommate, Brandi. It’s one thing to find out your boyfriend cheated on you, but it’s quite another to witness it firsthand.

  Evan and I were together for what felt like a lifetime, but I feel nothing. I must be numb or still in shock. I was so young and naïve believing he was my happily ever after. I need to get away. Away from him. From his friends. From my friends. From everyone. I need time to be alone and wallow in self-pity. So now, I’m alone on a crowded ferry running from the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.

  Before I realize we’re here, the boat pulls into the ferry slip and everyone methodically exits the boat. I shuffle my belongings down the gangplank and head down the boardwalk to my summer haven. The sun slowly setting over the spilling breakers of the Atlantic Ocean, this is where I will spend the next six weeks in seclusion until I go back to reality.

  It’s a typical early summer weekend, when all the urbanites from Manhattan come to the island in hordes, each ferry bringing families to their paradise on the beach. The only way over to the barrier island is by ferry or private boat, so it doesn’t get overcrowded like nearby Robert Moses or Jones Beach.

  I make my way down Trustees Walk, the main boardwalk from the ferry, and turn right on to Center Walk. This old wooden boardwalk splits the island in half. To the right is the bay, and to the left the ocean. My cottage is on the ocean side.

  The cottage is small compared to some of the other beach houses, but it has two stories of spectacular ocean views. Upstairs there are two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a living room/dining room, full bath and an oceanfront deck. Downstairs there’s a rear deck, an oceanfront deck with a jacuzzi, and a half bath.

  The house next to me is normally rented by the Chambers’, but I heard they were subletting to some college grads that live on the North Shore. Great. Some bunch of snobby rich kids partying all week. I am not in the mood for the drama. I just want peace and quiet.

  The island is only a thousand feet wide, including the beach, so the houses are very close together. If I wanted to, I could probably look across at my neighbor’s deck and read their newspaper from here.

  I drop my bags in the middle of the living room. Taking a quick look around, everything is exactly as I left it last year. I can put everything away in the morning; I am in desperate need of a drink.

  I am relaxing on my back deck with a glass of 2008 Didier Dagueneau Silex Sauvignon Blanc, brought back from the Loire Valley, France by said ex, when my new neighbors come down the boardwalk. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. They are obnoxiously loud. I can foresee this is going to be a problem. I walk through the sliding glass door off the deck to the front window and see five of them. Three men and two women, who have had too much to drink. They can barely stay on the boardwalk. I can tell they are coupled up, except for one of the guys.

  The two couples stumble into the house, and the lone man stands on the boardwalk. I see the back of his head until he turns to get the bags his friends left sprawled on the boardwalk. Ohmigod! He is by far the most exquisite man I have ever seen. He has deep blue eyes that could penetrate your soul, dark tousled hair that falls across his forehead to the side. A strong chiseled jaw. And that mouth. My heartbeat quickens, and I catch myself holding my breath. The things I could do with that mouth. What? I dart behind the window, ashamed at myself for staring. He is preoccupied picking up the debris from the drunken tornado that just touched down and goes into the house.

  I lean against the wall and let out the breath I was holding. What the hell was that? Luckily, he didn’t see me sizing him up with my eyes. I came here to mourn the death of my relationship, not drool over some Miracle Mile rich kid. The butterflies are still hovering in my stomach trying to fly out of my mouth. He is just so . . . oh, wow. Maybe this is really good wine. I shake my head trying to rid my wayward thoughts, and go back out on to the deck to finish my two hundred and forty dollar bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

  It’s mid morning, and time for my daily trek down to the beach. From my house it is only about fifty steps before I hit the water, so I don’t have far to walk. I choose to go farther down the main boardwalk to avoid the day-trippers from the mainland and have the beach practically all to myself. I grab my Tommy Bahama beach chair, a towel, my iPod, and some sunscreen and make my way down toward the water.

  We had a particularly bad winter this year. A Category 1 hurricane hit in September of last year and took dunes with it. The erosion was tremen
dous, and the beach is much wider because of it. The storm exposed a darker layer of sand called magnetite from underneath, which is black in color. It makes the beach even hotter than it already is, and I have to run down to the water to soothe my burning feet.

  I settle into my chair to listen to Zac Brown sing about where boats leave from when my cell phone rings. Wait, I thought I left it on the kitchen table. Damn it. I am not in the mood to talk to anyone right now. I check out the caller ID and see that it’s my best friend, Brenda. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade, and I called her in a panic right after I caught Evan with his pants down. I have been avoiding her recent calls and haven’t spoken to her since.

  “Hi, Bren,” I greet. I instinctively move the phone away from my ear since I know what’s coming next.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” she screams. “I have been texting and leaving messages all over.” She pauses a minute. “Liv, are you okay?” she asks, concern etched in her voice. This is the question I have dreaded answering because I don’t know the answer.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Why haven’t you taken any of my calls? I’ve been worried.”

  “I haven’t been in a talkative mood,” I mutter petulantly.

  “You shouldn’t be alone. You need to talk. Please, let me come out and spend a few weeks with you,” she pleads.

  I have thought about having her here with me. Brenda has always been my rock. My father was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer our senior year of high school and died right before we graduated. She wouldn’t leave my side that whole summer. I have no siblings, so she is the sister I never had.

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. I could use a drinking partner.”

  “Good, cause I’m on the ferry and will be there in ten minutes.”

  “Of course you are,” I reply with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “I’m at the end of Pepperidge walk. Put your bags in the house and meet me on the beach,” I sigh.

  “Liv, you know I love you right?”

  “I love you too, Bren. Just hurry up. I need to catch some rays.”

  Like clockwork, she appears from the end of the walk and comes running down the beach. I stand up to greet her, but the sand must have gotten to her feet too as she runs past me toward the water. She dips them in, then turns to me, and gives me a crushing hug.

  “Bren, you’re killing me,” I squeak out barely able to breathe.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I know. I missed you too.”

  “You look like you lost weight.”

  “Maybe a few pounds,” I confess. “I’ve been on a liquid diet.”

  “You need to eat,” she scolds. “We’ll go over to the Casino tonight for dinner.”

  “Okay. That’s a good idea since I haven’t been over to the general store yet, and there isn’t any food in the house. At least, nothing resembling food.”

  “Olivia!” She is really mad. She only uses my full name when she wants something, or she’s pissed. “It’s a good thing I’m here. I don’t want you withering away to nothing,” she says under her breath.

  “Can I please get back to my tanning?” I whine. “We’re wasting good sunlight.”

  “Fine, but this discussion is not over.”

  I sit back down, put in my ear buds and drift off to sleep to Zac Brown warbling on about his ass in the sand.

  Back at the house, we each take a quick shower. I don’t bother to do my hair. I’m at the beach after all. The tousled look is normal here, and my curly blonde hair is that and then some. It’s long, about halfway down my back, but I can never get the curls under control. It’s not like I have anyone to impress anyway. The humidity is not helping my cause, so I decide the au natural look is not the way to go and put it in a ponytail. Brenda, on the other hand, has the blow dryer, flat iron, and any other hair accessory you can think of scattered in front of her on the bathroom vanity.

  “Brenda, are you going to straighten your hair? The humidity will fluff it out like you stuck your finger in a light socket,” I giggle. She has shoulder length wavy chestnut brown hair that looks good no matter what she does to it.

  “Ha ha, funny. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be finished.”

  I go into the living room and hear my new neighbors partying next door through the walls, not that these walls are all that thick. I walk out onto the back deck to get a glimpse of the commotion. It sounds like thirty people out back, but it’s just the five of them. They’re dancing to a beat I’m unfamiliar with, beers in hand. This is not a good start to my vacation. I head back inside to the kitchen and reach into the fridge to grab an Amstel Light.

  Brenda is behind me and looks into the refrigerator just as I’m closing it. “Jeez, you weren’t kidding. There’s nothing in there but beer and wine.”

  “There are lemons and limes for the Ketel One,” I inform under my breath. I turn, and she has her perfect brows arched, a stern look on her face. I guess she heard me.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. First thing tomorrow, we’re going to the general store and getting some nutritious food. And not just garnishes.” She’s reprimanding me, and I stand there with my head down like a wayward child.

  “Fine, can we go now please?” I groan.

  “I’m waiting on you,” she quips as she waves one arm toward the door.

  The Casino is the only bar on the island and only a short walk from the cottage. A straight run down the walk with a right and another right, and we’re there. It sits high up on the beach so you can see everything. The bar is inside a large shack with one-half being the bar and the other half a restaurant. There are separate entrances for each. The Casino is set up with a large window bar so when you’re out on the deck you can order a drink. On the right hand side of the window is a small alcove with a grill and fryer. Since the actual restaurant is on the other side, they only serve burgers and chicken fingers at the bar.

  We step up to the counter and grab menus. “Nothing low calorie on this side, huh?” Brenda mumbles.

  “Nope, but it’s better than bar garnishes,” I say with a smile. She shoots me a dirty look, which makes me smile even broader. We place our orders with the girl behind the counter.

  “I’ll bring your food out to you once it’s finished,” she says.

  “Great, thanks. We’ll be inside.” We head in to the bar since it’s starting to get hot.

  It’s Friday afternoon at the start of happy hour, and the place is deserted. It’s still pretty early in the season, but I expect it to get busy later on. Anyone still on the beach below is rushing to get to the four o’clock ferry since most of them have been baking in the sun since late morning. We take a seat toward the back by the windows.

  The bar is a half-moon shape, since there is the opening to the outside. There’s a dartboard and a pool table but not much else. For a bar it’s very bright, as it’s mostly windows with views of the ocean from any angle.

  One of my favorite bartenders, Shawn, is working. We call him Mac for short, since his last name is McIntyre.

  “Hey, Liv, the usual?” He smiles like he always does. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a bad mood, and he’s been working here as long as I can remember.

  “Sure, Mac. You remember Brenda?”

  “How could I forget that beautiful face?” Wow, he’s on a roll today.

  “Hi Mac,” she blushes, smiling back at him.

  “Liv, where’s Evan? He’s usually here by now.”

  Here we go. I knew there would be questions about Evan’s whereabouts. He’s been coming to Davis with me for the past six years. I’m just not sure I’m up for explanations.

  “We broke up,” I say, looking down toward the bar, picking at my fingernails. One of my many nervous habits.

  “Oh, sorry. Too bad, you guys were a cute couple.” I’m bending straws into angry shapes. Seeing my reaction, he realizes that wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “But,” he continues,
“that’s good news for us single guys, you being back on the market.” His honest smile could melt a glacier.

  I look up at Mac, giving him a weak smile. “Thanks, you don’t have to try and make me feel better. I’m okay.”

  “I wasn’t trying to,” he says, his voice soft. He leans over the bar just so I can hear him. “You are the nicest, most honest, and by far the finest thing on this island. If he was stupid enough to lose you, then he didn’t deserve you in the first place.”

  Mac always knows the right thing to say. I think it’s bartending 101. But I know he means every word. I feel my eyes welling up. I turn away knowing I am about to cry. “I have to pee,” I say and hurry to the bathroom.

  After a few minutes, Brenda comes in to check on me. “Liv, don’t sweat it,” she says. “Mac’s right. We’ll find you someone new, better than that piece of shit.”

  Brenda and Evan never hit it off. He was very possessive; a trait I found endearing at first. Once we were dating for a few months, Evan wanted to know every move I made. Sometimes, he wouldn’t allow me to go out at all and never with Brenda. She was too promiscuous for him. I think he thought I might cheat on him. Ha, me cheat on him.

  He said he was protecting me, but Brenda knew better. She used to call me a Stepford Wife. Evan was my first serious boyfriend, so I didn’t know any better. Any time we were out and she came with us, they would argue and fight. After a while, I kept them as far away from each other as I could manage.

  “I don’t want anyone new. I want to relax and sit in the sun and do nothing.” I want to crawl under a rock and die. This is why I want to be by myself and not face the reality that I am no longer with Evan. Not that I’m in denial, but I can control my anxiety at my own pace. Now I have to face up to it in public, and sooner than I’m ready for. I look into the clouded mirror above the sink and fuss with my hair. It’s another nervous tick. There’s nothing to fix. It‘s all on top of my head in a big poof. I look close at my puffy green eyes and the bags under them, making them darker than normal.