Pushing off the door, I trudge into my bathroom holding my aching head and inspect my forehead in the mirror over the sink. A lump is already forming with a cut in the middle. A drop of crusty blood has oozed out and left a streak against my pale skin. Frizzy strands of hair escape the tight bun I painstakingly stuffed them into this morning. I look like I stuck my finger in a light socket and got zapped. Funny enough, I’ve done that before. More than once.
My hair has a mind of its own. I either wear it in a bun or braid to tame its wild tendencies. I chopped it off once thinking it might help. It did not. I looked like Little Orphan Annie on steroids.
My hair is orange, not red, not auburn, orange and frizzy. I keep it long hoping to weigh it down. My mother and sister are both blondes. My father’s hair was dark before it changed silver. Someone might think I was adopted unless they saw the photos of my great grandmother, Eloise.
I wet a green washcloth with cold water and hold it to my head. Pain lashes my forehead. I wince and plop down on the closed toilet seat.
I’m now stuck in my room until the party ends, which won’t be for hours yet.
Mitch’s presence only puts a small wrinkle into my plans. Actually, not even that. His arrival is insignificant.
I’d only learned of his return upon my arrival at the party when my mother informed me with glee that her guest of honor was the award-winning movie director, Mitch Atwater.
My first thought had been to run for the hills. My second was to run to the closest salon for a complete makeover and to the nearest store for a killer outfit. Neither happened, instead my mother dragged me into the party.
No matter, I survived our encounter and it’s doubtful I’ll see him again. Granite Cove may be a small town, but its population is large enough that I don’t know all the residents and those I do I hardly run into every day.
Standing, I toss the washcloth in the sink and wander into my bedroom to sit down on the four-poster bed. I rub the black jersey material of my dress between my fingers. The dichotomy of me wearing black and my mother white does not escape me. I wear this dress because it’s comfortable and if I spill anything on it, it’s unlikely to show. The dress covers me from the modest neckline to the tops of my black gladiator sandals.
I grab my phone off the nightstand to check my messages and emails. Mother doesn’t allow family members to have their phones at her parties. Probably because we could use them as an excuse to escape if we claimed a dire emergency. Not that she’d accept that ploy from me.
No voicemails and the only new emails I received are advertisements. Somehow I must have gotten on a list somewhere for every type of junk mail there is. One is an ad for sexy singles in my area. I could actually use that one.
Ugh. I drop back on the bed.
Why hasn’t Mr. Brick gotten back to me? I sent him a fair offer to buy the building. We’ve discussed it several times since I started renting the space for The Sweet Spot, and I finally saved up enough money.
Buying the building is not only the first step in my new life plan, it’s the key ingredient everything else hinges on. I buy the building, move into the apartment above the bakery, and finally get a life. Once I have my own place, I can focus on getting a social life and maybe even a love life.
The same pale gray bedroom furniture I’ve had since I was a child mocks me from every direction. A fancy prison which keeps me under my parents’ rule and prevents me from living the life I want to live. My chest tightens and the air in the room grows suffocating. I need to get out of here, right now.
I scramble off the bed and stand there debating my options.
The gaiety of the party seeps through the floorboards. I can’t waltz down the front staircase without being seen and subjected to a retelling of my latest antics, which will no doubt lead to a laundry list of my most embarrassing moments. I could, however, use the back stairs attached to the balcony in my parents’ room which leads to the side of the house. Yes, there’s a chance I’ll be spotted, but the odds of a clean getaway are much better than my only other option.
There’s the tree outside my sister’s bedroom but the image that pops into my head of me hanging upside down from a branch with my dress over my head and my lady parts showing for the world to see or the one with me sprawled on the ground with broken bones savagely nixes that idea.
I tiptoe towards my bedroom door. Then I stop and roll my eyes. Not only can no one see or hear me in my bedroom, but it is utterly ridiculous to be sneaking around my own parents’ house as if I’m going to commit a great caper.
I unlock the door and peek around it. There’s no sign of Vanessa. One encounter with her was more than enough, thank you very much. I slide out of my room, shutting the door behind me, and stride over to my parents’ room.
The door opens soundlessly, but I still listen in case one of my parents has snuck up here for a moment or if a partygoer or two has decided to use the room for some nefarious reason. Ascertaining I’m alone, I shut the door and peer around the room. A king-size canopy bed dominates the room parallel to the French doors which open onto the balcony overlooking the lake.
The French door refuses to budge so I lodge my shoulder against it and give it a shove. It opens with a shudder and a bang as it swings wide and bounces against the house. I freeze on the threshold. Someone surely heard and is peering up from the patio to see who made the noise.
I’m not going back to my room, so I shuffle onto the balcony and gently close the door. It rattles into place despite my efforts to be quiet. I gingerly walk to the stairs, keeping to the side of the balcony next to the house in case someone is looking up.
A peek over the railing at the top of the stairs shows me a clear path along the side of the house.
To avoid any prying eyes from the front of the house, I traipse down the stairs and cut across the lawn into the neighbor’s yard. I jog around to the front of the house and into the next neighbor’s yard to reach the sidewalk.
I stride across the manicured lawn, a dog barks at me, and I quicken my pace. The neighbors won’t mind, they’re at the party, but that doesn’t mean I want to be bitten by a dog guarding their territory against trespassers.
After a brief jaunt up the road to the walking path that loops around the park, I let out a deep breath.
The escape is a success.
I amble along the park path to the shore of the lake where I slide onto one of the wooden benches lining the walkway. A sigh of relief escapes me, and a bit of a smug smile.
May is still early for boating season to populate the lake, but the spring air is warm enough for a few brave dedicated boaters to drag their vessels out of winter storage and traverse the choppy water. Several towns share the massive lake. Granite Cove isn’t the largest, but it’s not the smallest either.
A shadow appears on the ground at my feet, and I glance over my shoulder as Mitch eases onto the bench beside me. His light blue gaze focuses on my forehead and he winces. “Ouch, that must hurt.”
Craptastic! So much for no one noticing my great escape.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Did you get a concussion?” Peering into my eyes, he shakes his head. “Your eyes don’t appear dilated.”
I turn my head and stare at the lake. “Are you a doctor now?”
“Nope, played one once though. Does that count?”
A smile twitches at my lips, but I refuse to let it go. I remember the film and his costar he was rumored to have had a torrid affair with. My impulse to smile disappears.
“How have you been, Franny?”
His deep voice sends a shiver over my skin that has nothing to do with the weather. I scrunch my nose and stare at up at the cloudless blue sky. How have I been? Pretty much the same, unfortunately, but I can’t say that, so I shrug instead.
“What brings you back to Granite Cove?” I suppose I can make polite chitchat. Besides, part of me is curious to know his answer.
His silence prompts me to peek at his profile. He’s staring out over the lake. There are a pair of white sailboats moored nearby bobbing along on the water. Farther out, a motorboat speeds by. Nothing really to capture his attention.
“I guess I needed a change. I was happy here once.”
Yeah, so was I.
“A change from what?”
He drapes an arm over the back of the bench and rests his ankle on the opposite knee. “The short answer is life in general. The long answer is probably best for another time.”
I scoot farther away on the bench and cross my legs. “Sounds complicated.”
“Life usually is, isn’t it?”
A constant minefield of missteps and regret. I tap my dangling foot and cross my arms over my abdomen.
But that’s all going to change. My plan is firmly in place and life will be great. Positivity is my new theme. While I waited in the doctor’s office, I read a magazine full of self-help articles which inspired my life makeover. I even drew up a vision board with pictures of people having fun and couples in love. Perhaps I should have pilfered the magazine so I could reread it when my motivation was sagging. Like now.
Who am I kidding? I’ve never stolen anything in my life.
“What about you?”
I glance in his direction without meeting his gaze. “What about me?”
“What’s going on in your life? Husband? Kids?”
Nope and nope.
A sailboat glides by with a bright white sail. I bite my lip and squint up at the sun. “I own a bakery in town, The Sweet Spot.”
“I know. I bought the building.”
My building? He bought my building?
I lurch to my feet only to sink back to the bench.
“What’s wrong?”
He places his hand over mine gripping the edge of the bench. I stare at the contrast of his darker skin over my pale white freckled hand. I pull my hand away and tuck them both under my legs. “Mr. Brick sold you the building?”
He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees with hands clasped in between. “Was that the name of the owner? My lawyer handled the sale. He set up a corporation, so my name doesn’t show up on the documents. It’s just a business thing.”
A business thing? No wonder Mr. Brick has been avoiding my calls and attempts to negotiate buying the building. He already sold it.
Tears threaten, but I swallow them back. I lift my hand to rub at the pain gathering in my chest, but I drop it back and press harder against the bench. The wood digs into my palms.
What does he need the building for? Is he going to kick me out at the end of my lease and turn it into a trendy restaurant or something? Isn’t that what celebrities do, open restaurants?
Although, not here in Granite Cove. The town is not exactly a hot spot, or even close to one. The nearest airport is over an hour away. Even the closest highway is a half hour’s drive. We’re tucked into New Hampshire’s lakes region, surrounded by green hills and blue skies.
What am I going to do? If he does intend to kick me out, I need to find another building. If he doesn’t, then do I go on renting and living with my parents? Either scenario makes me nauseated.
Water laps against the rocks. The paved walking and bike path winds along the shore of the lake on this side of the park. It intersects with the sidewalk that lines the town docks in the center of the cove. For the first time in my memory I’m wishing for someone to stroll by and interrupt us. Surely one of his fans has tracked him down. Perhaps even my mother wondering where her guest of honor has disappeared to?
I’d run if I thought my legs would hold me. My muscles are shaky.
He bought my building.
“If it’s the rent you’re worried about, I’m not going to change it on you.”
I’m biting my tongue so hard I’m surprised I haven’t chomped it off. Tears prick my eyes and I blink them back as fast as I can. I stare out towards the lake but honestly, I see nothing but my own misery.
“Franny?”
I open my mouth to snap, “What?” but smash my lips together instead and grip the bench tighter. What does he want from me? Oh right, he mentioned not changing the rent.
“That’s good…” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. “That’s good to know.”
Pain squeezes my stomach. Loosening my grip on the bench, I hold my hands protectively over my abdomen. It’s done that more and more. With my luck, it’s an ulcer.
Damn it! The building was mine. He stole it out from under me. How could he do that? How could Mr. Brick do that? I should have had papers drawn up. All I have is his verbal promise to sell when he was ready. Another harsh lesson learned. Never trust anyone on their word alone. Get it in writing. Business 101.
I guess the handful of business management courses I took in college before I dropped out to pursue my culinary aspirations didn’t stick. I can picture the roll of my mother’s eyes and the ensuing lecture on not only making bad business decisions but the never-ending admonishments over the wasted college tuition money they spent on my freshman and sophomore years. My father will shake his head sadly and then change the subject. If it hadn’t been for the small inheritance I received from my grandmother I would never have been able to afford culinary school. My parents refused to pay for it. If I rebuffed the college of their choice, they wouldn’t cover the costs.
“You sure you don’t need a doctor to look at your head?”
A quick shake of my head elicits a wince of pain. It hurts, but my heart hurts more.
“I don’t remember you being this quiet.”
I can sense him staring at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the path at my feet. I wasn’t shy or silent with him, not when it was just the two of us, which it was the majority of the time.
“That was a long time ago.” I stand. “I have to go.”
I don’t wait for a response from him. I’m too shattered to care.
My dream and plan are destroyed.
I stride down the path with no destination in mind. Mitch has broken my heart. Again.