Pocketful of Sand, Chapter Three

THREE

Eden

A CLUSTER OF bells jingles overhead when I push through the door of Bailey’s Quick Stop, which is the address that the landlord gave me when he told me where to pick up the keys to our cottage.  A quick glance around shows me the place is empty.  I take a tentative step forward, practically dragging Emmy along. She’s hugging my left leg so tightly I can hardly walk.

“Hello?” I call quietly.

“Hiya!”

I jump when a woman with wildly teased brown hair pops up from behind the counter where the cash register sits.  She’s smiling broadly and holding a frosted glass in one hand. I’d estimate her to be in her early thirties, maybe ten years older than my twenty-three.  With her button nose and big brown eyes, she’s pretty despite the trouble she seems to be having remaining upright.

“Hi, I’m looking for Jason Bailey.  Am I at the wrong place? This is the address–”

“No, sweetie, you’re at the right place.  Come ooon in,” she says, laughing as she throws up an arm and enthusiastically urges me forward.  I hobble toward her, Emmy clinging to my leg as I do.  The woman notices her, brown eyes lighting up when she sees my daughter.  “And who is this?” she asks in a gentle voice.

I reach down to smooth Emmy’s hair, not at all surprised when I see her sucking her thumb.  She’s just staring at the woman like she’s a frightening alien.

“This is Emmy.  She’s very shy,” I explain.  That’s what I tell everyone. It’s much simpler than the truth.

“All the princesses are,” the woman says, unfazed.  “I’m Jordan.  What can I help you two lovely ladies with today? We’ve got everything from paint to wine and bait to bread.  We’ve got a grill if you’re hungry and a bar if you’re thirsty.”

“Just Jason Bailey please,” I repeat, watching as she tries to collect herself, tugging at her disheveled shirt and smoothing her disheveled hair.

“Oh, right right.”  She turns her face partly to the side and yells, “Jasonnn!  Get out here,” the smile never leaving her face. 

As is the case with most small towns, new people stick out like sore thumbs, and Miller’s Pond, Maine is no exception.  It had a population explosion in 2001, bringing the town tally up to a whopping three thousand four hundred people.  And, now, three thousand four hundred and two.  I guess that’s why this store has a little bit of everything. No big chain supermarkets or stores have found their way here yet.  From what I could see on the map, the closest super center is at least thirty miles away.

“So, what brings you to Miller’s Pond?” she asks.

I smile and clear my throat, uncomfortable with her questioning.  But I have a carefully composed history rehearsed for just such an occasion.  “Uh, I was born up in Bangor. Just getting back closer to home.”

“Close, but not too close, eh?  Smart girl.”

I smile at her observation and add, “Plus we love lighthouses and Miller’s Pond has one of the oldest ones in the country, or so I hear.”  It’s a pat enough answer, hopefully pat enough to stop her or anyone else from asking more questions.  It’s all fiction, of course. 100% untrue, but that’s the way it has to be.

“That’s right, sweetie. You’ve come to the right place.  Annnd, you’ve just made friends with the one person who can tell you anything you need to know about this town and the people in it.  Besides that, I make a kickass rum and Coke,” she says with a wink, her voice dropping down to a loud whisper.  I assume that was in deference to Emmy.

“The village idiot can make a rum and Coke, Jordan,” a man says as he appears in the doorway behind the counter.  He looks to be about the same age as Jordan and, based on his light brown hair and same color eyes, I’d say they’re related.  “Or, in this case, the town lush.”

Although his words are biting, he smiles at Jordan and she laughs, playfully punching his arm.  Her fist slips off and she nearly falls, but the guy grabs her by the shoulders and more or less props her back up.  He’s shaking his head when he finally looks up to me.

“Jason Bailey, Jordan’s brother. You must be Eden.”

“I am. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Is that a bit of the south I’m hearing?”

My lips curve nervously. I’ve tried very hard to drop any hint of accent from my voice, so his observation flusters me. I don’t have a lie ready for that.  “It is.  I wasn’t there long, but it must’ve rubbed off.”

He nods, seemingly satisfied with that. 

“And this is her daughter, Emmy.  She’s a shy princess,” Jordan provides.

I can’t help noticing the appreciative way Jason’s eyes sweep from my chest to my feet and back again on his way to see Emmy. He simply smiles at her, doesn’t try to engage, which is best.  When his warm eyes lock onto mine again, I think to myself that he’s handsome and pretty obviously interested.  At least superficially.  Only I’m not. A normal woman probably would be.  But I’m not normal. I’d like to be, but I’m not sure I ever will be.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both. I look forward to getting to know you.”

While his smile is as polite as his words, something tells me his insinuation is anything but innocent.

I just nod, thinking to myself that he won’t ever get to know me that well.  “It’s been a long day for us.  If I could just get the keys…”

I figure offering up an excuse for my lack of interest is the best way to avoid bruising his ego, and I’m okay with that. Anything to keep out of trouble.

“Of course.  Come on back to my office,” he says, walking to the end of the counter and indicating yet another door.  Once inside, I dig in my purse for the form I filled out.  It’s a single page, nothing too invasive or complicated.  In fact, the…loose requirements for the rental of this cottage were big factors in choosing Miller’s Pond.  Jason let me secure the lease via a faxed agreement that didn’t ask for my social security number and he allowed me to pay six months in advance via a cashier’s check that I mailed in.  Now I just have to pick up the keys.

Jason grabs an envelope from his top desk drawer.  It has Eden Taylor and the cottage’s address scribbled across the front. He opens it and dumps keys out into his hand, makes a few notes on a paper or two and then hands them over.

“You know the address?”

“Yes, we drove by on the way in.”

“Then welcome to Miller’s Pond.”

And just like that, I exhale.  Maybe this will finally be a place we can call home.  Home safe home.

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Pocketful of Sand, Chapter One (and two bc it's short)

I'm posting one AND two because two is short and it pertains so directly to chapter one:)  So, here we go!  Meet Eden, Emmy and Cole.

ONE

Eden

October

EMMY’S FACE LIGHTS up when she runs full speed toward the water’s edge, chasing the tide out.  My heart warms with her squeal of delight as it chases her right back in.  Back and forth they go, engaging in the never-ending dance of ebb and flow. 

Few times in her six years of life have I ever seen her so happy, so carefree and animated.  That alone makes this move worth it. Maybe we won’t have to leave this place.  At least not for a while.

Tirelessly, her little legs carry her as she flees the frothy waves, sandy water splashing up from her feet as she runs. I watch her play, more satisfied than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe this will be good for her.

Finally, winded, she doesn’t turn to run the tide, but keeps coming toward me until she can launch her small body at mine like a tiny bullet.  I catch her, hugging her close so that I can bury my nose in her neck and inhale the smell of baby powder, fresh air and little girl.

When she pulls away, she’s smiling. “That was fun, Momma.  Did you see me run fast?  Even the waves couldn’t catch me.”

Her lime green eyes are twinkling and her cheeks are rosy from the fall nip in the air. Her hot breath mixes with the ocean’s breeze to sooth my insides, like maybe happiness, wholeness is finally blowing in.

“I did!  You ran so fast I could hardly keep up.”

She claps excitedly.  “Can we walk before we go?”

I glance at my watch.  We are supposed to meet the landlord at his office at three, but we should be in good shape as long as we head back to the car within the hour.  “Sure, but we can’t stay too much longer.”

I’ve barely finished my sentence before she’s out of my arms, on her feet and blazing off down the beach, her long hair flowing out behind her like midnight flames.

This straight stretch of beach is practically deserted, so I let her run as fast as she wants to.  There’s a great likelihood that I’ll have to carry her back, but I don’t mind.  I treasure any chance I get to hold her close and pretend that nothing in the world could ever take her away from me.  Plus, all this exercise means she’ll probably fall asleep in my arms tonight.  She’ll be exhausted.  I smile at the thought.  The perfect end to what’s looking like a nearly perfect day.

Up ahead, Emmy stops several feet from what I now recognize as someone building an elaborate sandcastle.  I see her pop her thumb in her mouth, so I speed up.  That’s a sure sign of distress for her.  That and the way she goes still as a statue, not moving a single muscle.  Those are the only outward signs of her condition. 

Without looking back, as though she can sense my presence when I stop at her side, she reaches for my fingers with her free hand, squeezing them as tightly as she can.

I squat down, something I’ve learned is soothing to her.  When she’s anxious, she likes to be able to hide.  While she’ll tuck herself behind my legs if I’m standing, she relaxes more quickly if I’m down on her level where I can hold her.

She surprises me when she doesn’t turn into my chest and bury her face like she usually does in these situations. Instead, she stands perfectly still, watching the man who’s on his hands and knees constructing the castle.  His back is to us and I doubt he knows we’re here, he’s so intent on what he’s doing.  Obviously he takes his castling seriously, which gives me ample time to study the scene.

The castle is taller than Emmy and has at least a dozen spires and turrets of various sizes.  It’s probably taken him all day to construct it.  There are even trees in the “castle grounds” that lead down to the edge of the mote he’s currently digging.  The whole thing is pretty impressive.  But not nearly as impressive as the guy who’s building it, I learn once I turn my attention to him.   

His hands are broad and long-fingered, tanned and capable-looking, as though they’re used often and probably calloused.  I follow them up muscular forearms roped with thick veins and bands of sinew, to biceps that bulge against the dark blue cotton of his T-shirt.  The material is stretched tight across his wide shoulders, too, which only further accentuates his narrow waist.

I evaluate the man in the same clinical way that I do the castle–with an appreciation for form and structure. Nothing more.

That is, until he turns his shaggy blond head to look at me. 

I can tell by the frown that creases his forehead and shades his bright blue eyes that we took him by surprise.  Normally I would do the polite thing and apologize, but at the moment my thoughts are as scattered and hard to catch as my breath.

He’s handsome, yes.  He’s built well, yes.  I’m sure in another life or if I were someone else, I’d be very attracted to him.  Only I’m not attracted to men. Or women. Not anymore. I’m not attracted to anyone anymore.

So then why can’t I breathe?  Why do I feel like I just fell into a black hole that sucked all the air from the world and dropped hot boulders into my stomach?

He rocks back on his haunches, brushing off his hands almost angrily.  My insides do a funny little quiver as he watches me.  It’s not really fear or embarrassment; it’s more like…awareness.  Extreme awareness. 

Emmy stirs where she had gone around behind me to peek over my shoulder, and her movement draws his piercing eyes.  After that, I think I cease to exist.

As he stares at her, the color leaves his handsome, golden face, taking with it the frown that he was wearing.  His mouth drops open a little and I hear the huff of a breath as he releases it.  If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks shocked. I just don’t know why he would be.

He gapes at Emmy for a few long seconds before, wordlessly, he turns away. At first, he does nothing. Doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even appear to breathe.  Just continues to kneel, facing away from us, staring at the sandcastle.  But then, after a bit, he returns to his mote. He digs into the sand fiercely, almost angrily, and I wonder that his fingers don’t bleed.

I don’t really know whether I should say something or not, so I opt with not. Already he doesn’t seem too thrilled with our presence.  Another interruption might be even more poorly received.

Just as I’m rising to sweep Emmy into my arms and carry her back, the man pauses, his head turning as he catches a glimpse of the clump of daisies buried stem-deep in the sand in front of the castle.  His shoulders slump visibly. I see his hand start to jut out and then stop, and then start again.  He reaches for one flower, plucking it from the bunch and twirling it in his fingers.  I know I should leave, leave him to whatever he was doing and thinking before we arrived, but I can’t.  Not yet. I can’t, but I just don’t know why.

Finally, he glances back at us, at Emmy.  His gaze isn’t too direct, almost as though he knows that too much attention is hard for my daughter.  I watch as he extends the flower, his hand shaking the tiniest bit as he holds it out to her.  I start to reach for it, but Emmy surprises me by grabbing it herself, her slim little hand easing out to carefully take the daisy from his grasp.

The stranger gives her a small smile and turns away again.  He doesn’t get to see the way Emmy’s lips curve around the thumb still stuck in her mouth.  He doesn’t get to see the way she watches him afterward.

“Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

He pauses, turning only enough that I can see his strong profile–straight nose, carved mouth, square chin.  He nods once and then returns to his excavating, as intent as he was before we interrupted.

Puzzled and flustered, I turn and carry my daughter back the way we came, the scent of fresh-cut daisies teasing my nose and the quiet hum of my child tickling my ear.

TWO

Cole

WHO THE HELL was that? I think, wondering why I feel like I just got sucker punched in the gut.  I resist the urge to turn and watch her walk away.  Or go after her.

Who the hell was that and what the hell did she just do to me?

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Signed POCKETFUL OF SAND Giveaway!

It's about time for this baby to release and I've already got the urge to give away paperbacks:)  LOL  Too soon?  For a giveaway...NEVER!

So for this one, all you have to do is share any of the teasers from my FB author page or any of the ones below, if you'd rather share those.  Enter your share into the rafflecopter below and voila! You are entered to win a SIGNED PAPERBACK of Pocketful of Sand!  The giveaway runs through the March 7th. The winner will be announced ON THIS POST on March 8th:)

**And the winner is Leslie Medina!  Congratulations, Leslie!  I've sent you an email:)**

Also, a huge round of giveaways will begin in my Facebook group, Laid-back with Leighton, on March 8th, so if you aren't already a member, you should come on over and have a little fun:)   And if you aren't a member of my newsletter, you should sign up for that, too!  I don't send out many updates, so you won't be aggravated to death. LOL  But I DO send out exclusive material and do member-only giveaways, so there's another chance to win.  You can sign up for that here.

Alright, y'all, share away!!!


a Rafflecopter giveaway

Pocketful of Sand Excerpt #1

Okay, so for reasons that I will later explain, I have been dying...DYING, I tell you...to share Cole and Eden with you.  You've seen bits and pieces on social media, but this is the first lengthy excerpt.  I really hope you love this book as much as I do!

Excerpt (Cole is in Eden's bedroom while she's pretending to sleep):

Another pause.  Another deep breath.

“I’ve been alone for a long time, and not once have I ever felt lonely. Bereft, yes.  Angry, hell yes. Bitter, remorseful, hopeless, yes, but never lonely.  Not until you. You changed everything.  And I was so caught up in you–in the way you respond when I touch you, in the taste of your body, in the sound of your voice–that I didn’t think about tomorrow.  Or even yesterday as much as I used to.  Most days I’ve thought of you more than Charity.  And I wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for you.  Because of that, I’ve handled it all so, so badly.”

I hear his shaky breath. I feel his sincerity. I want it to matter.  But it can’t.

“Please forgive me. I’ve hurt so many people, but I swear on my life, I never meant to hurt you.  I hope you believe that.”

Another pause.  Cole is quiet, his breathing heavy.  I keep mine even, continuing the ruse.  I can’t let him know I’m awake. I can’t have him here, in my bedroom, so close and so sincere, and expect to resist him. I need time.  And distance.

I feel him lean back, pull away. I hold perfectly still. 

“I’m twenty-nine years old and you changed everything for me.  You made me want to laugh and love and live again.  You made me feel when I didn’t think I could feel anything anymore.  I just wish I could’ve been whole when we met. I wish I could’ve said the right things and done the right things. I wish I could be the type of man you deserve.  I wish I could be the kind of man you could love.”

I hear him shift and then I feel the feather-light brush of his lips on my forehead, the tip of my nose, the curve of my cheek.

“I know you’re awake.  And I love you,” he says quietly, his mouth near my ear.

I open my eyes and meet his.  They’re dark and fathomless in the shadowy night. I say nothing. He says nothing. We just stare at one another, memorizing lines and shapes, angles and planes.

And then he stands and walks away. 

My heart doesn’t start beating again until he closes and locks the door behind him.

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Pocketful of Sand Exclusive Excerpt

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