Find Her, Keep Her (A Martha's Vineyard Love Story) (Love in the USA) Read online

  Contents

  Find Her, Keep Her

  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

  There’s Something About Her: A Manhattan L.O.V.E Story Excerpt

  Z.L. Arkadie Book Release Mailing List

  Find Her, Keep Her

  A Martha’s Vineyard Love Story

  (Love in the USA series, #1)

  by

  Z.L. Arkadie

  Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers

  Copyright © 2013 Zuleika Arkadie

  ISBN-10: 0984988483

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9849884-8-8

  License Notes

  All rights reserved, including right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission from the author.

  Chapter 1

  Coming On Strong

  My eyes ache.

  Ever since Wednesday of last week, they’ve been stuck in two modes: weeping or sleeping.

  The reason why?

  Well, my best friend became engaged to my boyfriend.

  Apparently it happened while he and I were on a break. But it doesn’t stop there. I heard about the blissful event through Maya’s, the best friend in the equation, Facebook status update. As soon as I fully absorbed the news, I typed, “You snake,” cursed new technology, and slammed my laptop shut. I climbed into bed, and that’s when the waterworks began.

  It’s a blur how I got from there to here, a quiet table for one at the Day Harbor Café in Edgartown, Massachusetts on the island of Martha’s Vineyard.

  Let’s see…

  Early yesterday morning, I rolled out of bed and slogged to my home office. After sleeping away seven consecutive days, it was time to at least check email. I wasn’t recovered enough to check my voicemail and hear any voice besides the one in my head constantly moaning, why me?

  Each message was more of the same.

  I heard…

  Call me.

  What a bitch...

  What a dick...

  Are you alive? I’m coming over.

  Your phone is off. Turn it on, and call me back.

  I knocked. No answer. Are you in town?

  And then there was one from the perpetrator herself. Daisy, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We should talk, don’t you think?

  I deleted that one.

  I decided to not open another email. I couldn’t take all the “poor you” sympathy. I skimmed the senders and subjects of the remaining four hundred until I landed on one from Dusty Burrows of Golden Destinations magazine. It was a reply to an article I’d pitched over a year ago. Part of me was afraid to open it because I didn’t want to suffer another rejection. But then I thought, At least it isn’t pity. So I clicked on it. There, in black and white, was my justification for escaping.

  I’m a travel writer, and Martha’s Vineyard was one of the few islands in the United States I had never visited–for pleasure or business. It wasn’t because I lacked the urge to jet out and explore it. Another island or city or majestic countryside always took precedence. Funny. I had been thinking about contacting Golden Destinations to follow up on my query before all hell broke loose. That message from Dusty Burrows was a gift from God.

  Dear Daisy,

  I apologize for the tardiness of my reply.

  We are fans of your “Stumble Through In a Taxi” series and would like to host an article of yours in next year’s spring issue.

  We would like to offer you the feature story. Please respond ASAP so that we can discuss this further.

  Regards,

  DB

  Needless to say, I accepted the offer, even if I felt a certain way about it. I had pitched the idea to them before finding a tiny amount of acclaim. I really needed the money back then. Politely declining their offer would’ve been nice, since they only wanted to capitalize off my budding popularity. However, I let my instincts convince me that Martha’s Vineyard was where I’m supposed to be. Preliminary research revealed that the island had plenty of beaches, some with high cliffs—just in case I wanted to jump off one—and early November is still a good time of the year to visit weather-wise.

  So now I’m sitting in front of a blank screen, alone at a table in a classic New England-style café. The moment the ferry docked, I wiped away my tears, put on my work cap, and decided to stop letting the image my brain had conjured of Maya and Adrian going at it like dogs in heat loop through it. I made a vow to stop trying to figure out how in the world they had time to stab me in the back and then fall deeply enough in love to become engaged. Adrian and I broke up only three months ago! And it wasn’t a real breakup. We had dinner. As usual, Adrian indirectly complained that I travel too much for my job, and then he said we needed to take some time apart for a while.

  Three months ago!

  “You’re going to stab that fork clean through the table.”

  I jump in my seat and look up to see who said that. He’s a guy, but my eyes can hardly focus on him, especially since I’m beyond pissed off at the opposite sex.

  “Right,” I say and drop my fork. It clinks and bounces on the white marble.

  “You came into town yesterday, didn’t you?” he asks.

  “What?” I’m frowning and quite irritated he’s speaking to me so casually. Can’t he see my broken heart through my chest?

  “You came in yesterday on the four o’clock ferry. You were rolling a red suitcase. That’s why I noticed you. My brother has one like it. I always tease him about it because he’s a boy, but I wouldn’t tease you–you being a girl and all.” He’s smiling.

  I’m really trying to focus on the stranger, but I can’t really see or hear him. There’s too much clutter in my brain.

  “Hey, so, I have a birthday party tonight…” He slides a business card out the pocket of his navy blue sweat pants. There’s a class ring on his finger. The stone is red. The card is gray. It’s in my hand. “Feel free to stop by. It’s a good way to start a vacation. Are you here visiting friends or family?”

  I think his eyes are hazel. I only notice them because the color is rare.

  “I’m sorry?” I already forgot everything he just said, or did I ever hear him?

  “Are you here visiting friends? Family? Late vacation?”

  “Work,” I reply dully.

  His hazel eyes examine me. “Oh, so you’re here alone.”

  Suddenly I remember how awful I look. As soon as I picked up a rental car at the shop across the street from the Steamship Authority, I drove to the gray-shingled colonial-style house I’m renting in Edgartown. I climbed into bed, swaddled myself in blankets, and continued sleeping, like I’d done for seven days at home, on the airplane from LAX to Boston Logan, in the taxi to Woods Hole—which costs an arm, a leg, and my firstborn son—and then across the Sound on the ferry. If it weren’t for the birds whistling and clucking in the trees outside my bedroom window this morning, then I think I would’ve slept in today too. I didn’t find their noises aggravating. On the contrary–their smooth songs reminded me I’m not at home and I have work to do. I forced myself to rise and shine, shower, and finally wash my straight and limp hair. After drying off, I slipped into an ankle-length, snug s
weatshirt dress. At least it’s red.

  At the moment, my naturally wavy hair is all over the place. Normally I straighten it with a flatiron, but I lack the stamina to stand in front of a mirror for an hour to do it. My face is makeup-less, and my eyes are red and puffy. Yet even in my unsightly condition, it’s clear that the stranger is getting fresh with me.

  I’m finally able to see him. He’s well put together. His navy blue tank top shows off his sculpted shoulders and biceps. He’s not bulky but very fit. His light, ash-brown hair is tousled like one of those wannabe movie stars who sit outside of the Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard on Friday nights or Urth Café on Beverly Drive on Sunday mornings. He’s very good-looking and seems to know it. I’m certainly not his type. One look at him reveals that he’s into high heels, short skirts, tight jeans, and hair extensions.

  “Wait,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Didn’t I see you on the dock yesterday? You met the blonde. Girlfriend?” There’s a bite in my tone. He must know what I’m insinuating.

  The way they had hugged and kissed equaled girlfriend. The strange chick with platinum-blond stripper hair who—despite all the open benches on the top deck of the ferry—chose to sit right next to me. I thought she might have seen me crying and wanted to make sure I didn’t jump overboard. She kept glancing in my direction, but I hid my red, puffy eyes behind a pair of dark aviators. A few minutes into the crawl across Vineyard Sound, I closed my eyes and tuned her out. I didn’t want human contact then, and I certainly don’t want it now.

  But the stranger smirks, amused. “No,” he says easily. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “Okay.” I sigh indifferently. I’m seriously done talking to him and certainly don’t believe him.

  “Come to the party tonight,” he insists. “You’ll have fun. There’s going to be a bonfire. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone to a Vineyard bonfire.”

  I can’t deny that I’m intrigued. That would be a nice addition to the article. “I’ll think about it,” I finally say while studying the card.

  “Okay.” He sounds hopeful. “I’m going to leave before you change your mind. By the way, I’m Belmont Lord.”

  What a strange name.

  He extends a hand for me to shake.

  “I’m Daisy.” Our hands touch. An electric current races through my palm. That was so unexpected that I draw back.

  “Hope to see you later, Daisy,” he says, grinning.

  I force myself to smile, wondering if he felt that too. He turns to leave, and I’ve already forgotten his name and the way he looks. The only face that fills my head is my ex-boyfriend’s.

  I remember Adrian sitting across from me at Babel, the newest restaurant to elbow its way onto the Sunset strip. If memory serves me correctly, then he’d barely looked at me that night. He said he needed time to figure “us” out. He said he didn’t like having an absent girlfriend.

  “I have a career; suddenly you’re not fine with it? What the hell,” I had replied, which I admit was a little harsh, especially for me, but I had already downed two glasses of chardonnay.

  The young waitress with the deep regional accent and messy ponytail breaks my concentration. She sets down the egg white, country style omelet in front of me. I’m not hungry anymore, but it behooves me to not miss another meal. I force myself to bite, chew, swallow, and repeat until I’ve eaten a sufficient portion of my breakfast.

  The best way to dull heartache is keep busy. That is what food in my belly helps me determine. I pay the bill, rise, and leave.

  The house I’m renting for two weeks came complete with an empty refrigerator. Eating out for that length of time will certainly be expensive, so I decide to head to the nearest grocery store to buy food for at least the next couple of days.

  The app on my cell phone says there’s a Stop & Shop nearly a mile away on Main Street. I decide to walk instead of hopping on the number 13 bus. The exercise will do me good. I start up the narrow sidewalk, noting that every structure used to be a colonial-style home: the bank, the beauty salon, a law office, and even the local Dairy Queen.

  However, the exercise does the opposite of what I intended. All I can think about is Adrian and the last time we had sex. Before my trip to Turks and Caicos, he knocked on my door—holding a bottle of red wine—and asked if I wanted to get drunk and naked. Of course I accepted his invitation, and we did just that. Sex and attraction was never our issue.

  I’ve heard that writers are the worst verbal communicators on the planet. Well, we are both writers. He writes television sitcoms. Adrian could never tell me what he wanted from me and I could never guess. Once he called me while I was in Barbados, incensed that I’d missed the premiere of his new Sunday night cable show. When I told him that I had recorded it on my DVR and would watch it as soon as I returned, he grumbled that I should forget he even mentioned it. Then he abruptly ended the call and that was that. I chalked his snippiness up to the time difference and his fifteen-hour workdays. Suddenly, I’m not sure those two factors were the culprits.

  As soon as I arrive at the Stop & Shop, I pull a basket from the cart area and push it through the automatic double doors. The inside looks like a typical Albertson’s or Vons grocery store that we have in Southern California. The first section I go to is produce. I load up on fresh apples, pears, pomegranates, oranges, carrots, broccoli, tomatoes, kale, and salad kits.

  I’m scanning the packaged legumes when I hear, “What, are you following me?” At the front of my shopping cart is the guy from the café, standing there like a towering inferno of hotness and wearing a devilish grin.

  “No, I’m not,” I barely say. My brain is still taking a moment to process that that was a joke.

  “Don’t worry, you can follow me any-damn-where you please. I prefer it that way.” He’s still smiling.

  “That’s nice,” I mumble. Why me? Like I said, I’m not Mr. Type A’s cup of tea. I like my men silent, mysterious, and communicatively challenged. Those are the ones who tend to like me too.

  “Daisy, do you mind if I share your basket?” he asks to my surprise.

  “I guess not,” I say hesitantly.

  I would’ve said no, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes it difficult to deny him.

  He’s holding up a case of beer in one hand and a big bag of tortilla chips in the other. I want to blast him for eating like a frat boy, but I keep my comment to myself. He puts both items into the basket and follows me as I push the cart toward the seafood. This is nothing short of weird.

  “So, um”—I forgot his name—“do you live here?”

  “Not full time,” he says.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, which leads me to believe maybe I got it wrong. He could be the communicatively challenged sort, which explains why he’s hitting on me.

  “What about you? Where are you from?”

  “I thought I asked you first.” I’m surprisingly defensive.

  “No, you didn’t. You asked if I lived on the Vineyard, not where do I live.”

  “Oh, right.” I’m satisfied leaving it like that. I don’t need to know where he’s from and vice versa since we’ll never see each other again after this encounter.

  His smile deepens. “When I’m not here, I live in New York, Tribeca. Although I’m from Denver. Now it’s your turn.”

  We’re at the seafood section, and I scan the freshly packaged fish. I quickly put a package of scallops, salmon, and twenty-five-count shrimp into the basket. “I live in Santa Monica.”

  “You’re a woman who knows what she wants,” he says. When I look at him, he’s observing the items in the cart.

  “I used to think so,” I mumble as I push the basket forward in search of bread.

  “And she’s cryptic,” he says as if he’s keeping a list.

  Suddenly this feels extremely odd. I’ve picked up a tagalong in the form of a strange and extremely good-looking man who has me pushing around his case of beer i
n my basket.

  “How long are you staying?” he asks.

  “So far, two weeks.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Not this time,” I mumble—again—as we arrive at the bread and baked goods aisle.

  He sniffs, amused. “So what are you, a runaway bride or something? What’s your story, Daisy?”

  “What do you mean?” I snatch a loaf of bread off the rack, incensed by the word “bride.”

  The handsome stranger examines the bruised loaf as though he senses he just hit a nerve. He lifts his eyebrows. “What about eggs and milk?” I detect that he’s purposely changing the subject.

  “Eggs and milk?” I ask.

  “You’ll need them when you don’t eat breakfast with me. Although I’m sure I’ll be taking you to breakfast every morning. Dinner, lunch… whenever you’re hungry, I’m here to feed you.” He’s still grinning, even though I’m showing him the opposite expression.

  Really, who is this guy? He certainly is coming on strong, and yet it seems as if he’s a million miles away. Since I travel a lot, I get hit on frequently. It doesn’t repulse me, but I’ve gotten very good at politely letting men know I’m not interested. Right now, I want this guy to go away, but I also want him to stay. He’s nice for sure, but more than that, he feels good. His voice, his energy, his smile, the intrigue in his eyes. He really feels good.

  “My boyfriend is marrying my best friend,” I blurt out unthinkingly. “That’s why I feel like crap.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounds genuinely sympathetic.

  “Me too.” I avoid eye contact. Confession is supposed to be good for the soul, but I just feel worse. I push the basket. “You’re right. I’ll need eggs, milk, pancake mix…”

  “Hey,” he says softly as he takes the basket by the handle to stop my progress. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound disingenuous.”