Out of Eden
Dear Reader,
Even though I’ve lived the life of an east-coast city girl for almost half of my life, I was born and raised in a small Midwestern town. You know the saying: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or something like that. Personally, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I cherish my small-town roots.
Some of my fondest memories are connected to a town much like Eden—the fictional setting of this book. Although as a teenager I recall I couldn’t wait to get
out
. I had big dreams! It’s been a wild ride to be sure, but sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if circumstances had kept me tied to that small, old-fashioned town. What of my adventurous spirit? What of my romantic nature?
Join me as I step into Kylie McGraw’s funky shoes and shake things up in a bid to have it all!
Cheers!
Beth
Praise for
Beth Ciotta’s
Chameleon Chronicles series
EVIE EVER AFTER
“Ciotta pulls out all the stops as she follows
All About Evie
and
Everybody Loves Evie
with another winner.”
—
Booklist
“Ciotta deserves major kudos for creating such an array of memorable characters and such a fun-filled series.”
—
RT Book Reviews
(4 ½ stars)
EVERYBODY LOVES EVIE
“Ciotta’s wry humor; sexy, multifaceted characters; and layered plotlines make this a fun spy romp.”
—
Booklist
“Everybody loves a skillfully characterized, humorously narrated and undeniably well-plotted novel.”
—
RT Book Reviews
(4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
ALL ABOUT EVIE
“
All About Evie
is an amazing charmer…I look forward to more works, sure to dazzle and entertain, by this wonderfully talented author.”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Heather Graham
“Everything about Ciotta’s latest novel is fabulous: the lovable heroine, the sexy hero, the consistently humorous internal monologue, the smooth narration and the delightfully original plot.”
—
RT Book Reviews
(4 ½ stars, Top Pick)
BETH CIOTTA
Out of Eden
This book is dedicated to my brother, Bob Miller—a courageous and inspiring spirit. Ride that bull!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is where I get to thank the awesome people who helped give this story life.
Two very special ladies brainstormed and critiqued this tale from beginning to end. Barb Hisle and Cynthia Valero—if I baked, I’d whip you up a lifetime of mouthwatering brownies!
Two other very special ladies provided me with never-ending cyber hugs and support. Mary Stella and Julia Templeton—clinking my cyber champagne glass to yours!
One very special husband put up with my cranky moods and crappy housekeeping when in the throes of deadline hell. Steve Ciotta—are you feeling the love?
One special agent who “gets me” and “champions me.” Amy Moore-Benson—I’m saving a dance, any dance, for you.
One special editor who handled this story
and
the creator with tender loving care. Keyren Gerlach—you’re one of a kind.
One special soul who bid on a mention in this tale via a donation to an extremely worthy cause. Kerri Waldo—your generous spirit gave a character life. Enjoy!
Countless special individuals at HQN who worked together to create a fantastic package (love my cover!) and to market this story far and wide—my heartfelt gratitude.
Last, but most importantly, a mega-huge, very enthusiastic nod to booksellers, librarians and YOU, the reader. Without you, I wouldn’t be able to share the stories of my heart.
Thank you all!
Also available from
Beth Ciotta
and HQN Books
Evie Ever After
Everybody Loves Evie
All About Evie
And be on the lookout for Beth’s fabulous new contemporary romance
Into the Wild
Coming in September 2010!
Out of Eden
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
“Y
OU ARE A HEEL
. A chunky heel. A chunky,
boring
heel. Please don’t take this personally, but I’m over you.”
“I knew it was a mistake to let you drink cosmopolitans.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“You’re talking to your shoe.”
“I
was
talking to my shoe. Now I’m talking to you.” Sensible slip-on in one hand, toxic cocktail in the other, Kylie McGraw leaned back against the red vinyl seat of one of the four booths in Boone’s Bar and Grill and frowned across the table at Faye Tyler, two of her—strike that—one of her splendiferous best friends. They’d grown up together in Eden, Indiana—
Paradise in the Heartland
according to the slogan emblazoned on the green water tower planted on the outskirts of town. Someone had even painted red apples on the elevated tank so that the tower resembled a, you got it, apple tree. This was, after all, Eden, a place where most residents lived out their years because who would want to leave paradise? Except for the occasional thrill-seeker and random oddball. Although sometimes fate intervened and even
they
stuck around. Kylie and Faye were prime examples.
Kylie sipped her drink and studied her friend, reflecting on how they’d come to this moment.
Faye, who’d wanted to be a rock star, was married with two kids and owned the local bed-and-breakfast.
Kylie, who’d wanted a husband and kids, was single and running a business she should have inherited. Nothing was going according to plan. Even her dream of touring Asia, a dream she’d nurtured since the age of thirteen, seemed doomed. It’s not that her life was horrible—just horribly boring.
This morning she’d woken up another year older, thinking about another year of the same. Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days of ordinary. She’d barely made it through the long, uneventful, dull-as-the-mayor’s-speeches day. Then Faye had picked her up for her birthday celebration and it was official. Kylie had reached the end of her extraordinarily vast and famous patience.
Faye and her slightly blurry twin snapped their fingers two inches from Kylie’s face. “Earth to McGraw. Are you zoning or comatose?”
Kylie adjusted her black oval glasses and blinked away the double image, conceding cosmopolitans packed a mighty punch. Either that or Boone had screwed up the ingredients. Possible, since he’d referred to a mix recipe and his reading glasses were forever perched
on top
of his balding head. “Okay. Maybe I am a teensy bit tipsy, but I am not, absolutely
not
drunk. And even if I was—” she grappled for a righteous excuse “—it
is
my birthday.”
“I’m not saying you aren’t entitled to cut loose,” Faye said, nursing a frosty mug of Budweiser. “It’s just that you always drink beer.”
“Exactly!” Kylie jabbed her shoe in the air to emphasize her point. “I always drink beer.”
Faye sighed. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It means I can’t take it anymore.”
“Define
it?”
“The predictability. The routine. The mundane. The run-of-the-mill, unremarkable, habitual sameness—”
“I get the picture.”
“Today is my birthday.”
“September 15. Same day every year.”
“And every year we spend my birthday together.”
“Since you turned twelve, yes. We’ve yet to miss a celebration, which goes to show how much I love you. I could be home watching MTV.”
“You see my point.”
“Not really.”
“Same ol’, same ol’.”
Faye shrugged, smiled. “Not following.”
“Every year we celebrate my birthday the same way. Pizza King. Movie. And since we turned twenty-one, Boone’s Bar and Grill.”
“Except we skipped the movie this time and came straight to Boone’s,” she said with a frown. “It’s 7:00 p.m. We’re the only ones here aside from a few guys throwing back happy hour brewskies and you’re already half tanked.”
Kylie scrunched her nose. “I heard that mobster flick’s more violent than
The Godfather
and
The Departed
combined. Did you really want to see it?”
“Not really. But since the Bixley only runs one feature, it’s not like we had a choice. We could have closed our eyes during the gory parts.”
“We would’ve missed three-quarters of the movie!”
“That’s not the point! We always celebrate your birthday the same way. Pizza. Movie. Boone’s. It’s
tradition
.”
“It’s boring.” Maybe it was the alcohol, but Kylie could swear the curls of Faye’s bleached hair drooped along with her smile. “Not you,” she clarified, “tradition.”
She glanced at her friend’s manicured fingernails. Tonight they were metallic blue. Tomorrow they could be vivid orange or neon pink. Sometimes she even adorned them with decals and rhinestones. She was nearly as creative with her hairstyles, although she changed the shade every other month rather than every other day. Her thrift shop wardrobe ranged from 1960s Annette Funicello to 1990s Madonna. “You,” Kylie said with sincere admiration, “are the Gwen Stefani of Eden.”
Faye tucked her shoulder-length platinum curls behind her ears and quirked a thinly tweezed, meticulously penciled brow. “I take back the scathing remark I mentally slung your way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Kylie was not so adventurous with her appearance. Her wardrobe was casual. Loose-fitting clothes in muted, earthy tones. Minimal makeup and accessories. She came from the less-is-more camp. She wasn’t sexy or funky or feminine. She was…sensible.
She was also miserable.
She set aside her right shoe—the left was still on her foot—and wrangled her natural blah-boring brown, overly thick, overly long hair into a loosely knotted ponytail. “It’s hot in here.”
“Blame it on the cosmos or your heated rant,” Faye said. “It’s the same as always—comfortable. Boone keeps the thermostat set at sixty-eight year round. You know that.”
Kylie wanted to scream at yet another example of predictability. Instead, she propped her elbow on the table, footwear in hand. “My life is like this shoe. Sensible. This town is like this shoe. Practical.”
“Hello? Your family’s motto? Practical shoes for practical people. It’s written on the plaque hanging behind the cashier counter.”
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That plaque is so gone. In fact, I’m going to redecorate the entire store,” she said on a whim. “Bright colors. Maybe even pink. Pepto-Bismol pink with banana-yellow trim. Acrylic racks. Leopard seat cushions. Art posters splashed with funky period high heels. I saw this Andy Warhol print on the Internet.
Diamond Dust Shoes
. Weird, but fun.”
“You know me,” Faye said. “I’m all for kitschy. But that’s radical. If your mom and grandma were here—”
“One would applaud my vision. The other would nix it.” She didn’t know which woman would take what stance. She just knew they’d take opposing views. They bickered constantly and Kylie was forever playing mediator. She’d been given a short reprieve since they were currently enjoying (or not) the Alaskan cruise Grandma McGraw had won at the church’s silent auction, but they’d be back. “I’m bypassing the debate and making an executive decision as the store’s manager.”
“Without consulting Spenser?”
Kylie bristled. When her treasure hunting brother had been presented with an opportunity to host a cable series on the Explorer Channel, she hadn’t thought twice about taking full responsibility and running McGraw’s Shoe Store.
A: Because she loved Spenser to pieces.
B: Unlike her brother, she had an actual interest in shoes and the business as a whole.
It’s just that she hadn’t expected to be in charge for so long without an extended break.
Closing the store for a month was not an option, and she was too territorial to trust the business to a nonfamily member. Leaving the store in the hands of her mom and grandma was unthinkable. They’d kill each other. Or the business. Or both.
Last month when she’d talked to Spenser, he’d said he’d be coming home after he finished a shoot in Egypt, which meant any day now. She’d intended to discuss her dream trip then. In person. Except this morning, when he’d called to wish her happy birthday, he’d explained that he and his cameraman had finally obtained permission to visit Pitcairn—the secluded island inhabited by the ancestors of Fletcher Christian and the other mutineers of the
Bounty
.
“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Kitten,”
he’d said.
They were all once-in-a-lifetime opportunities.
“Just a few more weeks,”
he’d said.
Which in Spenser-speak meant a few more months, maybe years.
Okay. That was overdramatic. But as sure as Kylie opened the store every day, Tuesday through Saturday at 9:00 a.m., he’d be broadening his horizons while hers flat-lined. “I know the store’s in Spenser’s name,” she grumbled, “but he saddled me with the responsibility.”
“Temporarily,” Faye said. “Although I admit his idea of ‘temporary’ differs from most folks. Still, if I recall, you’re supposed to run things status quo. Knowing your brother, I don’t think he’d be keen on pink walls and weird posters.”
“Spenser can kiss my—”
“Ashe sent this over.” Wanda, Boone’s wife, who usually manned the kitchen whipping up her locally famous kick-butt chicken wings, seasoned mozzarella sticks and other assorted yummies, was currently working the floor due to a server shortage. She set another cosmo on the table. “Be warned, the silver-tongued dog paid Boone for a double shot of vodka.”
“Happy birthday, Kylie,” Ashe called from his bar stool.
He probably thought that winking thing was sexy. Smarmy was more like it. “Thanks.” She saluted the cocky car dealer with a dismissive smile. Ashe Davis had been trying to score with her since her almost-fiancé, make that
ex-
almost-fiancé, fled paradise last year. At no point in time had she suggested he had a snowball’s chance in hell, but the man was persistent. Handsome and successful, thirty-six and never married, he was considered by some the perfect catch. Only thus far he’d proved too slippery for any of the eligible women in Eden and even a few of the not-so-eligible. With Ashe it was all about the hunt. Once he bagged his prey, he lost interest. If Kylie wanted a brief, hot fling, he’d be the perfect choice. That is, if she could stomach sleeping with a self-absorbed womanizer.
“He’s thinking tonight’s his lucky night,” Faye said with a roll of her blue-shadowed eyes.
“I’d have to be blitzed out of my gourd to sleep with Ashe.”
“Drink that third cosmo and consider yourself boinked,” said Faye.
Kylie pushed her glasses up her nose and focused, sort of, on Wanda. “Do I appear inebriated to you?”
“I did see you talking to your shoe, dear.”
“That’s because this shoe represents the crux of my discontent.”
“Don’t ask,” Faye said, then sipped her beer.
“Giving you blisters?”
Faye slapped a palm to her forehead, metallic-blue nails glittering.
Ironically, or maybe not, someone punched A12 on the jukebox—Kylie knew that jukebox by heart—flooding the bar with the retro hit: “These Boots Are Made for Walking.” Probably someone was making fun of her current shoe fixation, but she was more inspired than insulted. The music provided the perfect background for her on-the-spot promo.
“These,” she said, displaying the slip-on for Wanda’s keener inspection, “are Aerosoles. Padded insoles. Lightweight and flexible. They do not cause blisters. A smart buy for someone who spends a lot of time on their feet. Someone like you.”
“You introduced me to that brand the last time I was in your shop,” Wanda said while snapping her gum. “Felt like I was walking on clouds, but Boone would have a cow if I paid that kind of money for one pair of shoes.”
“Yes, but they’d last longer than the bargain canvas sneakers you’re wearing, plus they’d offer proper arch support. Given your occupation, don’t your feet deserve better?”
“Stop trying to sell my wife fancy shoes!” Boone shouted over the music while sliding a beer down to Ashe.
“They’re not fancy!” Kylie shouted back. “They’re practical!”
“I’m thinking it’s a birthday crisis,” Faye said to Wanda. “Did you wig out when you turned thirty-two?”
“No.” Gaze fixed on the far wall, she shifted and tapped the empty tray against her thigh in time with the music. She blew a pink bubble and when the bubble burst, spoke her mind. “Although I did go through a funk when I turned thirty-nine. All I could think was, I’m one year from forty. Then of course, I panicked when I turned the big five-oh. Who doesn’t?”
“You’re a size seven, right?” Kylie asked, bulldozing over their talk of a birthday crisis. This wasn’t about age, although it was about another passing year.
“Yes, but—”
“Take them.” Desperate to take action, any action to shake up her life, she shoved her right shoe in Wanda’s free hand, toed off the left and handed that over, as well. “They’re yours.”
“They look brand-new.” The redheaded, gum-cracking woman flipped them over, inspected the soles and heels. “No scuffs, no wear.”
“I’ve worn them three times max.”
“Are you sure you want to give them up?”
“Trust me. I’ve got loads of sensible shoes.”
“Shoes, schmooze!” someone complained. “What’s a guy gotta do to get some chicken wings around here?”
They turned their attention to the grumpy complainant, Max Grogan, the town’s retired fire chief, seventy-two and prickly as a porcupine. Armed with two bottles of beer each, he and his cronies—Jay Jarvis (of J.J.’s Pharmacy and Sundry), Ray Keystone (Keystone Barbershop) and Dick Wilson (the town mayor)—were engrossed in their biweekly game of cards.
“Keep your pants on, Max!” Wanda shouted.
“An image I can do without.” Faye shuddered. “Max’s dingy.”
“You can tell you’ve got a five-year-old at home,” Wanda said with a grin. “Dingy. That’s cute, hon. Thanks for the shoes, Kylie, and Happy Birthday,” she added before leaving.
“I wish.” Kylie downed Ashe’s alcoholic gift in two swallows, then slid aside the empty glass with a snort. “Didn’t taste stronger than the first two.”
