Soaring (4 page)

I would be what I promised them I would be when I emailed them to tell them I was moving to Maine and things would change.

Yes, that and only that was what I’d be.

They’d see.

God, I hoped they’d see.

Chapter Two

They Didn’t Reply

I was driving down Cross Street, the main street of Magdalene, that next day on an errand of going nowhere and doing nothing, just getting the lay of the land of my new home.

I’d been born in California, and although Conrad had moved to a practice in Boston and we’d lived there for two years (and then to Lexington, Kentucky for two more), I’d never been to Maine.

From what I could see, I liked it. It was pretty. Quiet. Sparsely populated. Restful.

There was a chill in the air even though it was early June, which I wasn’t used to, and I worried that the bloom would go off the rose of not having everything you could possibly want in the form of shopping, restaurants and movies within easy driving distance. But I liked the change.

And the fact there was practically no traffic was a major plus.

For a woman who needed to reinvent herself, a relatively sleepy coastal Maine town seemed the perfect place to focus inwards without any distractions.

These were my thoughts when my phone in my purse rang.

My children had not phoned me of their own volition in over a year.

I still held hope. I was there. Close. Not in California when they were in Maine like it had been for the last ten months.

Maybe they felt badly about ignoring me all weekend.

Maybe they liked the new house (because who wouldn’t? it was fabulous) and wanted to ask if they could show their friends around.

And maybe I was insane to hope.

But the idea of losing hope terrified me to extremes.

So I hoped.

I saw a road with a sign that said Haver Way, turned off and turned right into a parking lot. I pulled into a space, put my car in park and grabbed my purse.

I yanked out my phone and stared at it.

It was unsurprisingly not my children.

It was my mother.

Since I’d left California, this wasn’t the first time she’d called. She’d called once a day starting the day I got in my car with my suitcases to drive across the country.

And this was only once per day, regardless if I didn’t return her calls. She would not be so ill-bred as to phone more than once, even if her only daughter, who had been ravaged by divorce then took that out on her family, was driving across a continent for the first time in her life to launch an all-out effort to save her family…and herself.

Even if only once a day, I had not taken a single call.

This, I knew, was not going over well. I also knew she’d call the next day. And perhaps the next. She would not get angry at me. Her voicemails would not become heated.

No.

The day after that, my father would call.

He would bring the heat but he’d do it using a chill.

I wondered if I’d have the courage not to take his call.

The truth was I was surprised I hadn’t caved and taken one of my mother’s.

But I hadn’t and I hadn’t because, during my long drive across country, I’d figured out at least one thing about me: she was a trigger. So was my father. They were triggers that sent me down a path of feeling entitled at the same time feeling small. A path where, for some reason, I had no control of my actions. I did what was ingrained in me. I did what was expected of me. They flipped the switch and anything that could have been me disappeared and all that was bred in me turned on and took over.

Because of this, for the past three years I’d done all I could to be certain that any person involved in putting a blight on the Hathaway name paid, to extremes.

Divorce was a blight. My brother had been living with the coldest bitch the west coast had ever seen for the last twenty years. In that time, she’d drained every ounce of joy out of my once fun-loving, teasing, sweet older brother, leaving him a zombie without the decaying flesh but with a working-way-too-much habit. All this, and he would no sooner leave her than cut off his own arm.

Divorce for a Hathaway wasn’t
done
.

Ever.

Mom and Dad didn’t blame me for Conrad leaving me. They blamed him. No one would leave a
Hathaway
.

And thus, they backed every selfish, thoughtless, insane move I’d made to make his and Martine’s lives a misery.

On this thought, the phone stopped ringing.

I dropped my hand to my lap and looked up. It was only then I saw that I’d parked in front of what looked like a store, but on the window, in gold with black on the edges, it said “Truck’s Gym.”

I looked beyond the sign and inside I saw it wasn’t any old gym. It was a boxing gym.

This intrigued me, but what caught my attention was a large placard leaning against the inside of the window beside the door that proudly declared, “Home of the Magdalene Junior Boxing League.”

My son, Auden wrestled.

The instant he started doing that, my parents had lost their minds (quietly), horrified that he didn’t turn his attention to something like polo, archery or sailing.

Conrad, an athlete his whole life, had been beside himself with happiness.

As for me, I didn’t like watching other boys trying to pin my son to a mat. I found it distressing. And unfortunately, I was not good at hiding that.

In the end, Auden got very good. He also got to the point he didn’t like me at his matches, and not just because I usually took that opportunity to confront Conrad and/or Martine, but because I tried to be supportive. However, since I really wished he’d chosen baseball, I’d failed in demonstrating that support.

But staring at that placard, I knew that youth athletics programs were always needing money, doing fundraising drives, selling candy bars or moms setting up bake sales.

And I intended to have a massive house sale. Sell all the old in order to bring in the new. And since both sets of my grandparents, and my parents, had all given me substantial trust funds on which I could live more than comfortably, I didn’t need money.

I’d intended to give the house sale proceeds to charity.

Looking at that sign, I tightened my hold on my phone, grabbed my purse and threw open the door to my car. I got out, walked to the door of the gym, and before my courage could fail me, I pushed through.

I barely got in when I heard, “Nice ride.”

I looked to my left to see a man in track pants and a loose fitting tank top that had openings that hung low down his sides almost to his waist, this exposing the muscled ridges of his ribs. He was staring out the window toward my car.

I had a black Mercedes SLK 350. A beautiful car. A car I loved. A car that was ridiculous for a mother of two and in a few months might be ridiculous for a winter in Maine.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Need help?”

This came from another direction and I turned my head again to see a man approaching me.

He was tall, taller than Conrad, taller than Mickey (who was also taller than Conrad). He was built. He was rough.

And he was gorgeous.

Men from Maine.

Who knew?

“Hello,” I replied as he kept coming my way. “I’m looking for someone who knows something about the boxing league.”

“Which one?” he asked.

In this sleepy town, there was more than one?

“The junior one,” I answered.

He stopped several feet in front of me and crossed his arms on his chest. “That’d be me.”

“Oh, excellent,” I mumbled, staring at him, thinking he was almost as handsome as Mickey (but not quite), which was a feat.

“You got a kid you wanna enroll?” he queried.

“No, my son wrestles,” I told him, straightening my shoulders proudly. A mom’s reflex action, the kind any mom should have (in my opinion), even if she wasn’t all that thrilled with his chosen endeavor.

He grinned. It, as well, was almost as devastating as Mickey’s. But not quite.

“Wrestling works,” he muttered.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Anyway, I was just wondering if the junior boxing league takes donations?”

“If you mean money, then fuck yeah,” he said, surprisingly coarsely. “If you mean equipment, and it’s new, then another yeah. But if you mean equipment that’s used, I’d have to take a look. Kids need good shit. Don’t like them sparrin’ in somethin’ that’s supposed to protect ’em but could end up hurtin’ ’em.”

I thought this was a good policy, but he obviously already knew that so I didn’t share my thoughts.

I said, “I mean money. In a way. Or not in a way, as it would definitely be money. What I mean is…in the future. You see, I just moved to Magdalene and I’m having a house sale. I thought, perhaps, the league could use the proceeds.”

At that, he smiled, which was also attractive, and he did this as he uncrossed his arms from his wide chest, planted his hands on his hips and decreed, “Great idea.” He then turned, started walking away from me and kept talking, “Come to the office. I’ll get you Josie’s number. Bet most the moms have shit they’d sell off. You get with Josie, you can make it a thing.”

“Josie?” I asked, deciding it best to follow him, something I did, the heels of the flats I wore that I was pretty sure my mother also had (in every color) making muted sounds against the wood floors.

“My wife,” he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder at me. “She’s taken charge of fundraising.”

Taken charge?

That gave the impression she didn’t get involved before, and I thought that was strange.

I thought this because no matter what Conrad was involved in, what he needed, I did it. For instance, me to give a fabulous dinner party, or show at a business dinner in an appropriate dress and be charming, or become involved on the board of a charitable organization.

I didn’t just do it. I gave it my everything.

“Oh, right,” I said to the man’s back.

We entered a tidy office and I did it surprised boxers could be tidy. Then I forced myself to stop being surprised because I didn’t know any boxers and that was judgmental, a reaction my parents would have. And I forced myself to stop thinking about it at all when I halted as he continued walking to the desk.

He bent at the waist (a trim waist, I could see that through his well-fitting t-shirt), scribbled on a piece of paper, turned and came to me.

He held out the paper. “Josie’s number,” he declared. “I’ll give her the heads up you’re callin’. You wanna leave yours, I’ll give her your number too.” He grinned again and said, “And by the way, I’m Jake Spear. Owner of Truck’s Gym and the man behind Magdalene’s junior boxing league.”

I took the paper, shoved it into my purse with my phone and held out my hand, “Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Amelia Hathaway.”

He took my hand, and much like when Mickey did it (with obvious differences, seeing as he wasn’t
quite
as attractive, not to mention the significant fact he was married), the strength and warmth of his fingers around mine communicated something I liked.

Deeply.

“Good to meet you, Amelia,” he replied, squeezing my fingers lightly and briefly before letting me go. “Real good to meet you, you raise some cake for my kids.”

I had a feeling, considering my plan, how much stuff I was selling and how nice it was, I’d definitely raise some
cake
for his
kids
.

I smiled at him then looked to his desk before moving my gaze back to him. “Shall I write down my number for your wife so we can introduce ourselves and make plans?”

“Absolutely,” he said while walking back to the desk.

I followed and did what he did, bending and writing my name and number on a sheet of paper.

I straightened and looked up to him. “I’ll give her a call today or tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“You don’t, she’ll call you,” he told me. “A lot of the equipment is shot and enrollment is up. We need cash to cover the expansion. The last gig she did she wasn’t pleased with the results. Put her all into it and we made dick. She’s a dog with a bone now. So you might get a call before you even have time to drive home.”

I wouldn’t mind that. I hadn’t been there a week but I needed to settle in. Get the lay of the land. Sort out my home. Win back my family.

But I also needed to start a life.

That was what I’d failed to do when Conrad left. My life had been him. I should have licked my wounds, found a way to let them heal and moved on.

I didn’t do that.

Now, I had to do that. My thought: a healthy mom means a healthy home, which ends in a healthy relationship with my children.

My goal. What I was living for.

And although this Jake Spear didn’t hesitate to curse in front of a stranger who was also a female (my mother
and
father would lose their minds at that, genteelly, of course), he ran a junior boxing league. At least that said good things about him and a good man (sometimes) meant a good woman as his wife.

I needed to know good people.

And I needed friends.

This Josie might not be one but at least she was someone calling me that was not thousands of miles away and better, not my mother.

“Babe.”

At the word, a trill raced down my spine, exploding along my lower back and cascading over my bottom. I experienced this swift, surprising and alarmingly pleasant sensation and slowly turned to the door.

One syllable. He’d said one syllable and I’d met him once and I knew who would be there. I knew who made me feel that feeling.

I was right.

In the office doorway stood Mickey Donovan in loose fitting, navy track pants and a short-sleeved, skintight white workout shirt.

And he was smiling, doing it warmly, looking pleasantly startled (likely at my being in a boxing gym) and very welcoming.

I was startled he was there at that precise moment, but I wasn’t surprised he was at a boxing gym.

“Not where I expected to run into you,” Mickey remarked.

“Well…no,” I replied. “How are you, Mickey?”