Sugar Free (24 page)

My life is like a mental scrapbook, clips and images that I easily call forth into my mind that chronicle my journey of growth, salvation, and redemption. I try not to think about the past too much, but rather choose to start remembering them where the story left off, so you can judge the merits of how far I've come.

Three weeks after murder charges were dropped…

It's been three weeks since the charges were dropped against Beck and me, but it seems like a lifetime ago. We've already instituted so much change in our life that sometimes the past feels unreal to either of us. We're big believers of “clean slates” and we decided that we needed to simplify things so that we could start creating a new life.

We also need to leave California behind.

“The best feature by far,” the Realtor says as she sweeps her arm across the narrow living room that leads out to a rickety-looking deck, “is the beach access and panoramic Gulf of Mexico view.”

I watch as Beck walks to the sliding glass doors that lead out but I don't follow. I can see the view from where I'm standing in the kitchen, which sits behind the living room separated by an L-shaped counter, and it's breathtaking. A boardwalk picks up at the bottom of the deck stairs and extends out probably fifty yards over the dunes and down onto the beach. The sand is white, soft looking, and the gulf waters off the Florida Panhandle are shades of light blue to turquoise, which gets progressively darker as the water gets deeper. I turn my back on the Realtor and Beck, and take a slow walk around the kitchen, trying to envision what it would be like to live here. I've lived in California my whole life and it's very different here. Flat and hot. A moist hot. It will take some getting used to, but as Beck says, I can walk around in a bikini all the time and he's not opposed to that.

A hand on my hip and Beck is back with me briefly before he pushes past me into the kitchen. He looks at the Formica counters and veneer cabinets, running his hand over one of the doors. The three-story, narrow cottage is just 1,380 square feet and was built in the early eighties. It's very dated.

Very, very dated.

“The cabinets aren't whitewashed,” he observes.

I nod down to our feet. “Linoleum.”

“Curling in slightly at the edges,” he adds.

The Realtor scurries over, fearing the loss of a sale on what is a lovely little beach house but definitely a fixer-upper. “I'm sure the owner would have the floors and cabinets redone if that's a sticking point.”

Beck looks at me with his eyebrows raised, and I grin back at him a moment, needing no verbal communication to know we're on the same page.

I turn to the Realtor. “The floor's perfect as is and we can paint the cabinets. We'll take it.”

Four months after murder charges were dropped…

Life on St. George Island is good. Beck and I moved as soon as I graduated from Golden Gate with my master's degree and we're acclimating. The hardest part is not seeing Caroline and Ally, but that's about to be remedied today. Beck is picking them up at the Tallahassee airport and I'm doing some tidying up of the place. Caroline is staying for a week and then she's going to leave Ally with us for another three weeks of fun in the Florida sun, most of which will be spent at the Disney theme parks.

Beck's work life has taken a decidedly different turn, and while he still has his fingers in some very important pies, his days are completely flexible. He prefers to sleep in late with me, then he usually wakes me up with his hand between my legs and we'll play in bed for an hour or so. We have a late breakfast and then he works from his home office, which is the third-floor loft.

The sale of The Sugar Bowl was finalized last month. Like our decision to leave California, Beck wanted nothing left that reminded him of JT. He worked out an ingenious deal with the owners of a start-up company called ET Technologies, who had apparently approached him and JT months ago about investing in their project to create software that could read facial expressions. Beck was highly interested in this and it got his computer engineering juices flowing. He proposed to sell The Sugar Bowl to them in exchange for 50 percent ownership in their start-up as well as full ownership rights to the patents to the software, since he'd be developing it. This was a good deal for them, as this venture was not without risk and there was no guarantee it could even be done, whereas The Sugar Bowl was a solid business that only needed maintenance. It would provide them with a flow of money to provide them a good life while Beck worked in his office creating this amazing software program.

I hear the front door open and then the stomping of feet as Ally comes flying into the kitchen.

“Sela,” she yells out before throwing herself into my arms.

I pick her up, give her a quick hug, and then set her down, where I examine her carefully. “I swear you've grown two inches since I last saw you.”

She beams at me and says, “Mommy says I'm going to be tall like a willow tree, which is weird, because Mommy's on the short side.”

My eyes flick over to Caroline as she walks in and she gives me a sad smile. JT was tall, and clearly Ally is going to get her height from him. Beck comes trudging in behind with two large suitcases in his hands. Caroline and I hug it out with a little bit of tight clutching and rocking back and forth, because it's so good to see each other.

This week is going to be amazing. We've got so many things planned because the great but extremely hot state of Florida has an abundance of activities, attractions, and beautiful coastline to explore. But we also have business to get down to.

Beck and I are going to work on Caroline hard to get her to leave California and move here. She has nothing left back there except Dennis, who's been keeping a close eye on her for us.

Caroline pulls away from me and looks around. “I love this place,” she says, taking in the decor. Beck and I furnished it with a coastal theme like seashell lamps, prints of sailing ships, and miniature indoor palm trees.

“But you need to do some serious updating,” she says as she looks down at the linoleum floor. I believe it probably started out as a creamy white color with a design of mocha brown etchings done in four-inch squares and running on a diagonal. Over time the mocha brown has faded to a tan color and the creamy white has yellowed.

It's pretty hideous, but still I tell her, “We'll get to it…one day. But we did update the cabinets. I stripped them and then whitewashed them. It was a fun little project.”

“You need to get a job,” Caroline says with a laugh. “The Sela Halstead I know doesn't do home remodeling.”

And she's not wrong about that. The cabinet project was fun, but I'm getting bored out of my mind. I finished my master's just before we moved and I'm trying to find a job as a counselor, but options are limited in this little community. Beck keeps pushing at me to just open my own practice and build it up slowly.

It's a good idea.

Maybe.

Eleven months after murder charges were dropped…

I fly up the deck stairs from the boardwalk, Beck hot on my heels. It's an unusually warm day for December, and when it's eighty-three degrees just two days before Christmas, you do what other Floridians do.

You put on your bathing suits and frolic on the beach.

I didn't have any appointments today, which isn't unusual. I only opened the doors to my counseling practice two months ago and I'm still building. I've also advertised as specializing in rape counseling, but in this small community there are—thankfully—precious few people who need those particular services. So I do general counseling too, and most of my clients are couples who are headed toward divorce and are struggling to keep the marriage alive.

“Better run faster than that, Sela,” Beck calls out from behind me, and the pounding of his feet on the wood stairs is loud so I know he's really close. I dare not turn my head to look as I'll lose precious seconds on my lead.

The competition is to see who can get to the refrigerator first for a beer.

The prize?

The winner gets an oral orgasm from the loser.

And has to clean the kitchen all week. That's the bigger prize because Beck already spoils me with his mouth.

I fly through the sliding glass door, which we had left open, only fifteen feet from the kitchen when Beck's arms wrap around my waist. He lifts me up, spins me fast, and deposits me behind him, and I can't hold back my shriek of laughter.

“You're cheating,” I scream.

“So what?” he laughs back, and then jets into the kitchen.

Except the minute he hits the line that delineates the kitchen from the living room—that line that goes from wooden laminate flooring to old linoleum—his foot catches a curled edge and he trips forward, completely off balance. His arms go flailing in a windmill pattern, trying to regain balance and ease off the trajectory. He's moderately successful in stopping his momentum by slamming into the refrigerator, which almost tips over.

“Jesus Christ,” Beck grumbles as he turns to me, his face pale from the near disaster. “We need to get this fucking floor fixed.”

I saunter into the kitchen laughing, step into him, and work at the drawstring of his board shorts. My voice is husky when I say, “Maybe. One day. But for right now, it appears I just lost the race.”

Beck's face fills back up with color and I can feel his cock thickening when my hands brush against it as I untie his shorts. The look of anticipation and desire on his face fuels me to work faster.

The ringing of Beck's cell phone distracts both of us, and because we really haven't gotten started, Beck leans over and grabs it off the counter. “Beck North.”

I watch as his eyes are open and curious as whoever is on the other line talks, and then they close briefly as he lets out a breath of regret. I immediately drop my hands away from his crotch area and rest them on his chest in a show of emotional support. His eyes open up and he looks down at me, as he tells the person, “Okay. Thank you for letting me know. I'll look for your email.”

Beck hangs up and doesn't even bother to wait for me to ask what's happened. “My dad had a heart attack night before last. It was sudden and nothing could be done. He was dead when the EMS got to the house.”

My hand goes to my mouth as I gasp, but I don't say anything. The words
I'm sorry
won't work, because I'm not sure if I am. I mean…I'm sorry anyone is dead, but I don't think his death is going to affect Beck very much. His parents haven't reached out once to their son after the charges were dropped against us, and likewise, Beck hasn't contacted them either.

“That was the estate attorney,” he said thoughtfully. “Apparently my father had his will redone a few months ago. Provided for some money for both me and Caroline, with the rest to my mother.”

“Really?” I say, stunned by this news. That's the first acknowledgment of Caroline as his daughter since before she was raped.

“Caroline won't take the money,” Beck muses.

“Nope.”

“I'll give my portion to a rape crisis center or something,” he adds.

“I think that's a great idea.”

“Now,” he says, taking my hands and pushing them down from his chest to his stomach. “Where were we?”

I stop my hands and press my fingers into his abs. “Want to talk about this?”

“My dad dying?” he asks, eyes wide with surprise.

“Well, duh,” I say with an eye roll.

“Baby…you know my parents were already dead to me, right? I don't feel much of anything about it other than a general sorrow that someone I knew has died. He wasn't there for his kids when they needed him. My mother the same. So no, I don't want to talk about it.”

I lean in and press a kiss to his chest, nodding my understanding. I'm sure this is affecting him more than he's letting on, but I'm going to let him process this a bit and we'll come back to it.