Naturally, Charlie Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012

  Copyright © S.L. Scott, 2012

  The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000

  This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Writer’s Coffee Shop

  (Australia) PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126

  (USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168

  Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-131-3

  E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-132-0

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.

  Cover image by: © Depositphotos/Igor Mojzes

  Cover design by: Jada D'Lee

  http://www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/sscott

  About the Author

  S.L. Scott is a former high-tech account manager with a journalism degree pursuing her passion for telling stories. She spends her days escaping into her characters and letting them lead her on their adventures.

  Live music shows, harvesting jalapenos and eating homemade guacamole are her obsessions she calls hobbies.

  Scott lives in the beautiful Texas Hill Country of Austin with her husband, two young sons, two Papillons and a bowl full of Sea Monkeys.

  Visit her at http://www.slscottauthor.com..

  Acknowledgments

  My family means the world to me, so I want to give thanks to my sweet boys for their patience when Mama needed to write and for the kisses, hugs, I lub you’s and love you’s I received while writing this story. My husband, you are my heart.

  I want to send a special thank you to my inspiring and amazing Mom, my stubborn and fiercely loyal sister, Stephanie, and my beautiful and smart niece, Andrea.

  Thank you to the following:

  To Kirsten who encouraged me to write and to pursue my dreams. To Jennifer who had to suffer through many early manuscripts as I found my legs in the writing world. And to Kerri who had to listen to my endless yammering about my stories on our live music nights.

  I can’t give enough love back to the women who have supported me with their insight and hard work on this book. Many hugs and a personal thank you to an amazing team: Jada D’Lee, Irene, LemmieJenn, and Susi. Your words of support are as invaluable as you are to me. Thank you for making this journey fun and educational. Who knew Guinness has less calories than a Budweiser? Well, I do now.

  To a group of friends who I cherish and must mention: Suzanne, Mary, Flavia, Laura, Sonia, Jaime, Ruth, Erin, Shauna, Tanya, Marie and my online community of friends. You are appreciated more than you know.

  To Jada D’Lee again for so much, including this wonderful book cover.

  To the lovely and hardworking team at The Writer’s Coffee Shop, thank you. Heartfelt thanks to Amanda, Janine, Kathie, Wyndy Dee, Elyse, and Andrea.

  Dreams come in many forms and this book was one of mine. Thank you for reading and making my dream come true.

  To my forever and a day

  Chapter 1

  Charlie Barrow

  “Damn it!”

  My day starts with an irritation that some might see as an omen of things to come. Others might see it as a minor speed bump. I see it as another hassle in a gigantic series of hassles, but a hassle all the same. My life seems to be filled with agitations these days.

  The toothbrush drops, and I watch as it bounces off the sink and straight into the toilet. With a frustrated sigh, I lean forward and spit the toothpaste out, realizing now that I only got to my bottom left molars before my grip slipped and the toothbrush went down.

  I look at the blue stick floating in the middle of the toilet, mocking me as it drifts around. Pinching it between my fingers, I rescue the toothbrush from the cold porcelain bowl. My life isn’t that bad to argue whether I should keep it or not. I toss the brush without a second thought and finish getting dressed for work.

  I spill my coffee—er, I mean when a guy running into the Coffee Hut hits me with his shoulder, thus causing the coffee to bubble through the little spout on the lid and land on my shirt, I chalk it up to another annoying mishap in this stage of my life. After the coffee incident and ToothGate this morning, I need to pay closer attention to the world around me. These tedious little occurrences are still new to me, but they all add up to a large amount of unnecessary aggravation. I’ve always believed that it’s the little things that make up your life. The bigger events just connect them. This is a philosophy I live by now.

  I arrive at Smith & Allen, an auction house representing property from private estates and corporate collections. It’s regarded as “preeminent in the marketplace of quality masterpieces, antiques, and antiquities.” That’s what’s written in the brochure. I’ve been known to believe in such greatness before, but today won’t be one of those days.

  I make my way through the maze of cubicles to my own little sectioned-off grey area and find a large manila envelope crowding my tiny, tidy desk. I set my coffee down and toss my purse in the bottom right drawer, kicking the cabinet closed.

  “Red or green?” Rachel Russo asks. She’s my friend, coworker, and all around party girl.

  “Green.” I keep my voice flat, trying to maintain a straight face while I tease since I’m clueless to why she’s asking me about colors.

  I slide my jacket down my arms. Catching it in my hand, I hang it on the hook attached to the half wall that divides our two cubicles. When I sit, my chair does a slow bounce, adjusting to the weight it’s now holding, and I slide my body forward.

  “You don’t even know why I’m asking.”

  I don’t have to look at her to know she’s pouting. I can hear it in her tone. I give in and play along. “What’s it for?”

  “Tonight. We’re going out. So, my va-va-va-voom red dress, or my green-means-go-home-with-me dress?”

  I can’t hold back the laughter no matter how hard I try. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “And on the market. So, which one?”

  “On the market? What happened to Paolo?” I stand, leaning forward so no one overhears our personal conversation.

  “He went back to Rome.”

  “Since when? Weren’t you supposed to see him last night?”

 
; “Yes, and I did, right before he left for the airport. I gave him his going away gift.”

  “Do I even entertain the question?”

  “Yes.” Her response is laced with giddiness.

  “What was his gift?”

  “Me, him, naked on his balcony with a bottle of red wine.”

  My mouth drops open. Okay, I didn’t expect that. “Rachel! He has a second floor walk-up that overlooks the street.”

  She shrugs as if public nudity is common. Well, maybe it is in New York, but still. “It was a fantasy of his, and I enjoyed it. I look good in the nude. Remember when I modeled for a sculpting class? I got asked out by three of the students.”

  “That doesn’t count.” I roll my eyes. “One was the teacher—the very female teacher—one wore bifocals and was older than your grandfather—”

  “And the other was Paolo.”

  I plop back down in my seat. “Point taken. Are you going to miss him?”

  “I gave him the best night of his life so he misses me. See how that works? I predict no more than a month before he’s knocking on my New York City door again.”

  “And by door, I’m guessing you mean your va-j? You know, you’d do well as a call girl.”

  “Jealous much?” She jokes with me as she sits back on her side of the divider.

  “All the time.” I always enjoy a good morning-time exchange.

  With the envelope in hand, I scan the address label that’s typed on the front:

  Ms. Charlotte Barrow

  Smith & Allen

  584 Madison Avenue

  New York, New York

  10022

  I blow a harsh breath as if I’ve been punched in the gut. My heart aches as I read the return address:

  Mrs. James Bennett Sr.

  12 Sutton Place

  Penthouse

  New York, New York

  10021

  I drop the package to the floor, the smooth paper like acid on my skin. At least that’s what it feels like to me. Mrs. James Bennett Sr., also known as Jim’s mother, has a knack for the low blow covered in a superficial camouflage of tact. And she doesn’t disappoint today.

  Tears fill my eyes as I search for anything to distract me, to make me not think about Jim. I look at my calendar and focus on the inspirational phrase below the picture, needing support, any support, I can get. I read, digesting the quote word by word. When you have confidence, you can have a lot of fun, and when you have fun you can do amazing things – Joe Namath.

  Okay, a sports personality giving me life advice might seem strange, but I can deal with that. I mean, he is an icon—even if I don’t know what for. I have confidence. I can do this. I take a deep breath then slowly exhale. I am a strong, confident woman! I am a strong, confident woman!

  I pick the envelope back up and run my finger along the return address, touching the package and being careful not to be burned again—metaphorically. Turning it sideways, I open it as if it’s anything else that comes across my desk needing my attention. Some papers and a three-inch-square box spill out before me. Proper etiquette dictates opening the card before the present, so I reach for that first.

  The card isn’t a card, though—it’s an invitation to his funeral. I can’t believe his mother is turning her own son’s funeral into a social event. One of the main reasons Jim and I were never meant to be—our upbringings were just too different.

  I knew the funeral was coming, although I didn’t know if I’d be invited. My original plan was to crash . . . for Jim, in remembrance of the good times. As I turn the card over in my hand, I can’t stop the roll of my stomach seeing it in print. He’s gone, deceased, dead. Tears fill my eyes when I realize I’ll never see him again.

  Can I do this right now? I drop my face into my hands, my elbows supporting its weight, and I stare at the box. Memories flood from the last time I saw him—saw him alive. Maybe if I’d taken him back, he’d still be alive now. Maybe if I had pushed the hurt, the pain away that day he came to my apartment, he’d still be here. I’m tired of wondering if I’d taken him back whether I could have saved him.

  I’m just tired.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I replay my mother’s words, letting them in, and hope they give me the strength I need. “You didn’t cause his accident, just like you didn’t cause him to make the decisions he made. He alone chose those.”

  He alone.

  Alone.

  Alone, like I am now.

  Jim’s gone forever and I’m alone.

  I wipe away the tears before they fall. I’m at work, and though some of my coworkers are aware of his death, I try very hard to keep my personal life out of the workplace. I think I’m strong enough to be here today, to deal with this, but not if it comes with the added pressure of smiling to reassure sympathetic coworkers. I can’t do that.

  But I can do this, I reason with myself. Not that I have much choice. I set the card down and pick up the box, hesitating as I lift the brown lid to peek inside. There in the fluffy white filler lies a simple white-gold ring with little diamonds sparkling like tiny stars randomly embedded in the band. I hold it between my index finger and thumb, remembering the life to which this ring once belonged.

  I shake off those memories, not wanting to travel down that lane again, especially not at work.

  The three days prior, I called in sick to mourn his loss, my loss, everyone’s loss. It wasn’t enough time to come to grips with his death. The sadness sits like a rock in the center of my chest. It was more like a small hole before I found out he died. My heart was healing, enough time had passed, and I was moving on. When his sister called me, the hole gaped open once again. Today, it’s more like a hard mass. Maybe that’s my heart. I can’t tell these days, so I try not to think about it.

  I put the ring, with care, back into the box and close the lid. I rummage through the papers included and find two letters and a poem that Jim wrote for me. I close my eyes, rubbing my temples, as my annoyance flairs. It’s a photocopy of the poem, a private moment we once shared. I should have the original, but in my hurry to leave, it was left behind. Now that Jim’s gone, I assume the original remains in the tight grip of his mother.

  I’m quite surprised she sent my engagement ring, but I’m sure the reminder of the rift it caused is insignificant compared to the disappointment she felt toward me for loving it so much. I’m sure she wanted to rid herself of it—rid herself of me—once and for all. The other ring wasn’t returned to me. I bet she kept it—or sold it. Either of those scenarios wouldn’t surprise me, because that ring was really hers all along.

  I pile the papers back into the envelope and slide the invitation and box on top of them before placing it inside the large drawer where I keep my purse. Once more, I kick the drawer shut.

  “I’m in for tonight.”

  “Great! I discovered this cool place downtown—not too trendy—but it’s got a great, hip vibe.”

  “Fantastic!” I feign enthusiasm, because although I’m not excited about going out, I need to go and try to start living again.

  It’s Friday, and standard for our business, I get a large amount of tedious paperwork piled in my inbox regarding this weekend’s auctions. The day seems to flow by without any major interruptions, apart from the unexpected visit from Mr. Smith. He’s our auction house’s founding leaders’ grandson and is a descendent of the original, blue-blooded families in this city.

  Frederick J. Smith III provides an endless source of enjoyment among the staff. He’s older than the States and less animated than a sponge. He’s a character unlike anyone else I know—other than Jim’s mother. They’re very similar, more similar than I recognized before today.

  “Ms. Barrow, I’m still not able to place your ancestry. You can fill me in when I have more time. It has bothered me so.”

  “It’s Scottish, sir.”

  “No, no, Charlotte. I said when I have time.” He walks off with strong intentions for the coffee room, accompanied by his assistant.
“Oh, how I do love those foamy lattes you make, Teresa.” She follows him down the corridor to make him that special treat.

  I swivel back to my desk and notice it’s almost five. Rachel pops her head up over my cubicle wall, all smiles and excitement.

  “You ready?”

  I pause to shut down my computer. “Yeah, I’m ready.” Grabbing my jacket off the hook, I swing it on while pulling my purse out of the drawer. That’s when I see the package again. I had managed to forget about it most of the day, getting lost in my work. But I can’t avoid it now. I remove the papers and box, and toss the envelope in the trash.

  Stuffing it all into my oversized purse, I make my way toward the elevators. Rachel keeps pace as the doors open like they know how desperate we are to leave. We glance over the crowd then squeeze in. As soon as the door opens, we race each other to the exit. That brings a smile to my face—a welcome reprieve from the heavy of today. After a quick good-bye at the corner, we separate, having already settled our plans to meet up later.

  I walk to the closest subway and straight onto a train. My mind wanders, as it always does when I’m on the train, the tunnel whizzing by. It’s how I decompress from the day.

  As the subway approaches the next stop, I notice a man—an attractive man—standing on the platform. Dressed casually, he’s wearing worn jeans, a light-blue, button-down shirt, and sneakers. A large group pushes in behind him when he steps on. His face is handsome and his eyes are kind. He’s really good-looking, and for the first time in forever, I kind of want to flirt. Maybe I should talk to him? I probably shouldn’t. He’ll think I’m a weirdo. This is New York City. People don’t like strangers talking to them on the subway. I watch as he lets everyone around him take the available seats, while he remains standing. His politeness is refreshing.