Short Fiction Excerpt
A/N: Excerpt from a short fiction novel I’m publishing in a few months. No title yet - I’m looking for feedback from anyone interested enough to read and let me know if you think the characters are compelling, and if the story sounds like something you’d like to read, etc. It falls into the romance category with some drama and comedy sprinkled throughout. Updates are coming to my other stories as well - IYWM probably tomorrow. Sorry that got delayed! I have too much going on lately.
Summary: At thirty, Anna Scarlett Atchley has the life she’s always dreamed about. She lives in a charming two bedroom co-op on the Lower East Side, and she’s finally worked her way into an assistant editor position at The New York Times. Her life is hers and hers alone - she answers to no one, and that’s the way she likes it.
Then Ethan Roberts enters the picture. Sexy and confident, he’s a top news reporter and one of the most sought after bachelors in the city. He’s also interested in Anna, who fears letting him get too close. Ignoring her reticence, he encourages her to step outside the boxed-in world she’s created for herself and face the things she’s afraid of.
But there’s a whole other life Anna left behind in Alabama - a traumatic childhood, and a family she feels never really understood her. When changing means confronting her past, will she find the courage to forgive and let go of what’s holding her back?
Chapter 1 - Excerpt
The time surrounding the news of her death is still a blur. I remember the call; a very polite woman named Nikki phoned from the hospital because my contact information was still in Maggie’s file.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your mother is dead.” And she did. Sound sorry, that is. Her voice was gentle, as if she’d had a lot of experience delivering that kind of news to the unsuspecting on the other end of a phone line.
I’m not sure what she expected from me. I suppose she thought I would cry or express shock or hop a red eye to get there as soon as possible. That’s probably what most people would do. In the movies you always see people crying at the bedside of the deceased, estranged or not. But what she didn’t know is that my mother had died long before she was ever admitted to a hospital in rural Alabama. I’d already mourned it and moved on. I had no more tears.
I thanked Nikki for her kindness and hung up. Twenty minutes later, my cousin Brett was calling. He asked me if I was coming and when I told him no, he didn’t try to persuade me. Everyone in the family knew what kind of hell my mother had put me through even though no one talked about it because Such Things Are Never Mentioned and Jesus Forgave Her. They never understood why I couldn’t.
I closed the book on Anna Margaret Atchley that cold, autumn day. Instead of mourning or going to church and praying for the forgiving nature that had long eluded me, I went to the movies and saw Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I saw it ninety-three times that winter.
Even after it left the main theaters, it was still playing in a few small neighborhood theaters in Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. I braved snowy days, freezing temperatures, and the colder stares of local teenage punks hanging around the subway exits to see that movie. I watched it every weekend until there were no more theaters showing it.
It’s not that it’s my favorite book or movie. I’m much more of a Jane Austen or Bronte sisters kind of girl. But I can’t deny Harry Potter is pure escapism, and it appealed to me that winter. It became my ritual, I suppose - my coping mechanism. I was putting to rest a time in my life that I had tried very, very hard never to think about. Her death stirred the memories, and I couldn’t have that. Not if I wanted to stay sane.
At thirty, I’m older and more capable, and I like to think I’m wiser. I’m also a master of avoidance tactics; if it were a science, I’d have the Nobel hands down. To me, avoidance equals serenity. And in an effort to preserve the peace I’ve built into my life over the years, there are certain things I always avoid.
I avoid my hometown. I went home for my grandmother’s funeral, but it was a good three years after my mother died before I ever ventured back down south, and it’s been another four since then. Going back makes me uncomfortable; I’m a stranger in a strange land. I know the customs, the culture and the language, but much like a square peg in a round hole, I just don’t quite fit.
My cousin Brett likes to say that change means a willingness to be uncomfortable. I think he saw it on Oprah, and he’s been using it in his sermons for years now. Mostly directed at me rather than his eager congregation. He says people have to confront the things that make them uncomfortable to find true serenity. Frankly, avoidance is easier.
My tolerance for being uncomfortable is pretty much nil, which accounts for my stellar avoidance skills. In addition to avoiding my hometown and the majority of my well-meaning but judgmental family, I avoid dating. More specifically, I avoid relationships and emotional intimacy. It requires more trust than I have in reserve. I have a few good friends and a circle of acquaintances that I enjoy spending time with. It’s enough for now.
I don’t have anything against dating and marriage in general, but the idea of me getting married makes my palms sweat. Or maybe it’s the thought of divorce that does that, especially since I’ve seen roughly seventy percent of my friends’ first marriages crash and burn in spectacular ways that no one could have predicted. So I stick to recreational dating - fun dates with other busy professionals who don’t want more, though I admit it’s been a while since I’ve been on what my friend Kate would call a real date.
I avoid liars. I avoid drugs and anyone who uses them, even if it’s only occasionally and to ‘enhance the experience’ as one girl told me in the bathroom of 1 Oak last year. Recreational drug use has to be the biggest oxymoron in the English language, and I’ve never bought into that kind of stupid.
I avoid gin - the smell alone makes me physically ill for reasons I don’t care to recall. I avoid peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, and chicken soup even though they were favorites of a much younger me I can barely identify with now. This was comfort food during years six through ten, and the only food I could successfully make when I was hungry and my mother wasn’t home.
I avoid messy entanglements at work and in my personal life. I avoid children, one of the messiest entanglements of all in my opinion. I avoid classic rock radio and anything reminiscent of the seventies. I avoid planes. If I can’t get there by bus or car, it’s not worth it. And yes, I know statistically flying is safer than driving. Tell that to the people in the crash position.
I avoid movies that make me cry because I hate to cry. Googling the endings of movies to see who dies before going to the theater is a prerequisite for me, and you couldn’t pay me to watch a Nicholas Sparks adaptation for that very reason. I’ve always equated crying with weakness, the emotional equivalent of a squirrel frozen in fear on a riverbank, exposing its soft belly to a striking cottonmouth.
The list goes on, really. I’ve added so many things to my avoidance list over the years I’m not sure I can even remember them all. But nothing tops my list like peeking in the windows of pet stores, something I haven’t done in probably twenty years. Which is why I don’t know what the hell I’m doing right now.
I’ve passed this pet store on the corner of East Broadway too many times to count on my evening walks. I’ve never looked at their display window before. If I catch movement from the corner of my eye, I deliberately turn my head away. Avoid, avoid, avoid is my mantra, and I stick to it with the zeal of a born again Christian gripping their Bible as they seek the answers to life.
Maybe it’s the colors in the display that drew my attention; orange, red, gold and black make up the Halloween inspired window featuring a haunted pet house amid tall, ghoulish trees and a full moon glowing softly. With the sun going down, it’s even more eye catching. And once I looked, I couldn’t help noticing the squirming little puppies in the pet house.
I shiver as I stand there looking in the window. I’m not sure what breed they are, but I can see by their paws they’re going to be big. There are six of them, rolling and nipping at each other. They’re the cutest things I’ve ever seen. They’re also triggering, and I feel the prick of tears in the corners of my eyes.
“Cute, aren’t they?”
I jump, dropping my coffee as I turn to the man who has joined me at the window. I’m surprised to see that it’s Ethan Roberts, one of the top journalists at The New York Times. Ethan is considered newspaper royalty. His grandfather made his name in publishing and his father, Tom Roberts, was famous for his reporting on Vietnam. He’d also won a Pulitzer for it.
“Sorry, Anna. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He casts me an apologetic look as he bends to pick up my paper cup.
“You know my name?”
Tossing the cup into a nearby recycle bin, Ethan turns back to me and smiles. “Well, yeah. We do work at the same place.”
Okay, of course I know that. I’m just surprised he does. Ethan is a big deal at the office - everyone knows who he is. Me? I’m an assistant editor in the features department. We’re not even on the same floor, though our paths have crossed.
Once was at last year’s office holiday party, where we were introduced by my boss. The second time was at a hospital benefit gala that I attended with my friend Kate, whose father is a prominent heart surgeon. Ethan remembered me - unsurprising since that was about two weeks after the office party - and we danced together once. Since then we’ve seen each other at the office a handful of times, but we’ve never spoken.
“So, are you thinking of getting a puppy?”
“No.” I glance at the puppies. Don’t even think about it. “I don’t even know what breed these are. The display caught my attention.”
“That’s easy. They’re German Shepherds,” Ethan says. “I had one when I was a kid. Good dogs.”
I force my eyes away from the puppies and look at Ethan instead. He’s tall, and I have to tilt my head a bit to meet his eyes. They’re pale blue and surrounded by thick dark lashes, the kind that are wasted on men. His sandy brown hair is cut short and styled in that slightly messy way that’s become so popular. It spikes a bit in front in a way that screams bad boy.
Except he’s not really a bad boy. He is, however, a definite ladies’ man. I’ve lost track of the women he’s been linked to in the last year alone. Most are career girl types, but enough socialites have been mentioned to keep things interesting. He’s handsome and successful; quite the draw in New York.
“You want to get a cup of coffee?” He nods to the café on the corner. “I owe you one, and it’s getting cold.”
I hesitate.
“Aww, come on. They have great coffee.” He’s very charming as he smiles down at me.
It makes me nervous. “I know. I live nearby.”
We walk a few doors down to the coffee shop, and Ethan holds the door, gesturing for me to enter first. He grabs the last window table. “This okay?”
I nod, and he pulls a chair out for me. I sit, thinking with amusement how his actions would have shocked my grandmother. Anna Lynne Welles-Atchley was a genteel Southerner born and bred, and she’d had very negative views on Yankees and their manners. She’d nearly been apoplectic when one of my university friends from England made a reference to ‘Yanks’ - her teasing term for Americans in general. And the fact that I’d chosen NYU over the University of Alabama, her own alma mater, had been a bone of contention straight up until her death ten years ago.
“You have a nice smile, you know. You should smile more often.”
I sit back in my chair and look at him, surprised. Is he flirting with me? Or just being friendly? Or maybe the two are the same for him. “I smile.”
“Not usually like that, though. You always look pretty serious around the office.” He picks up his menu and peruses it thoughtfully.
“It’s a serious job,” I reply. I ignore the menu since I already know what I want. The waitress appears promptly when Ethan raises his hand to get her attention. He’s smiling at her too, and I relax a little as I order a premium Colombian roast, one of the best blends the café features.
Alone again, he picks up the conversation. “So what does it take to get a real smile from you?”
I look out the window, watching the passersby hurrying along the sidewalk. I like watching people, wondering where they’re going, what their lives are like. Sometimes I wonder if any of them are like me. “I was thinking about my grandmother. She never really approved of me moving to New York.”
“Too far from home?”
I nod, looking back at him. His body language is relaxed and open, calling my attention to the fact that mine is not. I’m twisting my fingers together on the table, and I force myself to stop. “That and moving to Yankee territory was a blow to her Southern pride.”
She’d had plans for me - plans involving coming out parties, pledging her sorority at Alabama, and joining the local women’s club. She’d had plans for my mother, too. But Maggie was a free spirit, and she took off for parts unknown the moment she turned eighteen. Then I left, too. In the end, we both failed her.
The waitress returns with our order, and I take a sip of the hot, delicious brew. Kate says coffee is coffee, but I tell her she’s crazy. There’s coffee, and then there’s really good coffee. Big difference in my book.
“Someone told me you’re a transplant,” he comments, referring to my non-native New Yorker status. “And then there’s the accent. Deep South, right? Georgia, Alabama…”
“Alabama,” I confirm. “But if you think this is an accent, you should visit my hometown.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve been to Alabama before. Best barbecue I’ve ever had in my life.”
I’m smiling again. Talking to him is easier than I thought it would be, and I realize I’m enjoying myself. “You should visit when they have the barbecue festival in summer.”
There are certainly some cultural aspects of life in the South that I miss, and the many festivals are one of them. Storytelling festivals, music festivals of all genres, barbecue festivals, fall festivals, chocolate festivals. If there’s one thing Southerners know how to do, it’s put on a festival.
“Sounds like you miss it. Do you manage to get back home often?”
My smile fades and I look out the window again. “Not often.”
He changes the subject, and I can tell he knows he’s made me feel uncomfortable. Most people don’t realize when they’re making you uncomfortable; they keep going, picking and prodding to get answers they think they’re somehow entitled to. Probably his reporter instincts at work, I think as I take another sip of my coffee.
I blame it on social networking. It changed the boundaries of what people feel is acceptable to tell everyone; suddenly, the thoughts we used to keep to ourselves were status updates broadcast to a couple thousand of our closest acquaintances. The things I see people posting sometimes astounds me. It’s no wonder that they’ve forgotten simple etiquette in the art of conversation.
Ethan is doing most of the work in the conversation department right now. I reply and comment here and there, but I let him do the talking because I like listening to him. He has a nice voice. It’s deep and pleasant and sends warmth coursing through me. He has a good sense of humor, and I laugh as he tells a story from his days backpacking through Europe after college.
He insists on paying the check, and I wrap my scarf around my neck as I wait by the door. Stepping out into the cold, night air is invigorating. Northern winters are still difficult for me, but I love fall. I take a deep breath, and the scent of roasting chestnuts tells me that Bobby has opened his stand for business. I head for the end of the block, aware that Ethan has fallen into step beside me.
Bobby has worked the same corner for as long as I’ve lived on the Lower East Side, and he has some of the best roasted chestnuts in the city. We exchange greetings as I hand over the money for two bags, passing one of them to Ethan.
He accepts them and instantly pops one into his mouth. “Wow. I think these are the best chestnuts I’ve had in the city.”
“I discovered his stand when I was in college,” I tell him, taking a small bite. They’re hot, and I don’t want to burn my mouth. “Anyway, I’m on Grand St., so I’m going this way.”
He raises his brows, and I know what he’s thinking. Grand St. is pretty fancy for a single girl on my salary. Even the smallest condo or co-op apartment carries a high price tag, and the monthly fees are also stiff.
But again he doesn’t ask questions. “I actually just moved to Grand St. But I’m meeting a buddy over at Hair of the Dog. You’re welcome to join us.”
I’ve never been there, but I know it’s a sports bar. “Maybe another time.” Maybes are always easier to accept than outright rejection, and they make it easier for me to sidestep invitations.
“I’m going to hold you to that. We’re neighbors now.” He reaches out to yank the end of my scarf in a teasing gesture. “You heading home or making another stop?”
He’s making me nervous again. “I’m going into the market first.”
“Okay. Have a good night.” He grins and raises his hand in farewell before walking away.
I don’t actually need anything from the market, but I step inside anyway and buy my favorite cherry vanilla ice cream. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.