Finding Her: A coming-of-age romance novel with a twist (Complements Book 1) Read online

  But things were just beginning to go crazy, I soon learned, because while still in the London airport, well, that was when I first set eyes on him and my world flipped inside out.

  I can remember every detail as clearly as if it happened yesterday. We had just made our flight in the nick of time…

  Chapter 2

  The chiming ringtone precedes the announcement: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’re beginning our descent into Heathrow Airport right on time for our fashionably late arrival.”

  That little joke by the captain generates a collective titter of laughter throughout the cabin.

  “The temperature around Heathrow is currently 41 degrees Fahrenheit, with an overcast sky—or in other words, welcome to London! Please note the seatbelt light is on, and we ask that you return your seats to the upright position—remember, upright means you stay alive; reclined means you don’t. We at Virgin hope you enjoy your visit to Britain and come fly with us again soon. Thank you.”

  More airplane humor. I expel a long sigh of relief. Finally, my never-ending flight is over. For a while there, I didn’t think it would ever end. First, we almost missed our flight, boarding the plane seconds before they closed the doors. Then, as if in punishment, our plane sat endlessly on the tarmac waiting for clearance to take off. I spent the time daydreaming of him, my erotic dream guy, and soon dozed off.

  I woke up too soon and it seemed like hours dragging by. The seatbelt light was on, so getting up wasn’t an option. Neither was screaming in frustration. I had this wild urge to do just that—just whale on the airline personnel for making us wait so long. Smiling, I pictured the ensuing chaos, knowing I’d never act on that impulse. I’m the type who generally toes the line. But in my interior life, anything—even mild violence—is possible.

  To make a long story short: my sister Chess slept through the entire flight with her music from the 60s, 70s, and 80s blaring through her earphones—she’s only fourteen, by the way, and the little weirdo only likes old music. Then this really creepy guy with yellow skin and wiry hair kept staring at me—I continually checked my clothing to make sure I had no wardrobe malfunctions. Nope, I didn’t, yet I kept catching him gaping, three times in a half hour. Maybe my tight red sweater with the plunging neckline sent out the wrong message?

  Then I had a bizarre dream. In it were two young lovers in a strange land, and at the end of the dream, the boy died and I woke up feeling, like, grief-stricken, as if I’d lost a close friend. As I opened my eyes from the dream, the plane was descending.

  We’ve flown from New York to London, our final destination being an English village called Lavenham, to spend the winter holidays with Derek—our father—and his wife, Mia. My mom and stepfather, Greg, will soon be on their way to St. Bart's. Lucky Mom—headed to someplace hot and sunny.

  In line with my usual luck, the weather in New York has been freezing, with snow and icy rain all the past week. According to Derek, it isn't much better in London. I hate winter because it’s cold and the nights are long. Night has always represented bad things to me—probably a remnant of primordial memory when the dark equaled mortal peril.

  As far as visiting my father goes—well, Derek’s not in any danger of winning a Father of the Year award. Neither of us likes to visit him all that much. This time at least we get to go abroad, cold or not, since Derek and Mia had moved to the UK about six months ago. Sweetening the deal, Derek upgraded our tickets to first class. Plus, my mom and Greg hadn’t exactly given us a lot of choice in the matter. So now here we are.

  Chapter 3

  The Boeing 767 rolls to a stop at Heathrow International at 9:30 a.m. local time. The second the seatbelt light goes off, I grab our carry-on bags with one hand and then yank Chess up by the arm with the other, trying to get off the plane ahead of the other passengers. Beating the crowd is definitely worth dislocating my sister’s shoulder. Belatedly, I realize my effort is unnecessary since first-class passengers exit the plane first. Duh.

  Derek is waiting for us in the terminal, just outside customs. Surprisingly, he is alone. He stands leaning one shoulder against a wall, and every female of childbearing age who passes him does a double take. No wonder the man has such a bloated ego.

  My father’s tall, over six feet, and lean and toned, with the physique of a man much younger than his thirty-eight years. He has black hair and grayish blue eyes, and right now he has a few days’ worth of stubble on his chin, yet he still manages to look impeccably well groomed. His clothes—dark blue jeans, white Oxford shirt, black boots, leather jacket—all scream expensive. I suppose most women would consider him a total catch. I can’t really see beyond the fact that he’s my father—and not a very good one at that.

  When he spots us, he quickly strides over, giving us both a simultaneous hug. "Girls, how are you?" Stepping back, he appraises us. "Wow, you’ve both grown so much! And so beautiful, too. Was the flight okay? I hope you were comfortable in first class?"

  He seems much friendlier than usual. Maybe he likes older kids better than young ones? At seventeen, I am pretty much an adult.

  "It was good. Uh, thanks for the ticket upgrade…" I stop, unsure of what to call him. We see him so infrequently that our reunions are always awkward. The last time we saw him he told us we could call him Derek, since we were in the habit of using ‘Dad’ for Greg. I wonder if he still feels that way.

  We navigate the crowded airport, heading to the baggage claim area. By the time we get there, luggage from our flight is starting to move down the belt. We’re staring for a minute or two at all the bags going around when Derek chuckles. "I guess it might be easier to spot your luggage if I know what it looks like and how many pieces there are?"

  "Yeah, about that," I mutter, my face flushing as I look dejectedly at dozens of identical black suitcases circling around the automated beltway, "…there are three of them and they're all black. Sorry. I guess I should have let Mom talk me into the red ones. But she tied silver and purple ribbons around the handles," I add helpfully. "Uh, what would you like us to call you: Dad or Derek?"

  He grins, and I notice for the first time that he has the same dimple that I do—or I guess I have the same one he does. "I’ll answer to either one, Olivia," he says and coming closer, gives me a quick hug. I don’t remember Derek ever being this affectionate before; I suppose I’ll have to try to reciprocate.

  Success. Coming toward us on the carousel are two black suitcases festooned with purple and silver streamers. We check the tags: bingo. The last one rolls out a few moments later.

  Derek picks up the two larger ones and I grab the third and we walk outside the terminal. He places the bags down on the sidewalk and turns to me, “I’m going to get the car. You two can wait here, so we don’t have to carry the luggage to the car park.”

  “Okay.”

  Chess slumps against me, too exhausted to hold up her own weight. My fatigue evaporates as soon as I step outside: I am in the freaking UK!

  That first glimpse of Britain is somewhat foreboding: it’s cold and damp, as expected; the sky is overcast and oppressive—just a very dreary place with nothing much to look at. While we are standing there, a knot of people strolls past, chatting animatedly. They all look suntanned and happy—obviously they’ve just returned from someplace warm and sunny, lucky dogs.

  Just as the cheerful group clears us, a shiny, black motorcycle cruises slowly past. The guy on the bike looks directly at me as he rides past me, and our eyes meet.

  Wham!

  A jolt of stinging electricity torpedoes through my body and sucks the air right out of my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. It feels as if an unseen force slams me against a brick wall. I am immobilized until he rides out of sight, keeping his eyes locked on me until he no longer can.

  “Whoa! What the hell?” I don’t mean to even say it out loud, but I do, nearly shouting. Chess wakes up and looks at me.

  “What?” she demands.

  “Nothing, n-never mind,”
I stammer out quickly.

  The little rat is irritated that I woke her and stalks off, sulking, to lean on the building wall.

  I try to calm down. I’m trembling like a miniature poodle in a stiff breeze. Even though the air is chilly, I begin to perspire excessively. And all I could think about is the dream that has been haunting my sleep for so long—it suddenly shoots to front and center in my brain.

  It started three years before, when I was fourteen, but just recently has become more frequent and totally more intense. The last one was insane. I woke up slick with sweat, remembering the entire shameful dream as if it had actually happened, minute by minute. Even now when I think of it, I can feel a searing blush creep up my neck.

  In the dream, I’m in bed and this guy—who I don’t recognize as anyone I know—is in my room with me. I’m never able to see his face clearly. He speaks to me but I can’t understand what he’s saying. His presence doesn’t bother me; I actually feel as if he’s watching over me. Sometimes he’ll touch my hair or my cheek but he usually doesn’t get too close. Eventually, he just fades away.

  The last one, though? Uh, vastly different. This time he got way closer. Like, in-bed-with-me closer, touching me, and whispering in my ear. I could actually feel his warm hands… his lips… his breath. But when I woke up everything was as it should be; it was just a vivid dream.

  But these dreams just came out of nowhere. It’s not as if I moon over romantic stuff; my mom taught me early on to focus on education and personal success. She had short-circuited her own ambitions when she met my father. Gen Winters’ passive nature made her an easy mark for an alpha male like Derek Girardi. She married and had me before she was finished with her third year of college.

  I guess that’s why she has done her level best to steer Chess and me away from the same course. Parents tend to do that, I guess—try to fix their own mistakes through their children. It’s sort of like getting another chance, albeit a vicarious one. Whatever.

  As for romance, Joe Manning was enough for me but that’s all done. His betrayal cut me to the quick. I’d told him very private things—like the fact that I’ve always felt lonely, as if something or someone important was missing from my life. I attributed it to my father being absent most of the time. But I never before shared that part of myself with anyone.

  After Joe ditched me, I made radical changes: I cut my long hair to just below my shoulders and toned down on makeup. I started wearing only black clothes—not to be Emo but to reflect my new dark outlook on life—and I joined a Pilates class with my best friend, Cassie. Most important, though, I dedicated myself to school, eliminating any social life. I was genuinely planning on staying the course and did— for about six weeks. Then Plan B cropped up.

  Plan B is gorgeous, funny, and in both my English and physics classes. His name is Jeremy Albright, and he helped push Joe Manning to the very outer wilderness of my mind. Jeremy keeps me focused during the dreary winter days.

  My nights belong to my beautiful dream boy, but since he’s begun to get so physically bold with me, these dreams have been messing with my mind and heart. I’m starting to obsess over him, and he is now invading my days, as well. I make a diligent attempt to shrug the whole thing off, blame it on puberty's raging hormones. But despite my efforts, the dream haunts me, rippling into my consciousness day after day.

  Chapter 4

  Snapping me out of my reverie, a sleek black Aston Martin pulls up to the curb and Derek jumps out in one fluid motion. He uses a remote to pop open the trunk and he swiftly picks up our luggage and places each one in the car. Chess crawls into the back seat and I get in on the passenger side—what would be the driver’s side in the U.S.—and we pull away. I turn around to see if Motorcycle Guy is anywhere around but he’s long gone.

  Watching Derek expertly maneuver the car, I wonder how hard it was for him to get used to driving in Britain. Since the cars in the UK have the driver on the right side instead of the left, and drive on the left side of the road instead of the right, everything feels wrong and backward. But Derek doesn’t seem to mind it at all and drives confidently. Now that I think of it, everything about my father is confident, and I wish I could have inherited just one iota of his mojo. I guess I’m more like my mom in every way.

  During the ride to Derek's house, Chess sleeps most of the way, as usual. I nonchalantly keep an eye out for a motorcycle; there is one a couple of cars back —could it be him? Derek keeps checking the rearview mirror, but it turns out he is looking at Chess in the backseat.

  "Why is your sister so tired? Is she okay?"

  I shrug my shoulders and look out the window. "She must be having a growth spurt or something, Dad. I really don't know. Maybe she has mono?"

  That gets a reaction. Or is it that he noticed that I called him Dad? It is weird; he actually seems aware of my existence and is acting as if he genuinely likes me. What’s come over him?

  I glance back out the window. It is a gloomy day, and everything outside looks gray, even people’s complexions. Though the architecture in England is brilliant—especially medieval structures—we’re on the highway so there isn’t too much to see. The Aston Martin runs so smoothly it seems to trill like my cat—Greg’s Mini Cooper sounds like a jalopy in comparison. Next thing I know I am nodding off too, lulled by the silky ride and the monochromatic landscape gliding by.

  I wake up about twenty minutes later as we are driving through a small village, and it is so charming, I’m glad I didn’t miss it. I could picture Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot perfectly at home in this little town, trying to solve a murder. My mother has read every single Agatha Christie mystery—she’s a dedicated Anglophile.

  Then, by some miracle, Chess wakes up too, and Derek starts entertaining us with stories about medieval English towns.

  When the stories turn to the plague, Derek warms to his subject. “They think the Black Death arrived in England in or about 1348. It’s believed to have originated in the Far East and spread to other regions via ships traveling the trade route. That summer—the summer of 1348—was unusually wet. Grain rotted in the fields because the rains were relentless. The damp made a welcoming environment for bacteria to flourish.

  “The worst-hit places were those that were overcrowded. Poor sanitation accelerated the spread of the disease. Supposedly, on November 1st, 1348, the plague reached London, and almost half of the city’s residents died, thirty thousand out of a total of seventy thousand.”

  Chess pipes up from the backseat. “Why’d they call it the Black Death? Or do I not want to know?”

  “You probably don’t want to know,” Derek chuckles.

  “I want to know. Tell me,” I insist.

  “Well, there are two types of plague infection. One is the bubonic plague. That was the one called the Black Death. The lymph nodes would swell up with growths. These growths would turn red first, then purple or black. The sufferer would die within hours. The progression of the disease was so fast that an Italian writer named Boccaccio said its victims often ‘ate lunch with their friends and dinner with their ancestors in paradise.’”

  “That’s so disgusting!” Chess has no tolerance for gore.

  “The other form was pneumonic, where the bacteria went straight to the lungs. Those poor souls would vomit blood and—”

  “Ew, gross,” Chess again cries from the backseat.

  Gross or not, I could hear these stories all day; they’re morbidly fascinating.

  “Sorry, Chess. It is horrific, isn’t it?” Derek glances at her in the rearview mirror. “Over the next few years, the plague killed a third of the population of England. Over five years, it killed twenty-five million people in Europe—about a third of Europe’s entire populace.

  “So how did it finally end?” I ask him.

  “The worst of it was over in England in about two years though there would be serious outbreaks for the next two hundred years or so. It wasn’t until the beginning of the 17th century th
at England became truly free of the Black Death. Of course, as with any disease, there are always a few isolated cases that crop up here and there, even today. But they can be easily treated with antibiotics.”

  “So tell us about your house, Dad,” I prod to keep him talking. I can’t remember ever seeing my father so animated.

  “I’m anxious for you two to see it. Mia and I fell in love with it almost instantly. It was built at the end of the 15th century, during the reign of the Tudors. There were improvements made to it in the 16thand 18th centuries. Then there were more recent improvements. Mia and I have done a lot of work since we got here.”

  “Really? Like what?” I’d taken a college-level art history course last summer and we spent a lot of time on architecture of different time periods. I found it so interesting that I started thinking about studying it in college if—and this is a big if—I can keep my head above water in all of the required math classes.

  He looks over at me, grinning. “You really want to know?”

  I bob my head up and down, arching my eyebrows.

  “Well, we gutted the kitchen but we kept the all the original walls in place. We just enlarged the archway. We installed an Aga stove, which is a British-made oven that stays on all the time. It was just delivered last week. We also renovated the two existing bathrooms, and we added a third full one upstairs and a powder room on the main floor, so now each bedroom has its own bath. The small guest house on the property is my next project.”

  He sighs. “There’s still a lot of work to do, inside and out. We have nearly two acres of land.”

  “Hey, Derek, does the house have any ghosts?” Chess asks eagerly. She would love that. Chess has a thing for haunted houses and is forever watching those ridiculous television shows about ghost hunters whose cameras never manage to record anything.