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

  Derek laughs. “You know, it certainly should, given its long history. I’m not particularly sensitive to the paranormal, so I haven’t noticed anything unusual, but that’s not to say it’s not there. You two can let me know if anything strange happens.”

  We ride the rest of the way in companionable silence. I spend a few minutes surreptitiously studying my father. I try to see him as others who aren’t related to him do. Yes, he’s extraordinarily handsome… but he knows it and that’s never good. Also, he’s always been sort of a snob, kind of standoffish. Eavesdropping, I once overheard my mom say he’s materialistic, that he liked his stuff better than his family. She never said things like that in front of me—my mom never badmouths my father in our presence—though once in a while she’ll say something jokingly.

  Grandpa Jem, my maternal grandfather, despised Derek when his daughter first brought him home. Grandpa Jem is practically the diametrical opposite of Derek. He has no concern for anything but his family and friends. Give Grandpa a comfy chair, a tumbler of whiskey, and a good book or some Dixie music—he’ll be in heaven. He’s fiercely loyal to his loved ones. When Derek walked out on my mother, Grandpa Jem wanted to smear the ground with him. Grandpa told me so himself—with great relish too.

  Weird. They say girls end up marrying their father, but my mom strayed just about as far from her father’s model as possible.

  And the marriage failed.

  Now she’s married to someone more like her father. Hmm, must be something to it, I guess.

  About twenty minutes later, Derek turns the car into a drive demarcated on either side by a stone pillar. I hop out of the car, slide in the back next to Chess and elbow her. "Lazybones, we're here. C'mon, we have to bring in our luggage. Wake up," I insist.

  Chess’s eyes flutter open. "We're here? Where?"

  I sigh in annoyance. Chess is a sleepwalker and frequently has long mumbled conversations with herself while in a deep sleep. It can take her a number of minutes to make the transition from coma into coherence. But still, this had been no more than a catnap.

  "In Nepal; we’re just about to scale the summit of Mount Everest. Hurry or you’ll slip into a chasm and plummet to your death… Where do you think we are, you lunatic? You were just up and talking not twenty minutes ago. We're at Dad and Mia's house…" I elbow her again. "Come on, get out of the car, twerp."

  Meantime, Derek has unloaded our luggage and is walking toward the front door, holding the biggest bag. Chess and I each grab one of the remaining two suitcases and follow him.

  “Well,” Derek says, “what do you think?”

  If first impressions count, then I absolutely love it. It is an ancient stone structure. Decades worth of velvety green moss snake up the face of it. In the gray, shadowy light, it looms ahead like the star in an English Gothic horror novel. In summer, with bursts of colorful flowers shooting up all around the house, it probably has a very different ambiance, but in the chill nudity of winter, with all vibrant color leached out of the landscape, it looks ominous, scary, and pitch-perfect.

  “It’s amazing,” I say excitedly. “This is a Tudor, right?”

  “He said it was built during the reign of the Tudors, idiot,” Chess snaps.

  I stick out my tongue at her.

  Derek grins at our exchange. “Right. You can see it has all the hallmarks of Tudor architecture: the steep pitch of the roof, the leaded windows, the brick surrounds on the windows and doorways,” Derek points out each feature, obviously enjoying himself.

  “It looks like a Hansel and Gretel house, Derek,” Chess interjects. “It’s so cute.”

  “Hansel and Gretel cottages are Bavarian, dimwit. Tudors were Brits, remember: Henry the VIII and all his headless wives?” I badger her.

  “Whatever. We can’t all be architecture geeks, you know.” Chess sighs. “Can we go in now? I need to take a shower.”

  “Let’s go,” says Derek, as he leads the way through the front door. Inside is a long, dim hallway. I’ve never before seen brick floors inside a house—these are done in what Derek calls a herringbone pattern. The walls have a rough texture, like stucco, with niches carved out for light fixtures. Overall, it’s very dark but it opens into brighter rooms. To the right is the living room or parlor (Derek says the Brits call it a lounge), which connects with the dining room. The kitchen is in the rear, and to the left of the hall are the library and study, an exercise studio, and a powder room.

  "Wow, Derek, this house is so cool," Chess exclaims in her raspy voice. I elbow her again, whispering under my breath that we should call him Dad. She gives me a dirty look and then completely ignores me. "Fifteenth century, huh, Derek? It looks so modern.”

  Derek chuckles. “True. I’m not one to forgo modern conveniences, Chess.”

  After a quick tour, he leads us back through the entrance hall and up a curved staircase with a wrought-iron banister.

  "Let me show you to your bedrooms. That way you can unpack and rest up a little."

  We get to the top of the staircase and start down another dim hallway, punctuated by soft light from a wrought-iron wall sconce every few feet. Derek opens the first door on the left. "Olivia, this is your room. I hope you'll find it comfortable," he says as I walk in.

  The room is amazing: it isn’t huge, but it’s large enough, and in the brick hearth a fire is lit, making the bedroom warm and cozy. There are heavy wood supporting beams that cross the length of the ceiling and matching dark wood French doors that lead to a Juliet balcony with windows on either side. The floor is also dark wood, but most of it is covered by a plush ivory area rug. In the center of the room sits an antique mahogany sleigh bed with one matching dresser on the far side of the room. Flanking the bed are nightstands holding sparkling crystal reading lamps. Best of all, the room has its own bathroom.

  I turn to my father. "This bedroom is perfect; I love it. Thanks so much, Dad," I reach up to give him a quick hug with my free arm, since the other is holding my suitcase.

  He smiles, looking pleased. "I'm glad you like it. Please make yourself at home, Olivia. I'm extraordinarily happy you girls are here; I've really missed you both."

  I plop my suitcase on the luggage stand at the foot of the bed and begin to unpack as Derek guides my sister to her room.

  As I sort my clothes, I think about what Derek just said, about how he is glad we are here. It seems as if it is actually true. A tiny spark of affection for my father flares inside me, and I decide this trip might be really good for both Chess and me. I’ll admit that I don’t understand the 180-degree change in him. He wasn’t always so kind to us—and especially not to my mom.

  Derek left my mother for Mia thirteen years ago when I was four years old and Chess was barely one. The day he left, he packed his things, took me out for ice cream, and tried to tell me he was leaving. I was more confused than upset, I think.

  Though I was so young, my memory is clear and unequivocal about what followed: when he brought me back home, our house was filled with the smell of sweet things like cinnamon and chocolate. My mom was baking cookies, smiling as if nothing was wrong, as if our family was not falling to pieces. After Derek left, the three of us ate the cookies and watched movies. My mother’s example was the epitome of grace under pressure—something to live up to.

  She selected her second husband much more carefully—this time with her brain rather than with… er… other parts of her anatomy. So two years later when she met Greg Beckham, my stepfather—an average looking man who adored her and put her on a pedestal—they were married within six months. Apparently, she got it right this time since they were still happily married. For that matter, so were Derek and Mia.

  Time served only to help widen the chasm between Derek and us—Chess and me. He never paid us much attention growing up, even though my mother was always quick to reassure us that he never abdicated his paternal responsibilities. I think she meant money, not love. Every time we went to visit him, it seemed as if he did his level best
to avoid us. Instead, we’d end up spending time with either Mia or the housekeeper. One time, Derek went so far as to hire an au pair for the whole year just so she’d be there for the summer month we visited. I think the girl—what was her name? Eva?—was in love with my father. It just made me hate him more.

  Chess and I both tried to figure out why he didn’t love us. People always said we were pretty, so it couldn’t be he thought us ugly. We weren’t badly behaved either, and we tried our hardest to be quiet and good while at his house. None of our efforts ever worked. He just didn’t like us.

  After a while, it ceased to matter—at least to me. I don’t know exactly how Chess feels since she likes to bury everything, and I never wanted to pry into places she likes to keep hidden. But I stopped caring and once I did, my father seemed to inspire nothing but irritation in me. I was annoyed by his good looks, his beautiful home, his model-gorgeous wife. Everything he did ticked me off, and eventually I began to beg my mother not to make me go visit him.

  But since the moment he met up with us at Heathrow, he’s been different. Radically different. Derek has been acting as if he actually likes us and wants us here. So… I have to try to reciprocate, I suppose. We’ll see.

  At dinner Derek gives us the rundown. "So… here's what I’m thinking. First, I thought I'd show you around locally. Then we can head over to Switzerland for a few days and get in some skiing if you're game. After, I thought we'd go to Bath, where a friend of mine lives—I’m thinking of maybe moving there. I'd like to check it out.”

  He arches his eyebrows. "Then maybe a haunted castle… or a Jack the Ripper tour? We’ll do London for a few days before your flight home.”

  Chess perks up at hearing that idea. "That sounds awesome, Derek. Let's do it." Chess steadfastly refuses to call him Dad, and I know when to call it a lost cause.

  Something Derek said immediately caught my interest. "Why would you move so soon after you and Mia finished renovating this place, Dad?”

  He seems taken aback by my question and hesitates before answering. "It's just an idea right now. I have a couple of friends there. We’ll see."

  I’m suspicious now about what’s going on with Derek and Mia. And where is she, anyway? I’m afraid to ask him for two reasons: one, I don’t want to make him angry, and two, I don’t want to know if she’s gone.

  Turns out I do have jet lag. By 7:30, I can no longer resist the arms of Morpheus and I say good night to Derek and Chess. Chess is watching an old Bette Davis movie on Derek's huge television, and Derek is reading a biography of Picasso. They seem comfortable together in the study, and the scene makes me smile. I have a feeling that Chess is beginning to grow just as attached to Derek as I am, and I hope he doesn’t let us down—especially for Chess’s sake because she takes a long time to bounce back after a major hurt.

  I drag myself upstairs and flop onto the big, soft bed. The feather top is so welcoming and luxurious; it’s like sinking into a cloud. Derek certainly doesn’t deprive himself of any creature comfort.

  It takes all of my resolve to get up to brush my teeth. Washing my face revives me a little, so I linger in the spa-like bathroom. Peering at my image in the full-length mirror, I try to detach myself enough to see what other people see, squinting my eyes as if that will give me an objective perspective.

  Hmm… A thin girl of average height, good skin, straight light-brown hair, blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose. I am decent looking in a nondescript way—pretty but not a beauty—not in my estimation anyway. My features are too regular: nothing about me stands out. I have sturdy good looks. I would have been called handsome if I had lived a hundred years earlier.

  I’m not a Lily Bart from House of Mirth; maybe, possibly, I can pass for an Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth is smarter than she is pretty, after all. I am definitely not someone a really hot guy would pick out of a crowded airport to swoon over.

  I stick out my tongue at the stupid girl in the mirror, and she returns the gesture.

  There is still an enigma to ponder: if I am so ordinary, then what was that weird lightning bolt thing that happened between Motorcycle Guy and me? I am mulling this question over as I climb into bed. It’s the last thought I have before drifting off into the arms of my dream lover.

  Chapter 5

  "Before you slip into unconsciousness, I’d like to have another kiss"

  -- The Crystal Ship, The Doors”

  As always, I’m virtually paralyzed. I can move, but it’s like slogging through thick mud. Dream and reality merge. Everything feels so real but my body responds lamely, the way it does in scary fight-or-flight nightmares when you can’t get your limbs to work right.

  So I’m glued to my bed, barely able to even squirm.

  He’s with me, lying so close to me I can feel his heat… and he’s on me—everywhere. His lips kiss my throat; at the same time, his hands are running up and down my body, making my emotions swing wildly from first wanting to shyly push him away to the feverish hope that he won't stop. The fact that I can’t freely move relieves me of any obligation to discourage him…

  I can’t see his face clearly—not at all really—yet somehow, he seems intimately familiar to me.

  I think I love him.

  He whispers in my ear, speaking words that make no sense, but his voice alone sends icy chills streaking up my spine. I can feel his breath on my neck, his hand gliding slowly down from my shoulder to my thigh, then back up. When his lips again slide over my throat, my blood burns lava hot, ripping through my veins and smoking them into ashes. Can a person lose her virginity in a dream?

  There is something else in the room with us besides passion. I can feel this annihilating sense of longing and sadness, emotions so potent they are unbearable. The intensity of his despair is so distressing that it finally gives me the strength to push him away—I have to make it stop.

  He keeps his distance then. I try again to see his face, but it is a blur. I want to ask him who he is, why he always comes to me, but though I attempt to speak, no audible sound emerges from my throat. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to talk.

  He takes my hand then, brings it up to his lips, and kisses it lightly. Then he is gone, but the sadness lingers in the room like smoke, making me cry though I have no idea why. My crying turns to sobs, suddenly loud.

  I bolt upright in bed, my face wet with tears. Darkness envelops the room: it’s still the middle of the night. I wait until my breathing returns to normal and then crash out again, finally, into a dreamless slumber.

  When I next open my eyes the small, elegant clock on the nightstand reads 6:10 a.m. It is teeming outside: the rain pelts the windows with such force it sounds like rocks hitting the glass. I roll over and attempt to go back to sleep, but it’s futile; this is my punishment for going to bed before 8 o’clock last night. My internal clock is out of whack, with the jet lag and time difference. At home, if I don’t have to get up for school, I never wake up naturally much before ten. Then again, I don’t go to bed at 7:30 either.

  I sigh and part reluctantly with my new love, the feather bed, resigned to the fact that I am up for the day and decide to take a steam shower—no sense letting Derek’s amenities go to waste. After the hot water massages me into a good mood, I throw on some comfortable clothes—yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt—and tiptoe downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. I meet Belinda, Derek’s newest housekeeper, who makes me a latte instead of regular coffee, a kindness for which I am pathetically grateful. Without any doubt, I could get used to living here.

  I’m the only one up in the house for a couple of hours. I begin to contemplate all that’s transpired in the last few weeks. From slo-mo to fast forward, my life seems to be picking up the pace, but I’m not sure at all where I’m going.

  It was a crisp autumn Saturday when my world shifted off its axis. When you trust someone and depend on him, you never expect the inevitable betrayal that will surely come. That day is crystalized in my memory
… I’d decided to check my phone for texts from my boyfriend, Joe. He’d left for his freshman year at Syracuse in late August. It was the third week of September and I eagerly grabbed for my cell phone, hoping for one or two from him, telling me he missed me or how lonely he was up there. Scrolling down I saw the familiar number and smiled. When I read the message, my guts seized up.

  “O, we shd c other ppl now that we r aprt. Met sum1. Want to xplr it. Stl luv u. Take care of ur self. J.”

  Now, even after almost two months the pushed-down pain still pikes up now and then, and I pound at my chest where it’s centered. The fact that I still care infuriates me. My saving grace has been my faithful dream guy: every time I have a setback, he’s there for me. Meeting Jeremy has helped a lot too, but still I find I’m retreating more and more into my nocturnal fantasy life.

  And that can’t be a good thing… because he’s not real!

  I need to face reality and accept the fact that my dream guy is so perfect because he’s been carefully manufactured by my subconscious, which happens to know everything I like in a man.

  Am I truly losing my mind, going insane, developing schizophrenia? These possibilities occur to me on a daily basis but I always decide in the end that I don’t care. If being crazy means I can have my beautiful dream guy, then I’ll happily be off my rocker. When I wake up, though, I always have to come back to earth and deal with my real life. It blows.

  I read the London paper, check my email on Derek’s laptop, and then stare out the window; I can’t stop thinking about the guy at the airport and how he reminded me of my dreamer. I can’t get him off my mind. Is there a connection? Don’t be stupid, Olivia.

  The rain has changed to snow, and it’s coming down pretty hard now. There is something magical about standing in a warm, cozy house and watching snow falling, the flakes racing each other to the ground.