Feels Like Home (Oyster Bay Book 1) Read online

  FEELS LIKE HOME

  Olivia Miles

  ~Rosewood Press~

  Table of Contents

  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

  Coming Soon

  Other Books

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It took eleven minutes to pack three suitcases. Two hours to make it over the state line. Half the night to stop the tears from flowing. And an instant to undo a ten-year marriage.

  Ten years. It felt like a hundred years and ten seconds all at once. Ten years since that sweltering July day when Margo Harper had walked down the rose-scattered aisle of St. Mary’s Church of Charleston, clinging tightly to her father’s arm, her lace wedding gown trailing behind her thanks to the impressive six-foot train, trying not to faint from the combination of nerves and heat, and joined hands with Ashley Lynn Reynolds.

  That’s right. She had married a man named Ashley. Ashley Lynn.

  There was a reasonable explanation, of course. His mother was a diehard fan of Gone with the Wind, she announced in that first meeting, as she poured two glasses of homemade lemonade from a sweating pitcher and handed one to Margo. They were seated on the back porch of the family home, just the two of them, side by side in rock hard wicker chairs in a supposed effort to get to know each other, though it seemed that Nadine was more interested in sizing up her future daughter-in-law than bonding over the untouched strawberry shortcake. When the announcement had been made, a mere five minutes into arriving at the old, plantation-style house that had been in the Reynolds’ family for generations, Nadine’s face had gone a ghastly shade of white, and she had excused herself for an unnerving amount of time before returning to her guests with a sugary smile, and the offer of having some alone time with Margo. Gone with the Wind was her favorite movie, she’d said, eyeing Margo carefully. She’d watched it one hundred eighteen times to date. If she’d ever had a girl, she would have named her Tara. As she was given just one child, a son, Ashley was it.

  Margo had managed a polite smile, tilted her head, tried to stop her heart from pounding at the way Nadine’s icy blue eyes didn’t quite catch her smile. She might have even given a little “Ah!”, as if the mystery was finally solved, as if any woman’s love for a historical film could justify naming a baby boy Ashley in the early 80’s. Margo sipped the lemonade, blinked at the tartness, and then, perhaps from the onset of heat stroke or maybe just a poor attempt to make conversation, inquired, “Why not Rhett?”

  It was the obvious choice, after all. Rhett was the leading man. The alpha male. Rhett was a strong, masculine, swoon-worthy type of name, whereas Ashley… Well, you didn’t see that name on many blue toddler cups, now did you? You did, however, see it on the personalized princess crowns that her niece Emma liked to wear. Not that Margo ever pointed this out, tempting as it was at times over the years, especially when Nadine got a little too vocal about her wish for future grandchildren and her hope that the first-born son would be named after her father. Lindsay. (Lynn had been a nod to Lindsay, but Ashley Lindsay didn’t have the right ring to it, Nadine said.)

  It was clear from the pinch between Nadine’s brow, and the silence that followed, that Margo had made a misstep in that first meeting. Margo opened her mouth, desperate to backpedal, but the truth was that she’d always been a terrible liar. Terrible. She’d get all red in the face and lose eye contact, or hold it for too long, sometimes without blinking, and then she never did know when to finally look away…naturally. Or she’d go overboard. Say things that could never be true, that no one would buy, like the one she told to her then future mother-in-law on that very first tête-à-tête, as sweat beaded at her brow, and, from the way Nadine was peering at her in naked judgment, most likely on her upper lip, too.

  “Ashley is one of my favorite names, actually,” she’d said. (This was true, technically. It was indeed a name she’d imagined possibly giving a daughter someday.) “So much more manly than Rhett.”

  And well, there it was. Nadine glared. Margo squirmed, and from that moment forward they tolerated each other under a thin veil of mutual discomfort. Holidays were stilted, gifts were formal, and passive aggression became a new art form. Whenever Margo said or did something that Nadine disapproved of, which was pretty much everything, from the color she painted her kitchen (yellow) to the way she styled her hair (ponytails), Ash would just give his mother an apologetic smile, shrug his shoulders, and say, “She’s a Yankee.” As if that explained it. And Nadine would pinch her lips as if yes, that did.

  Ash. That’s what she called him. It was an unsuitable name, really. A little too much in the Rhett territory when it came to the image it conjured up. A little too cool for a man who wore flannel pajamas to bed every night, buttoned up to the neck, because the central air made his skin cold but turning it off gave him heat rash.

  Well, now she was being mean. But, really, under the circumstances, who could blame her? For ten years she had tolerated the sleep apnea breathing machine that whirred all through the night. She had always refilled his asthma inhalers. Kept a packet of lactose intolerance meds in the zippered inner compartment of her handbag, even taking the trouble to transfer the pack with each season from black leather handbag to navy linen tote, just in case Ash indulged in ice cream, or pizza, or something else that caused…trouble.

  She’d been there when he broke his nose the first (and only) time she’d taken him skiing. She’d held his hand when he hyperventilated into a brown paper bag when they removed the packing. She’d nearly hyperventilated herself from the sight of all that gauze. She loved skiing; but she’d given it up for Ash.

  She’d stood by him. Through thick and through thin. Through ups and downs. Through good times and bad…

  And where had that gotten her?

  Nowhere. All these years later, she was moving backward, not forward. She was moving home.

  But only temporarily.

  Well now, she was feeling sorry for herself again, and that wasn’t good. Twelve hours ago, she’d felt angry. Angry to the bone. But somewhere after the Mason-Dixon, that rage had tempered to sadness and self-pity, and that just wouldn’t do. Especially when she’d eaten the last of the chips from the family-sized bag she’d purchased at a truck stop in Maryland.

  Margo sighed as she pulled into a gas station off the highway and parked behind a tired-looking tan Jeep with New Hampshire plates. Almost home, she thought, feeling suddenly queasy.

  There was a chill in the air when she stepped out of the car, despite it only being late September. She rubbed her arms, started the pump, and propped the nozzle in the tank. She’d been driving all night with only a few stops for gas and food; a good cup of hot coffee would settle her stomach, give her the boost she’d inevitably need when she arrived in Oyster Bay. With some explaining to do.

  The realization that she was closer to Maine than she was to South Carolina made her frown. She’d actually done it. Packed her bags and left. Left behind her husband, her friends, her career, her house. Her life. She’d never again linger at the round, walnut table on Sunday mornings, sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper. She’d never again go to her Tuesday yoga class or her Thursday Pilates class (not that she minded skipping that one, per se—the instructor was far too intense for her liking). She wouldn’t eat breakfast at the
Peachtree Café or dinner at Froggy’s. She’d never again taste that French onion soup that only Chef Pierre could make so right.

  Her hair would never again be trimmed by Justine, who knew exactly how Margo liked it (at the shoulder, no layers, no product up-selling on the way out the door), and she’d never again dry her nails under the fan at Belle Femme, the one treat she allowed herself weekly for the sake of professional appearances.

  She’d never again take her morning coffee into her studio above the garage, and she would probably never see which fabric Stacy Bittman had chosen for her living room drapes. They’d gone back and forth on this for six months, with Stacy never quite able to decide between the Jacquard paisley or the damask, and now Margo would never know the outcome. She supposed it was fortuitous that business had been slow lately and that she’d just wrapped up the Morley project: a six-bedroom McMansion and owner with carte blanche. It had been Margo’s dream project—she’d selected every object in the home, from the ottomans to the rugs to the cutlery. That project had earned her a name in town. Cindi Morley had hinted more than once that she’d be referring Margo’s services to all her friends. So much for that.

  Margo pulled open the door and wandered through the cramped aisles to the back of the station’s convenience store, trying not to touch anything. No coffee, unless she wanted to ask for a fresh brew and wait. It was just as well. She’d probably spill it on herself. Her hands were shaky from lack of sleep, and every time her phone pinged, she jumped. Instead she walked to the soda machine, plucked the largest paper cup from the stack, questioning only briefly if it would fit in her console’s cup holder, added ice, and then pressed it firmly against the lever until the liquid reached the rim. Feeling rebellious, she took a sloppy sip from the edge before topping it off again. She was just pressing the plastic lid on tight with the weight of her palm when the corner of her eye latched onto some generic-brand hand pies stacked neatly above the white sandwich bread and single rolls of toilet paper, and her heart started to flutter in a way she didn’t think it could anymore.

  In a way it never did for Ash. Not truly. Not the way it had for…well.

  It wasn’t that Ash wasn’t handsome. He was, in that classic, clean-cut, preppy way. Tall and lean, with nut brown hair and glasses, he was the kind of man who wrote three checks a year to charity, who golfed once a month to keep up his game, and who read the morning paper, every morning, in strict silence. It wasn’t that she hadn’t loved Ash. After all, you didn’t live with someone for nearly a third of your life without loving them, did you? It was just that Ash was what some might call a safe bet. Ash was responsible and reliable.

  But now Ash was banging a second-year law student named Candace. His student. Something she knew only once she’d gotten home yesterday and scoured first the faculty directory and then, with dread, the student registry. Candace wore a string of pearls over a bright pink twinset and had blonde, shoulder-length hair that bounced when she walked. Her teeth were unnaturally white and she had a dimple, for God’s sake. Margo knew all this because she followed him. That’s right. Yesterday afternoon. She had just wrapped up the Morley project and thought she’d stop by to see if he wanted to cut out a little early, maybe even celebrate a little, but he’d been too busy, he said. Papers to grade, he explained, with an apologetic smile and an offer to take her to Froggy’s for dinner that weekend instead. She’d left, without a kiss good-bye, not even a peck, and maybe this was the trouble. She’d instead walked to the car, made an appointment for a manicure she never did make it to, and then, right before she backed out of her spot, caught a glimpse of Ash in her rearview mirror, exiting the building. She’d assumed he had changed his mind, so she waited. Waited and then watched as her husband smiled and laughed as he met up with a woman close to ten years her junior, pulled her into his car, and kissed her. Hard. Kissed her in a way he had never kissed Margo. Or at least hadn’t kissed her in a very long time.

  Margo reached up to touch her lip and then tugged it away. She eyed the snack section again, feeling her stomach rumble. Hell, she deserved it. Some women got flowers and jewelry, and Margo got junk food. She reached for an apple pie and then, because there seemed to be such little point in dieting right now, another. There was a thin layer of dust on the wrappers, but considering how the day was going, she didn’t even care.

  Margo walked to the cashier, took out her wallet from her bag, and used it as an excuse to check her phone. Nothing. Her heart dropped, even though she knew it shouldn’t.

  The first apple pie was in her mouth before she even made it back to the car. She finished it entirely and shamelessly licked her fingers clean, only idly considering that she had just handled money, before pulling her phone from her pocket again and doing a few rough calculations.

  It was barely nine o’clock. If traffic cooperated, she’d be in Oyster Bay by ten. Mimi would fix her a plate of pancakes with fresh maple syrup that only seemed to exist in her grandmother’s house, brew her some proper coffee that she always served up in her best china, breakfast, lunch, or dinner. They’d sit and chat and Margo would tell her what happened, or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d go to lie down in her old bedroom instead, fall into her soft bed and sleep the day away and pretend that nothing was wrong and everything was all right and that somehow it would all be okay.

  The thought was so appealing that she tossed the second apple pie in the trash and set the gas pump back on its hook, smiling for the first time since she’d cackled, rather maniacally, as she’d floored it out of her driveway, a handful of her belongings in the trunk. Ash none the wiser. Yet.

  Home in an hour. See, this wasn’t so bad, was it?

  ***

  Fifty-nine minutes later, Margo cursed under her breath and eyed the blue and red flashing lights in her rearview mirror. The road into Oyster Bay rarely got busy on weekdays, aside from Friday afternoons, when people came in from Boston or Hartford in droves, eager for a change of scenery and the feeling of sand between their toes. She pushed on the brake pedal, but it was no use. There wasn’t another soul on the road. They were coming for her.

  Sighing, she pulled to a stop. Felt the prickle of tears at the back of her eyes, and wondered if now was the time to release them again. She wasn’t a fan of using charm or pity to get her way (that was more in her sister Abby’s territory), but considering the fact that her husband—her lying, cheating husband—still hadn’t called to see where she was or if she was even still alive, she might deserve a little slack.

  She cut the engine and reached for the glove box, assuming that all the necessary paperwork would be in there and relieved to see that it was. She felt a little pang, of affection, or fondness, or something else equally inappropriate. She put it firmly in its place. So Ash was good at taking care of these things. Insurance, registration, AAA memberships. He took care of his share, she took care of hers, like making sure he always had his favorite cereal in the pantry, or that the linens were changed every week: things that would never cross Ash’s mind. But soon she’d be taking care of both their parts. Things she hadn’t even thought about, because she never had to before. Did she even know how to access half of their accounts? Of course not.

  She’d taken her life for granted. Gotten comfortable.

  Gotten foolish, was more like it.

  The cop car was behind her now. Maine plates. Lights still flashing, hell bent on letting anyone who dared to come along know that she was in trouble. Her cheeks flamed with heat. This wasn’t like her. She’d been a straight-A student. Gotten a full scholarship to college. She was a professional.

  Margo Harper didn’t get pulled over for traffic violations. But then, Margo Harper didn’t lick her fingers clean after hanging out in truck stops, either.

  She slunk back in her seat and eyed the flashing blue lights through the side mirror, hoping the officer was at least friendly, not a hard ass, considering she had out of town plates. She knew the reputation tourists had around here. They drank too much,
lingered a little too long at the tables on Main Street, after the bill had been paid and the wine drunk. They were carefree, happy, maybe even a little irresponsible. And they drove too fast on their way into town. A little slower on their way out.

  She frowned. Had she even been speeding? With no other cars to help gauge her pace, she hadn’t bothered to check.

  Now the cop car door was opening. One foot emerged in the form of a black leather boot. Margo snatched her handbag from the passenger seat. Well, crap. Best to get the humiliation over with.

  She rolled down her window, halfway, and slid her South Carolina driver’s license through the space, uttering a string of explanations and excuses as she did so. She waited for a response, a reprimand, something. But there was nothing but silence.

  Finally, because she had been staring at the steering wheel all this time, barely stopping for a breath, and probably qualifying herself for some kind of test that would require her to touch her nose and stand on one foot, she closed her mouth firmly and turned to look at the officer.

  And there it was. The ultimate punishment. No ticket, no matter the fine, could top this moment.

  It was Eddie. Eddie Boyd. The same Eddie who had kissed her in the park one crisp fall day and made her believe that anything was possible. The same Eddie who had left town fifteen years ago with a grin on his face and promises he never made good on. She knew his voice. His laugh. The shape of his nose and the curve of his smile. Even with the aviator shades, she’d recognize that face anywhere.

  To her disappointment, he didn’t look half as surprised as she was to see him.

  “Eddie.” She licked her lips and ran a palm over her hair only to realize it was pulled into a ponytail, or at least, half of it was. Damn it. No doubt she looked the wreck that she felt. There were probably smudges of mascara under her eyes too from all that crying in the bathroom of that greasy all-night diner she’d stopped at somewhere in Virginia. It would be too strange to pull her sunglasses down now. Too…suspicious.