Finding Home (2 page)

Sarah snorted. “If she could see me now,” she whispered.

She felt Bentley move closer, his soft tongue darting out to clean the tears off her cheeks. He was worried about her and she knew it. It was his job, after all, to look out for his herd and to make sure each member was okay. She dug her Þ ngers into his fur and murmured reassurances to him, telling him she was Þ ne, not to worry. He lay down on the ß oor with a sigh. Apparently, he too understood they’d be sleeping in the living room again.

v

“Oh, Christ.”

Sarah felt like a freight train was blasting through her head at full speed. Squeezing her eyes shut against the overwhelming brightness of the bathroom lights, she braced herself against the vanity with both hands and tried hard to regulate her breathing and stave off a second bout of vomiting.

Nice and easy…

In…

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FINDING HOME

Out…

In…

Out…

Slowly and carefully, she opened her eyes and attempted to focus on her reß ection in the mirror. That proved to be a very large mistake.

“Oh,
Christ
,” she said again, pulling the medicine cabinet open so she wouldn’t be forced to look anymore. Fumbling for the bottle of ibuprofen, she turned on the water and Þ lled a glass.

After popping three pills, she closed the door of the cabinet and tried again. “Consider it your punishment for last night,” she mumbled at herself in disgust.

The woman who looked back at her was a disaster of epic proportions. Her normally sleek and shiny dark hair, which had its own little zip of curl to it, hung limp and lifeless, not to mention tangled and matted, just past her shoulders. She had a normally creamy complexion that many admired, but that certainly wouldn’t be happening today, not with the sallow gray shade of it and the purplish black circles underneath her eyes. Speaking of her eyes—which were deÞ nitely her best feature on any given day—Sarah hardly recognized them. Their usual cheerful blue was dull, and “bloodshot” didn’t begin to describe the redness.

“God, what the hell is the matter with me?” The question was no more than a whisper, but Bentley lifted his head from the bathroom ß oor to look at her. “And you,” she said, glaring down at him in mock anger. “How could you let me call her?”

She squatted and dug her Þ ngers into the impossible silkiness of his tricolored fur, scratching around the thick coat on his neck the way he liked it. “Hmm? How could you let me be that stupid?”

He was such a good dog. She couldn’t have created a better one from scratch. She’d gotten that lucky with him. Bentley was a miniature Australian shepherd—a mini Aussie—and she would never have another breed as long as she continued to own dogs.

He was smart, loyal, loving, and gorgeous, and he was really

• 15 •

GEORGIA BEERS

the only thing that would make what she’d decided to do today difÞ cult. But it would be okay. She was sure of it. She just needed some time.

Showering and getting dressed were not easy tasks in her state. Despite the handful of drugs, her head continued to pound, and the idea of putting anything other than coffee into her stomach started it churning in revolt. Too uncomfortable to put much effort into her appearance, she twisted her hair back behind her head and chose the pantsuit that needed the least amount of preparation for wearing—the black rayon combination. Deciding on the usual simple royal blue silk shell for underneath it, she hoped it didn’t accent her eyes too much this morning. Her makeup was doing next to nothing to cover the evidence of her rough night, and she didn’t need everybody and their brother asking her if she was feeling all right. The truth was, she was
not
feeling all right, mentally or physically, and she hadn’t been for a very long time.

That didn’t mean she felt the need to discuss it with anybody.

Self-deprecation was apparently going to be her close, personal friend for the day, as it followed her all around the house that morning, tossing out whatever snippets she could remember from her conversation with Karen the previous night, making her cringe at her own desperation. She still couldn’t believe she’d called, although she had a vague memory of entertaining the idea as she sipped from her Þ fth gin and tonic. This was the fourth morning in less than six weeks that punished her with a brutal hangover, and she absently wondered if she should be worried about herself. She’d always enjoyed an occasional cocktail, but she never used to get toasted like she did last night. Drunk was unattractive. It was embarrassing. It meant no control, no Þ lters.

She was dreading the idea of hearing what stupidly personal things she’d spouted at the bar, though she was sure Patti Schmidt, her administrative assistant, would tell her. Patti always told her.

Patti meant well but had no clue what it meant to keep business and personal separate, and Sarah certainly didn’t help matters by going out and getting obliterated around somebody from work.

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FINDING HOME

Patti was too naïve to realize that this wasn’t exactly appropriate behavior. Sarah made a mental note to have a little talk with her admin, one that included an apology.

When will I learn my lesson?
She scolded herself as she maneuvered her car into a spot around the corner from Valenti’s.

All she’d hear about all day was how much fun Patti had last night. And while she brought Sarah water and asked her how she was feeling and was her usual concerned and nurturing self, Sarah’s skin would crawl with embarrassment. God, she should know better. She
did
know better. She felt like kicking herself.

The car door took the brunt of her frustration as she slammed it with more force than necessary.

Valenti’s was a bakery and coffee shop in the more eclectic section of Monroe Avenue that had evolved with the times. Sarah knew this because she’d been coming to it for nearly ten years—

at lunchtime when it had been an Italian deli, and for the last three years, in the morning, since it had moved its focus to baked goods and coffee. As the neighborhood had become younger and younger, centered more and more on recent college graduates, the deli business had tapered off considerably. Sarah had noticed fewer people each time she stopped by and worried about the survival of such a traditional place. One Monday about three years ago, there was a sign on the door that said simply, “Closed for Renovations. Will Re-open Soon.” Less than a month later, Sarah’s favorite coffee shop was unveiled, and the coffee and homemade baked goods were so wonderful, she never even missed the deli for a second.

It had been a very smart move for the owners. Each morning, it was packed with a steady stream of yuppies and tech geeks ready for their Þ rst jolt of caffeine and a blast of sugar from the homemade confections that lined the glass case. Sarah would swear on a stack of Bibles that Valenti’s had the best latte she’d ever tasted. It was a very rare morning that she didn’t make it in for one. And today, she needed it more than ever.

Waiting patiently in line and trying hard to ignore the

• 17 •

GEORGIA BEERS

pounding of her head, Sarah focused on the woman behind the counter. Woman? Girl? She looked young but had an air of professionalism and poise that told Sarah she might be older than she seemed. She was adorable, sexy even, Sarah had always thought, with her small build and energetic smile. She was terriÞ c with the customers, always quick with a wink or a laugh, a little ß irty, but not obnoxiously so. Her eyes were either a light hazel or a dark green, Sarah wasn’t quite sure, and her hair color changed on a regular basis. Last summer, it had been short, spiky, and bleached blond with a bright pink streak in the front. Then she’d let it grow out and went nearly jet black, still with the pink streak. Now it was almost a bob, the ends skimming the tops of her shoulders in a warm chestnut brown, and Sarah speculated whether this was the closest to her natural color she’d been in a while. It seemed to suit her. She still had the pink streak that fell casually across her forehead and over her right eye, and Sarah felt the sudden urge to brush it out of the way. Clenching her hands into Þ sts, she glanced toward the homemade cannoli. On any other day, she’d be tempted, knowing from experience how decadently delicious they were, but today she swallowed down the sudden urge to retch.

“Hi there,” the girl said, ß ashing her usual ß irty smile as Sarah reached the counter. At least, Sarah always thought of it as ß irty. An extra-large latte was set in front of her before she even had the chance to respond to the greeting. She blinked at it in surprise.

“I usually just get the medium,” she said Þ nally, lamely, as she looked up to meet eyes that were deÞ nitely light hazel. They glittered back at her in what appeared to be friendly sympathy.

“I know.” The girl blew the colored lock of hair out of her eye, then lowered her voice and leaned slightly forward. “You look like you could use a little extra help this morning.”

Sarah grimaced, torn between being ß attered that the girl knew her order by heart and embarrassed that her appearance

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FINDING HOME

apparently screamed “hungover.” Not that she was surprised. She certainly felt like shit. Why wouldn’t she look like it as well?

“Ugh.” It was all she could manage to say as she nodded.

“It happens to the best of us,” the girl said, winking and waving away Sarah’s money. “This one’s on me. I hope your day gets better.”

“Thanks.” Sarah took her latte and kept her eyes cast downward as she exited the shop, hoping nobody had been privy to that little exchange. She beelined to her car and drove to the ofÞ ce feeling like a gray cloud of shame hung over her as she raced along the road.

Her extra-large latte, however, was perfect.

• 19 •

• 20 •

FINDING HOME

CHAPTER TWO

Yikes. Hot Business Exec is late today. And I’m betting she had a rough night.” Andrea Tisdale watched over the rim of her coffee cup as the tall, attractive—and obviously sick, hungover, depressed, or all three—brunette headed for the door of the bakery.

“I think you’re right,” Natalie Fox tossed over her shoulder in response to her best friend’s comment. Then she smiled at the man at the counter and gave him his change.

“Doesn’t take away her hotness, though.”

“Don’t you have to get to work?”

“I took a personal day.”

“What for?”

“Shh. I’m enjoying the view.”

Natalie shook her head. “You’ve got a one-track mind.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t Þ nd her drool-worthy. I happen to know you do.”

“I didn’t say that. I said you have a one-track mind.”

“That’s what happens when you go for six months with no sex.” Andrea bit into a jelly doughnut, the raspberry Þ lling sticking to the corners of her mouth, her lips white with powdered sugar.

“God, these damn things are sinful.” As a petite older woman in a blue apron bustled over, Andrea asked, “What do you put in these, Mrs. V.? Some kind of drug to keep us all addicted?”

• 21 •

GEORGIA BEERS

Mrs. Valenti tapped Natalie on the hip, signaling that she should take her break now. “Oh, I not tell you or I have to kill you,” she said in an endearing Italian accent. She winked at Andrea before Þ shing three cream puffs out of the glass case for the next customer and then shooing the girls out of her way. “Go.

Go. Sit.”

Andrea followed Natalie through the kitchen to the break room, where they sat at a small, nondescript table. Natalie positioned herself so she had a clear line of sight to the front counter. As with every weekday morning at this time, the crowd was beginning to die down. Natalie wouldn’t have let Mrs. Valenti take over the counter if it had still been busy. The woman was an always-moving bundle of energy, but it didn’t mean she wasn’t in her seventies. Natalie was careful to watch her and make sure to relieve her if it looked like she was getting tired, because the elderly woman would never admit it and ask for help. It was a quality that was as engaging as it was infuriating, and Mr. Valenti was just as bad. They were like family to Natalie, like her own grandparents, and she was always looking out for them, whether or not they realized it. Which she was pretty sure they did.

“So?” She turned her attention to Andrea, who was polishing off the last bite of her doughnut. “What’s the scoop? Are you going to meet her?”

Andrea stared into her now-empty paper cup for several long seconds. When she looked back up at Natalie, all mirth and humor had ß ed from her brown eyes. She ran a hand through her short, dark hair and her cheeks puffed with the exhalation of a long breath. “Yeah, I think I am.”

“That’s great!” Natalie clapped her hands together in enthusiasm.

“I’m nervous, Natty.”

“I know.” Natalie reached across the table and ß icked some powdered sugar from Andrea’s cheek. “I know you are. But I’m proud of you. This is a big step. And you practically know the woman, right?”

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FINDING HOME

“I guess so.”

“What do you mean, you guess so? You’ve e-mailed with her for weeks. You’ve talked on the phone. You’ve exchanged pictures. You’re attracted to her. She’s attracted to you.”

“As attracted as you can be to a photograph. What if there’s no chemistry?”

Natalie shrugged. “Then there’s no chemistry and you’ve got a new friend. You can never have too many of those, right?”

“You’re always so damned logical.” Andrea threw an affectionate grin at her.

“Hey, I’ve got to be good at something. My point is you know what to expect. This wouldn’t exactly be a blind date.

You’ve seen one another’s pictures. You know you have things in common to talk about. You’ll know what to expect.”

“She’s going to expect a woman with two breasts.”

Natalie chewed on the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t agreed with Andrea’s decision to not be completely up-front about her breast cancer. She thought it was better to get the facts out on the table and weed out the potential pain causers, but it wasn’t Natalie’s choice to make, and Andrea was still too sensitive about the subject to lead with it. Having a mastectomy at such a young age had really messed with her self-esteem and body image, and even
thinking
about dating was a huge step for her. Natalie was proud. She loved Andrea and so supported her any way she could, even if she thought she might have made the wrong choice.