Brighde reborn, p.1
Brighde Reborn, page 1
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Pronunciation
About the Authors
Book Club Questions
Brighde Reborn
Copyright © 2023 Leslie Sommers & Janice Sommers. All rights reserved.
4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
1497 Main St. Suite 169
Dunedin, FL 34698
4horsemenpublications.com
info@4horsemenpublications.com
Cover & Typesetting by Autumn Skye
Edited by Gayle Staggenmeyer
Linebreak Image Pendant drawn by Niki Tantillo
All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022947636
Paperback ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0097-4
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-698-1
Audiobook ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0095-0
Ebook ISBN-13: 979-8-8232-0096-7
Dedication
Leslie: To my father, the inspiration behind it all.
Janice: To Ernie, for your love and support.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Lauren – without your help, we wouldn’t have been able to see this dream become a reality. To Samantha – your original artwork of the cover is beautiful, and we will treasure it always. To John and Meghan – if either of you didn’t spend the year it took to save this book, we would never have been able to continue this series. To Amanda, Maggie, Rich, and all the betas who took a chance on this series – without your unwavering excitement and support, we wouldn’t have made it this far. Lastly, to our readers, who are our biggest supporters – thank you, thank you, thank you! If you didn’t ask us constantly when the next book would be out or what happens next, we wouldn’t have been able to make it this far. Thank you.
Prologue
Most fairy tales began with the words “once upon a time.” Romance novels were almost always another retelling of some Shakespearean play or of a tale passed among circles in local adult book clubs. My story wasn’t like any of those. I didn’t live in a far-off place inhabited by fairies, dragons, or vampires. The only ghosts haunting me were the shadows of long-forgotten memories of a carefree childhood. I grew up in a small town in Jersey, and while that may have seemed like a mystical land to some people, the only wild animals around were the testosterone-driven high school boys. The only thing those fairy tales had in common with me was that my life was changed by a Prince Charming, too. Well, I thought he was Prince Charming.
If someone had told me a year ago I’d be sitting in the library of a ruined castle, handwriting my life’s tale, I would’ve had them committed. Yet here I was, pen in hand, my messy script covering a wrinkled, yellowed journal as golden sunbeams streamed through the leaves outside my window. My mother thought it would be therapeutic for me to write what happened. Help me heal or something. At eighteen years old, I’d experienced more death and misery than most people twice my age. How did anyone just bounce back from that? Where did I even begin?
Let me start with the Prince Charming—well, he’s just a boy, really. We were in love. Are in love. I can never remember how to describe someone after they’re gone. What if they aren’t in your life anymore? Do you still talk about them like they’re sitting next to you? Or do you speak of them in the same hushed tones grown-ups use when referring to your dead relatives?
Anyway, I should get back to the Prince. More like Enemy of the State, if you ask my family. My friends, on the other hand, couldn’t help but giggle and gush over our relationship. And me? I don’t know anymore. I can still remember the day everything changed…
Chapter 1
I’d like to say it was a dark and stormy night when Trip Findlay entered our little sleepy town of Corbin City, NJ. That he rolled in on dark thunderclouds using lightning bolts as reins. But that’s not even close to being true. It was the last week of August before I would be returning to the illustrious Ocean City High School. The sun singed every piece of skin not slathered with sunblock. The strong ocean breeze carried the tantalizing smells of the boardwalk venders and the salty sea to our noses. I was lying on the beach with my group of friends: Brianna was tanning on her giant beach blanket, Annabelle was sketching something in her notebook, and Cole was finishing up The Bluest Eye for his summer reading. I, on the other hand, did what I could to prevent melanoma, my red hair and freckled skin always a magnet for the sun. I was covered with sunblock, wearing a high-neck royal blue one-piece, and hiding underneath the rainbow beach umbrella.
“This book is good, but I’d really rather be out there,” Cole said, gazing at the ocean. Using the book to shield his eyes, he flopped back onto the towel.
“I think it’s a refreshing change for summer reading. I love reading books by diverse authors instead of the standard canonical literature.”
Cole looked up at me. “Canonical?”
“Yes. If I have to read another book written by a pasty guy about how a woman feels, I may have to drown myself.”
He frowned. “Dramatic, much?”
“No. Those books leave us women with false hope that a guy will pop up, sweep us off our feet, and carry us off into the sunset. Even Disney wrote it into films. It’s fun to read sometimes, but it’s not my first choice.”
“I think that’s my cue to go swim. Want to come, Annabelle?” Bri asked as she hopped up.
“Take me,” Cole groaned.
“No, you have to finish. You know they give a test on the first day of school!” Annabelle said as she and Bri ran toward the water.
Clad in slinky bikinis and board shorts, other students from OCHS swam in the rough waves and played volleyball. Cailean and his older brother, Alec, surfed with their group of friends, including my crush, Alec’s friend, Kevin, who made up the top tier of royalty at Ocean City High School. Alec McKay was the former reigning king during his senior year, even though the family had just transferred to OCHS last summer. All accounts suggested Cay was the heir to the throne now that Alec was headed to college.
“You’re staring again, Bridget,” Cole said, as he pushed up his sunglasses.
“Staring at what?” Trying to cover my tracks, I diverted my eyes to Bri and Annabelle.
“Yeah, like you don’t know…” I blushed furiously. It was no secret to my friends that I had a huge crush on Kevin, even though he was a year older than me and was going to be a freshman with Alec at the University of Pennsylvania. There was no way he would want to spend his last summer before college tied to a senior at his alma mater, never mind the fact that he never glanced in my direction.
“Shut up,” I replied weakly. A couple in front of us rolled onto their backs simultaneously. Their tanning schedule reminded me of the hot dogs on a rolling oven at Jimmy’s Hot Dogs on the boardwalk. The thought made my stomach stir, and I remembered I had skipped breakfast earlier in a rush to start the day.
“I’m going to grab something to eat. Do you want to come?” I stood and grabbed my white flip-flops. I could feel the grit of the sand under my feet.
Cole just shook his head. Ducking from underneath the umbrella, I left my sunglasses behind and made my way between the beach bums on their towels and around the sandcastles being built by children of all ages. I squinted and climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. I weaved through the throng of people clad only in bikinis, shorts, or skirts. Lots of skin was showing, some of which I didn’t want to see. Finally, the white and red sign of my favorite hot dog joint loomed above me, and my stomach gave an approving growl.
“Hi, Sam!” I greeted the vender.
“Hey, Bridget!” he replied. “How are the waves today?”
Grabbing a plate and a bun, he got ready to make my personal favorite, Sam’s Special: an all-beef frank with chili, cheese, onions, and fries. It was full of flavor and absolutely delicious. Sam told me once I was the only person on the beach who ordered this delicious meal regularly.
“Pretty good. Great surfing waves, for sure.”
Sam piled on the chopped onions, sank the hot dog into the pocket of the bun, and started in on the layer of chili and cheese. I salivated.
“Excuse me, can I have a bottle of water, please?” a male voice drifted in from behind me. Turning around, I nearly ran into the voice’s owner. Tall-ish and lanky, he had dirty-blond hair, lightly tanned skin, and the greenest eyes I had ever seen. Flashing him a shy smile, I moved out of his way. I prayed if he saw the red blush spreading, he would assume it was sunburn.
“That will be one seventy-five,” Sam said. The boy patted his pockets.
“Sorry! I only have one fifty.” He held his hands out, his palms facing up, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I have a quarter you can borrow. Have! I mean, you can keep it. I don’t need it back,” I babbled. Who is this girl? I was in no way ever this tongue-tied around a guy. I had been on the debate team last year, I had performed in school plays, and I had worked at the local bookstore for the summer. Stuttering in front of a stranger, no matter how likable he might have been, was not something I was used to. He smiled in relief at me.
“Thank you.”
I nodded silently in response, placing my payment along with his quarter on the counter. Sam handed me my food, which was positively dripping with cheddar cheese and chili. Just the way I love it. He handed the water bottle over to the guy. I grabbed a few napkins, toasted Sam to say thanks, and turned to walk away.
“Hey, thanks again. I’m sure I’d melt out here if I didn’t get a drink.” The stranger followed me as I walked back to the stairs.
“You’re welcome,” I smiled. If I kept looking at him, I would never eat my meal.
“Are you from around here?” he asked. It seemed I had picked up a new friend.
“Yeah. I’m from the next town over.” My mouth was only allowing short, choppy sentences to escape… probably my subconscious’s attempt to avoid another embarrassing stutter.
“I just moved here,” he went on. “My name is—”
“Trip!” I heard someone yell out. We both turned in the direction of the voice. A guy with brown hair and a muscular build came jogging over to us. I had to admit, I was disappointed we’d been interrupted. From the look of frustration flashing across Trip’s face, I guessed he felt the same way.
“Hey, wait up!” the new guy said, catching up to us. “What’re you up to?”
“Just grabbing some water with my savior, here. She gave me the quarter I was missing.” Trip pointed at me. His friend barely glanced at me as I used a fry to wipe some chili that had spilled onto the plate.
“Good stuff. Want to surf?”
Trip shook his head. “Just walking up and down the boardwalk.” He flashed me a look again, and I almost choked on my fry.
His friend finally tore his eyes away from Trip and looked me up and down. Feeling judged, I blushed and immediately wished I hadn’t just stuffed obscene amounts of food in my face. Oh no… I hoped I didn’t have anything in my teeth. I swiped my tongue over my teeth to check for any remnants.
“Well, I should be going,” I said, feeling sufficiently awkward in front of this beautiful stranger and his friend. “You’re welcome for the quarter.” I took two steps toward the stairs. I wondered if anyone had informed Trip that when his wingman sticks around, it kills the mood.
“Wait,” Trip said, touching my arm. “I never got your name.”
“Bridget.”
“Will I see you around?”
“Um, maybe,” I shrugged. “I need to be going. My friends are waiting for me.” I hurried as much as I could without running. I was sinking in the sand all the way back to my friends. I hoped Trip hadn’t seen how ungraceful I was, but once I got back to our group of towels, Trip and his friend were sitting no less than one hundred yards from me. Cue slight embarrassment. Facing the ocean, I noticed Cay glaring at Trip.
“Mom! Dad! I’m home!” I closed the front door behind me, dropped my bag on the floor, and hung my keys on the ring.
“Hi, honey. Dad is still at the firm working on a case. How was the beach?” Mom, wiping her hands on a towel, came in from the kitchen. A sweet fragrance followed her into the hall.
“Hot. What is that smell?” I sniffed again, breathing in the heavenly scent.
“Oh, we have new neighbors two doors down. I figured I’d make them a welcome basket filled with the local favorites.” The kitchen counters were covered with various cooling racks filled with cream puffs, chocolate-covered pretzels, and my favorite, chocolate cupcakes with strawberry buttercream on top. Mom was an excellent baker, which was fitting since she owned The Sweetest Shop. It was Ocean City’s famous—and only—bakery in town. Her secret for delicious goodies? She grew most of her produce, like figs and strawberries, in our huge backyard facing the Tuckahoe River. The shop was popular not only with kids for the wonderfully tasty treats but also with parents. She was known for slipping vegetables into her recipes all the time.
“Can I have a cupcake?” I’d already tasted the dark chocolate as my salivary glands kicked into overdrive.
“No, but if you want, you can walk it over there with me. Maybe they’ll share, if you’re lucky.” She filled plastic bags with the cookies and twist tied them shut. I scratched the back of my head, feeling little grains of sand against my scalp.
“Deal. Let me shower first.”
After shampooing my hair twice and combing out the sand in a hot shower, I got dressed in white shorts, a forest-green tank top, and sandals. Leaving my hair to air-dry, I found my mom waiting in the living room. The basket was sitting by the front door, where my beach bag had been disassembled.
“Sorry. I forgot to unpack the beach stuff first,” I apologized.
“No problem. But you’re making dinner tonight.” Had to love Mom’s unusual form of punishments. I was rarely grounded in the normal way, like by being banned from watching TV or from going to parties. No, Mom and Dad felt doing certain chores would be beneficial to my future as an adult—plus, they get out of doing chores they didn’t want to do. Making dinner wasn’t a bad deal in comparison to the punishment of dealing with the backed up toilet last year. It had been a geyser of urine and feces spewing on the floor, walls, and sink. Even after opening the windows and letting the cold, winter air in, the bathroom still smelled like sewage for two days. “The recipe is on the counter, and we have all the ingredients. I double-checked for you.”
I nodded. “Shall we?” I looped my arm through the basket handle and stepped out the front door.
“So, someone is finally moving into the Cartright house?” I asked Mom as we traipsed up the street, passing the old seaside cottage next door. The sun had relinquished its death grip on the earth and allowed a soft breeze to caress my face.
“Yes. After Mr. Cartright passed away, his son sold the property.”
“I wonder who moved in. I bet they’re famous, like a daytime soap actor or something.” We looked both ways before crossing the street.
“Why would you even think that?”
I shrugged. “Why not? This neighborhood is boring. We could use the cast of General Hospital to make life interesting.”
We arrived at the two-story Victorian house, painted a light, wintery blue. The front yard was picturesque; neat grass with purple irises in the garden lined the pathway leading to the house from the sidewalk. Three cars sat in the double driveway: a red jeep, a blue Honda Civic, and a black Escalade. I pictured a blonde girl, dripping in name-brand jewelry and clothes, receiving the last car like on reality TV. I scrunched my nose.
I followed Mom up the porch steps to the front door where she motioned for me to ring the bell. We heard footsteps thundering, and the door opened. Behind it was a young girl around eleven or twelve. With jean shorts and a striped t-shirt, she was cute with her dark-brown hair pulled into a high ponytail. In her left hand was a tattered copy of Shakespeare’s Othello. I raised my eyebrows at her reading choice; it was quite an impressive play for such a young age.
“Hi!” Her voice was higher than I’d expected.
