Mr. August Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by Jan Romes

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Other Books You Might Like

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Mr. August

  by

  Jan Romes

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mr. August

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Janice Romes All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected] Cover Art by Kim Mendoza The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History

  First Champagne Rose Edition, 2013

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-109-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Other Books by Jan Romes

  available at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  ONE SMALL FIB

  LUCKY DUCKS

  THE GIFT OF GRAY

  Dedication

  To Bill, always!

  Chapter One

  “What the…!” Libby stomped the brakes as hard as she could. The tires squealed and the Jeep lurched to a dramatic halt. She flew forward but the seat belt kept her from barreling into the steering wheel.

  A mere inch from her bumper stood a dark-haired guy, his hands fanned outward and eyes wide with shock.

  Libby’s heart clenched at the near miss. The “what if” question gripped her with icy claws, squeezing the air from her lungs. What if she hadn’t been able to stop? She trembled with fear and embarrassment.

  The man issued her a piercing look of criticism.

  Libby shrank against the seat. She was clearly in the wrong, but how in the world did he get in the crosswalk so fast? The light had been yellow. In the time it took her to blink, he was there.

  “I’m sorry,” she said through the windshield, clutching the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white.

  To expand his admonishment of her recklessness, the guy shook his head and cast an occasional glance over his shoulder during his trek across the street.

  Normal breathing resumed, but her pulse was pounding as hard as her knees were knocking. Oh God! She’d been so preoccupied with the muck of her life that she wasn’t paying attention to her driving.

  The driver in the car behind wasn’t about to give her a moment to collect herself. He honked his horn with impatience. Libby double-checked the light, looked in every direction twice, and coaxed her wobbly foot to press the gas pedal. For the safety of the good people of Celina, Ohio, she had to stop thinking about the week from hell; at least until she got to the cabin.

  She caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. Red, puffy eyes said it all—she was a wreck. A tear leaked out. Followed by a few hundred more. A tiny voice inside warned her to stop the pity party or risk another close call, or worse.

  Libby passed the lighthouse at the start of Grand Lake St. Mary’s, an indication she still had ten minutes before she would arrive at the cabin. “Just breathe,” she said. “Air in. Air out. You’ll be fine.” Realistically, it was going to take more than a pep talk for her to be fine. But hey, who wouldn’t be on the verge of a meltdown after two life-altering disasters in one week?

  A few miles out of town Libby located the one-lane road leading to All Seasons Campground. Pausing at the stop sign to uncap her water bottle, she downed a much needed sip. The last hour and a half had been grueling. It had taken all her strength to stow away the painful conversation she had with her doctor. Stashing one pain made the other emerge. Slayte Designs had cut her loose. No warning. No indication that her close friend and boss Amanda Slayte was unhappy with their friendship and her work. Nothing. The only explanation tendered was the need for new and exciting blood. Really? New blood? Libby snorted with derision—Amanda Slayte, fashion vampire. The sarcasm was silly but at the moment she needed silly. She just couldn’t fathom what prompted Amanda to do such a thing. Together they built her fashion design business from the ground up. They attended Blue Jacket hockey games and spent many a Friday night watching movies, for Pete’s sake. And then, bam! Amanda blindsided her with walking papers.

  Libby choked back another round of tears. She closed her eyes for a second, drew in a long breath and exhaled with as much effort. A vision of the guy she almost picked off popped into her mind. Her eyes snapped open. “He’s in one piece. You’re in one piece. It’s time to start over.”

  After a few more sips of water, Libby focused on the wooded surroundings. The cool November air had turned the leaves into a breathtaking canvas of reds, yellows, and oranges. This was it. This was where she needed to be to get her bearings.

  The campground sat on the south side of Grand Lake St. Mary’s and would be her home for the next five months. Fond memories of summers spent at the lake surfaced and she felt a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She and her best friend, Steph, would escape the city for weeks at a time with her grandparents. They’d bunked in a tiny camper, enjoyed an occasional boat ride and sat on the dock for hours with a pad of paper, drawing outfits for their Barbie dolls. Sometimes, they hand sewed clothes for the dolls from scraps of fabric.

  Fashion had clearly been Libby’s destiny. Steph, on the other hand, chose the path of motherhood. They didn’t see each other much these days but kept in touch daily with text messages and sometimes a phone call when Steph had a minute to call her own. She and Steph were a couple of dorks who were always there for each other. Steph encouraged Libby to follow her dreams, and Libby didn’t bat an eye when Steph said she wanted ten kids. Four down, six to go.

  When Steph found out about the stunt Amanda pulled by firing Libby for no clear reason, she cried with Libby and vowed to do some pulling too, saying if she caught up with Amanda she’d pull her haughty eyebrows out with a pair of pliers.

  A hiccupped sob ripped from deep in Libby’s chest. Steph also said this was just a bump in the road. It felt more like a giant sinkhole.

  Libby navigated the Jeep 4x4 down the stone drive canopied with maple, elm, and catalpa trees. She followed the signs to the small office decorated with a fisherman’s net and wooden anchor.

  The porch creaked with every step and a tiny bell sounded when she entered. “Hello,” she said to the elderly gentleman tucked behind the counter warming himself by a small, portable heater and sipping from a mug.

  “Well, hello there to you too. I’m guessing you’re Miss Libby Griffin.”

  “I am.” Libby returned the smile and stretched her hand across the counter to shake his.

  “I’m Jiggs Martin. Welcome to All Seasons.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jiggs. I’m happy to be here.”

  “Excellent.” Jiggs snagged a set of keys from a hook and came through a small, swinging gate at the end of the counter. “As you’ve probably noticed, the campground is almost empty. There are a few die-hard campers but most have closed up and won’t be b
ack until April.” His eyes roamed over her with a sort of fatherly concern. “Are you sure you want to hole up in a cabin until spring? Winter on the lake isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It’s going to get downright cold and windy.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Her family thought she was nuts for turning into a hermit; only Steph truly understood the drastic measure. Libby was counting on the isolation to fill her with inspiration so she could make a dramatic comeback into the world of fashion at the end of March. If she happened to make Slayte Designs regret letting her go, it would be a bonus.

  “Alrighty then, on to cabin four.” Jiggs threw on a heavy coat and sock hat, and slid his fingers into thick gloves. “You’d think it was zero the way I’m bundled up. These old bones can’t take the cold.” He grinned. “I can’t believe you’re traipsing around in a light sweater.”

  The trip from Columbus to Celina was just over a hundred miles, so she’d tossed her jacket in the backseat soon after leaving her apartment. Libby offered a half-smile. “I’m having a hard time letting go of summer.” And other things.

  “I hear ya.” Jiggs shared a raspy chuckle. “Follow me.” He climbed into a waiting golf cart.

  Past rows of campers, fire pits and stacks of firewood, they entered a remote part of the campground hidden behind a line of arborvitae trees. Six log cabins came into view. They were shaded by catalpa trees and surrounded by hostas, scarlet mums, and black-eyed Susans.

  Jiggs hopped from the golf cart with more agility than his years should’ve allowed. He raised his eyebrows up and down. “We’re here.”

  A small pumpkin sat on the wooden planks that served as a porch. “This place is awesome, Jiggs.”

  Jiggs chest puffed out at the compliment. “My wife and I built these cabins a few years back.” He clapped his hands together. “Let’s have a look.” After unlocking the door, he handed the keys to Libby.

  The cozy dwelling had a small kitchen and TV area that were basically one space. It held a table for two, flat screen TV, loveseat and recliner, and a glass desk for computer work. The bathroom was compact but efficient with a shower-tub combo, sink, stackable washer and dryer, and full-length mirror on the back of the door. The bedroom was a homey loft with a queen-size bed covered in a red, white, and blue Amish quilt.

  Jiggs ran down a list of things she needed to know, including how to operate the gas fireplace since it was the only source of heat. He opened the sliding doors to the deck that overlooked the lake, stepped outside and motioned for Libby to follow. “The internet will work out here too.” He clicked his tongue. “I try to keep up on technology.” He fished a business card from his pocket. “I’ll be closing the office today after I leave here. If you need anything give me a call. I live up the road a couple of miles so I can be here in a flash.”

  At the far end of the lake the mast of a sailboat billowed in the wind. Directly across the lake a pontoon filled with people putted along the shore. Libby leaned against the railing and inhaled a breath of autumn.

  Jiggs nodded toward the adjacent cabin and lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret. “The only other person occupying the cabins is Mr. August. He’s made it plain he wishes not to be disturbed.”

  Mr. August? The name conjured a picture of a tall, dark and handsome hunk wearing nothing but a towel strategically draped across his lap, posing for a magazine spread or photo calendar. “He won’t even know I’m here.”

  “Okey dokey.” Jiggs put a hand on her forearm. “Libby, I hope this retreat helps whatever is ailing you.”

  “Ailing?” She stopped. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was trying to escape her life.

  ****

  Libby unpacked her suitcase, fired up the laptop to make sure it would connect to the local internet service, and hurried to the lakeshore to watch the sky become a layered pattern of orange, lavender, and black. Watching the sun tuck away for the night was a miracle she’d never get tired of.

  The heavenly smell of food cooking on a grill made her mouth water. She squinted into the dusk to get a peek at her neighbor who had his back to her while cooking. Rats. The only things she could make out were a head of dark hair and a tan jacket. She was tempted to cough to make him turn around but she talked herself out of it. Truthfully, she didn’t want any interaction with him any more than he wanted with her.

  Libby returned to the deck and sat in the chaise lounge. The moon had replaced the sun and a few stars dotted the darkness.

  She tried not to focus on the occasional clink of barbeque tools and the mysterious Mr. August. The more she tried to think of something else, the more she wanted to know why he was holed up in a cabin, with orders not to be disturbed. She snickered at the possibility that he was there for some downtime after posing for a magazine spread—The Men of Autumn. Yeah, probably not. It was her fantasy; she might as well make it good.

  The air cooled significantly and Libby reluctantly went inside. She wandered around the cabin, checking every nook and cranny, opening cabinet doors, walking to the loft and then back downstairs to curl up on the loveseat to flip mindlessly through the TV channels. She put on a rerun of NCIS but then turned off the TV.

  Laying her head back and closing her eyes, Libby marveled at the quiet. Even the gas fireplace was noiseless. Thank goodness for an occasional squawk session from the geese flying to and from the lake.

  It was time to sketch.

  Libby pulled a pad of paper from a large tote, and moved from the loveseat to the recliner. As always she started with the croquis: the mannequin of the page. She tapped the pad with the pencil eraser, and then drew a long, flowing skirt with a side slit. “Hmm.” Instead of the usual straight up and down slit, she swirled it. An unusual design needed an unusual pattern, something exotic. She clicked into her laptop to find the blog she’d saved to her favorites. “There you are.”

  The distinctive yellow flower was the reason she’d saved the blog in the first place. “Hypericaceae: Hypericum Kalmianum.” Holy mackerel, that was a mouthful, but the flower was eye-catching and would make the skirt distinctive. She sketched, erased, sketched some more, and almost wore out the eraser before she got the flower just right. A few finishing touches and the end product became a light purple skirt with a bright yellow flower and wide belt in moss green.

  Libby assessed the design from every angle. Not bad, although maxi skirts with slits had been done thousands of times. She groaned, wadded up the sheet and dropped it beside the recliner. Maybe it would be easier to use the computer-aided design program to look at the garment in a number of colors and sizes before she shucked the sketch.

  She wrinkled her nose. The only time she relied on the computer program was to make the design three-dimensional for the pattern maker. Somehow her imagination was connected to a number-two pencil instead of a mouse. It was the only thing conventional about her. At the moment her blonde hair was cut in a short bob, soft at the bangs, the back spiked with gel, and the top streaked with hot pink. She had a few piercings—three earrings in each ear and a tiny diamond post in her nose. And instead of wearing the clothes she designed, she wore denim or leather with a hint of lace. Her personal style drove Amanda crazy. Libby bumped her eyebrows together. Surely, she wouldn’t have been terminated because she wasn’t chic. To curb that line of thinking she flipped the page and instead of another clothes design, she sketched the lake. When she finished, she smiled. She’d caught its essence. Maybe her true talent lay in landscapes. Nah. Clothes were her passion, but sometimes you had to let the pencil do whatever it wanted. Sometimes the darned thing went completely mad and designed clothes unsuitable for the buying public—at least according to Amanda. Libby frowned. What was wrong with showing a little skin?

  The rebel inside poked her hard. She no longer had to conform to Amanda’s opinions and was free to create anything she damn well pleased. The pencil caught fire. An above-the-knee, form-fitting sleeveless evening dress with a side-gathered bust and neckline that plunge
d dangerously low made its way to the paper. It was a take-me-now dress that Libby would love to wear, but she had more cleavage than she knew what to do with and her caboose was too shapely to have Lycra stretched across it. She colored the dress deep-black and added a thin belt, also in black, that would be hand-beaded. Libby held the drawing at arm’s length, grinned wickedly and tucked it away for further scrutiny.

  If she was going to create jaw-dropping garments she would need a cup of tea. She’d developed the tea habit while in design school and now it was a mental thing—no tea, little ingenuity. It was time to locate a grocery store.

  She slipped out of the soft, fuzzy pajama pants she’d changed into shortly after she arrived, and pulled on a pair of worn jeans with holes in the knees. She covered her gray Ohio State t-shirt with a denim jacket and slid her toes into a pair of ankle-high black leather boots.

  The second she stepped outside, a small yip caught her attention. An adorable black and brown Yorkshire terrier was trying to run at full-speed toward her, his little feet making no progress. Libby followed the path of the leash that held him. The porch lights from the two cabins provided enough light for her to get a clear look at her neighbor. Her mouth unhinged at the jaw while her eyes tried to deny that the owner of the dog, Mr. August, was the guy she almost annihilated with her Jeep. No way! Her subconscious fired back with Yes way!

  Libby could tell the moment the same awareness hit him. He squinted hard and pulled back on the leash.

  The fantasy of Mr. August draped in a towel crashed and burned.

  Libby blew out a puff of air. “Umm…” She flexed her hands and shifted from foot to foot.

  ****

  Max blinked to clear the illusion. That was not the woman who tried to turn him into a hood ornament. He blinked again. Dammit, it was. A surge of annoyance powered up; not that the one from earlier had fully powered down. What a day! His car had been rear-ended in the morning by a woman trying to put on mascara while driving, and in the afternoon, he almost got clipped off by the spiky-haired blonde. Was he wearing an invisible sign—Please Hit Me—that only the reckless could see? He’d read the first woman the riot act for her careless driving, but he spared the blonde the lecture because even through her windshield he could tell she’d been crying. And he still couldn’t say anything because by some stroke of misfortune she was his neighbor. If he started a dialogue she might think it was okay to talk to him whenever she saw him.