All My Life Read online

  Carolina Shore

  Book 1

  All My Life

  CJ Marie

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  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  For more information, contact: www. cjmarieauthor.com

  Dedicated to my favorite southern belle, Maggie Raine. You came in like a hurricane. Literally.

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter 1

  Oh, heaven above!

  The clickity-clack of Olive’s sky-blue pumps across the back veranda faded against the chords of the hired orchestra. Yes, orchestra. Scratchy tulle underneath her pastel pink dress chafed her thighs despite the nude, humidity-soaked stockings. The longer she stomped beneath the noonday sun, the more the fabric shrink-wrapped to her curves.

  Olive’s favorite part of the old house was the backyard. Every inch was filled with the sweet aroma of blooming hydrangeas, the silky scent of magnolias, and the calming drapes of wisteria on old, cobble stone walls.

  “Ollie, wait. Baby, please. Olive, stop.”

  Olive sniffed without turning around and lifted her chin even more. Each heel sunk slightly in the damp lawn, but she went on undeterred. Swinging her arms at her sides and making her full hips sway a little more, she picked up her pace. Olive wanted it crystal clear what the man at her rear had lost. Both palms were clammy in her lacy tea gloves; the coming rains in the air didn’t help. The air was as sticky as a honey pot and her mother would gasp in shame at the state of her frizzy, robin’s nest of auburn locks.

  She didn’t stop when his voice called out to her again. No, Olive wasn’t willing to see his chiseled chest as he, no doubt, adjusted his tie and shirt flapped open. Catching a glimpse of that rump swaying and moving in ways no respectable woman would care to see her fiancé sway and move was utterly out of the question. Based on the speed he’d pursued her, he probably still had his zipper down.

  “Olive.” His voice was fading. Probably because he was bouncing on one leg, tying his Italian leather shoes that she bought, thank you very much!

  “Leave me be, Thomas Abernathy!” She said through her teeth at the wispy clouds. Olive hoped the tremble in her voice was buried in all her hissing rage.

  Of course, she never picked up her pace more than a furious, yet acceptable, stride. Every step taken labored with learned propriety. Despite her distress she would not lower her standards. Her dark amber eyes remained locked and loaded on the gargantuan oak tree near the back gardens. It was her haven, yet today not even the cascading Spanish moss could lift her spirits. Olive hiccupped and bit back the waterfall of tears burning along the brim of her eyelids.

  Stop blubbering.

  No makeup would be running today. Concern for her smeared face didn’t stop a stinging tear from dripping down her high cheekbone. Tom’s pleas were lost to the comradery of the soon-to-be party. Olive paced in front of the oak tree; her gloved hands clasped the sides of her face. She didn’t even mind that she was tousling her hair. What was the point of worrying? The party was over. Shame prickled across the back of her neck. How would she face everyone? Oh, gracious… blood drained from her cheeks, how would she face Mama?

  Ms. Bernadette Cutler. This would certainly tumble into her mother’s opinion of dark stains on the family name. A rattling chortle-sob burst out of Olive’s throat. The thought of her mother’s flat, calm-before-the-storm face was so terrifying it was nearly laughable. Olive darted around the back of the oak, ready to vanish into the jessamine garden and take cover until the dastardly day ended. Or at least until her mother’s frustration eased—living underground for ten years was reasonable, right?

  “Umph,” Olive grunted when she slammed into the firm backside of another human being tucked deep into the branches of a newly planted dogwood tree. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Excuse me.” Olive refused to look up knowing full well her smooth cheeks were now coated in black lines. Her face must look like she were preparing for war rather than painted in high-end cosmetics.

  “Olive? Where are you running off to?” The smooth baritone shook Olive from her retreat. His calm eyes brought a bit of soothing relief when she glimpsed over her shoulder.

  “Ollie, Rafe. Gracious, how many times do I need to say it? And I’m leaving. No, I’m high-tailin’ it out of here to be more precise.”

  “Now, hold on,” Rafe insisted as he dropped his pruning shears and tore off his garden gloves. He reached one of his strong, calloused hands out for her forearm. “You know I’m working, and I can’t just be calling you Ollie. Where you going? I’ve been out here pruning all morning for this party, now I reckon that earns me some kind of explanation, don’t you?”

  Rafe Whitfield. Sweaty, tanned skin glistened in the sun with enough of his dark, chestnut hair falling in gaps across his forehead to cause a girl to swoon. They’d known each other since Olive could form sentences. Rafe had been her first kiss—of course he’d been seven and she’d only turned six, but it counted. Olive couldn’t deny standing in front of her was a man. Technically, Rafe had been a sturdy man for the last six years. A late bloomer, but sweet heaven, once sixteen hit—as she said—there was a man right there.

  “What’s this?” Rafe asked, his blue eyes narrowed, so they shimmered like the diamond chips in her earrings. Olive’s chin quivered when Rafe brushed a soil-scented thumb across her cheek to wipe another tear off her face. “Why are you crying, princess?”

  Olive dipped her head, wringing her hands, and desperately trying not to crumble. Rafe always called her princess, but he was the one person who made the title sound wonderful not degrading. More like she was to be cherished, not worshipped because her great-granddaddy lined her family’s pockets for generations to come.

  “Oh, Rafe,” she sobbed and covered her mouth before any more embarrassing squeaky sobs erupted. “I’m such a fool.”

  “Hey now,” he said as he brushed the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead and took a step closer. “You can be a lot of things, but a fool doesn’t even make the top ten. What happened, Ol?”

  Ollie was what her close friends called her, but Rafe sometimes shortened it even more when no one was looking. He was the only friend who did, but Olive never minded. “It’s my engagement announcement today, right?” Rafe nodded, though his grin faded. �
��Well, catching the bride and groom tucked in a back closet might be a laughable thing.”

  “Olive, I don’t need to hear this.” Rafe waved his hands in front of his face and stepped back.

  “Mercy me, I wouldn’t kiss and tell, Rafe,” Olive said. “That’s what I’m saying. The two celebrated lovers wouldn’t be so shocking, albeit inappropriate, but finding the groom tucked in a closet with Eloise Tinley would be a bit more of a shocker.”

  Rafe was silent for half a breath. His brow cocked, and it added to his sharp, distinguished face. Yes, even beneath the grime of labor, Rafe had a distinguished look. “Are you telling me that idiot was getting to it with Eloise?”

  “Getting to it is putting things lightly,” Olive muttered and wiped her eyes once more. “They’d already got it, if you catch my meaning. At my engagement party, Rafe!”

  Rafe’s cheeks shaded a scorched crimson, and the blue in his eyes flashed dangerously. Olive would gladly add a few more details to the disastrous, disturbing morning if it meant the veins in his forearms thickened again as he clenched his fists. His gaze flicked over her head. “Get behind me, Olive.”

  Rafe practically growled like a caged lion. Olive was prepared to protest, until Rafe took a forceful step in front of her. Now, she understood—cheater, cheater, Eloise-eater, was ten yards away.

  “Go on now, Thomas,” Olive shouted, but she enjoyed the way Rafe formed a human shield between her and her wandering Casanova.

  “Olive, come on. Don’t throw a hissy fit. It’s not what you think,” Tom insisted. The man had the audacity to keep his white shirt half untucked. On his smooth, square chin she could just make out a bruise—a hickey! Divine intervention wouldn’t be able to save Thomas if she got her hands on him. Tom’s dark eyes drifted to Rafe. “You’re not invited to this conversation, Whitfield. Why don’t you get on back to trimming those trees?”

  “That is up to Miss Cutler to tell me, don’t you think, Tommy?” Rafe didn’t budge, and his strength brought a deep, southern empowerment into Olive’s fire.

  “I would say catching your two-timing fiancé with his trousers around his ankles permits a hissy fit, you unfaithful, ungrateful, wandering—”

  “I think it’s best if you get on out of here, Tom,” Rafe interjected before Olive cursed out of place. It was her quirk. Olive could never say the right curse words at the right time.

  “I don’t care a lick what you think, Whitfield,” Tom seethed. “Now, get out of here, boy.” Olive sucked in a breath when Rafe’s fists clenched tighter. “And leave me to talk to my woman without your stink staining the air.”

  “Thomas,” Olive said with a quick lunge (Rafe blocked her, of course) at her soon-to-be ex. “You can’t talk to Rafe that way! And for your information I am not your woman and—”

  “That will be quite enough.”

  Everything froze when the collected, steely voice broke through another of Olive’s tirades.

  “Mama.” Olive couldn’t quite make out her mother’s face against the sun, but she’d know that tone anywhere. Even the chirping birds in the trees silenced when Bernadette added herself to the conflict. Olive swallowed, and she was pretty certain Rafe and Tom did the same.

  “Now, I expect to know what y’all are doing out here,” her mother said swirling her chardonnay in the crystal glass.

  Manners and pearls were the two words Olive would use to describe her mother. Everyone was expected to be on their best behavior and remember their place every day, all day. One toe out of line growing up, Olive had learned quickly the frosty gaze of her mother meant pain on her rear end. Daddy was larger, but softer with his discipline, despite being the final word in the house. Now, the pale eyes of Bernadette Cutler stabbed through each delinquent in her path.

  “Mama,” Olive whimpered as she tried to control her chin quiver once more. Tears wouldn’t help her case. “I’m sorry, but the party is off—the entire engagement is off.”

  If her mother was surprised she certainly didn’t show it as she entered the shadows of the oak. Her rosy lips pressed tight as she sipped from her glass with more etiquette than a queen on her throne. “Really? Well, this is a shocking turn of events, Olive Jane. I wonder what brought on this rather unrequited dismissal of our generosity in planning your party. Certainly you would never intend to leave your father and I to attend to your guests alone.”

  Rafe eyed Olive from the corner of his eye, she caught the way his jaw pulsed. She knew he didn’t care for the soft, but cutting derides from Mrs. Cutler. But he couldn’t understand what it was like in her world. In fact, sometimes it seemed as though Rafe and Olive were from completely different worlds.

  “No, ma’am,” Olive said. “Of course not. I apologize for the trouble, Mama, it’s just…” She glanced at Thomas who was subtly shaking his head as a warning. Olive stiffened. The no-good infidel should have thought of the backlash before he got extra cozy with Miss Eloise. “You see, Mama, Thomas has been unfaithful.”

  If an audience had been present, Olive was positive there would be an audible gasp. Her mother flicked a brow, the daggers behind her eyes landing on Tom. “You know for certain?”

  “Yes. I saw him with my own eyes, Mama. I can’t marry him.”

  Bernadette stepped closer to Thomas, her drink ever swirling, her saltwater pearl necklace bold and powerful in the afternoon sun. Thomas swallowed hard enough his Adam’s apple bobbed twice. “Is this true, Mr. Abernathy?”

  Olive had to hand it to her mother—she was amazingly, gracefully, frightening.

  “It isn’t what it seems, Ma’am. Cold feet, that’s all. Eloise is an old friend, we were just…”

  Great Gatsby!

  Olive’s eyes widened, and she sucked in a gasp. Even Rafe startled a bit when her mother slapped Thomas silly. The sorry excuse for a man clasped his cheek, soon meeting her mother’s eye with apprehension, or awe, Olive couldn’t tell.

  “Don’t patronize me, young man,” Bernadette declared. “You must think me a fool.”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “I think you best be getting your sorry hide off my property.”

  Olive could’ve cried tears of joy. Never, and truly never, had her mother defended her in such a brazen way. Sure, when Mrs. Lubbock said Trudy Lubbock’s sweet-sixteen gala was better attended, Olive’s mother had compared guest lists and made certain the error was redacted. When Sykes Riley tried to get fresh with Olive at the Charleston battery, her mother saw to it his daddy made sure the boy couldn’t sit for three days. But this—this was the first display of real, we-don’t-care-what-people-think protection of her only child. If her mother was a hugger, Olive would squeeze the daylights out of her slender neck. Hopefully, there were no ulterior motives to Bernadette’s saving grace.

  Thomas glanced incredulously between the group. Olive wasn’t sure who was more stunned, herself, or Tom. Rafe simply seemed confused, especially when her mother’s attention turned to him. Thomas didn’t say a word after a few tense heartbeats, before turning on his heel and stalking across the lawn.

  “Oh, Mama—”

  Olive stopped when her mother held up her hand. “Go on up to the house and clean up. No more tears for that vagrant, understand?”

  Olive nodded, though she feared tears were right around the corner. With a soft glance toward Rafe, she darted across the lawn too.

  ***

  Rafe’s throat was as dry as cotton balls when Mrs. Bernadette Cutler turned her icy attention toward him. The Cutlers had been in his life since he was in preschool. No matter how many years of history their families kept, he’d never get accustomed to the stare of Bernadette.

  “Seems you saved the day, Rafe,” she said through a sip of her drink.

  “No, ma’am,” he said as he cleared his throat and absently scanned the thick oak branches. “Just in the right place at the right time.”

  “Tell me, how’s your mama faring? We certainly miss her up at the house.”

  “She’s w
ell, ma’am. Doing real well now that she’s had some therapy.”

  “You got everything you need to care for her?” Rafe nodded. “Forgive my boldness, but what I mean is, do you have the funds to see to her care when she comes home?”

  Rafe swallowed. Truth be told, since his mother’s stroke he had wondered how he would care for her after she was released from the nursing facility. The auto shop provided well enough, but after getting the list of equipment needed to adapt his house while she stayed with him—it was overwhelming. His twin brother, August, was out in Baton Rouge. He’d promised to help where he could. But since Rafe’s niece was born and his brother’s hours cut at the store, Rafe was pretty sure he made the bigger salary. But what guy was going to admit that to a woman like Bernadette Cutler?

  “We’ll be fine, ma’am. I get overtime at the shop, and of course the extra weekend work up here helps out.”

  She seemed pleased at the credit given, although Rafe knew it was Lon Cutler, her husband, who’d arranged for Rafe’s place on the landscaping crew. “Wonderful news,” she said. A mosquito landed on her arm and Rafe would swear till the day he died that all Bernadette did was glare at the insect before the bug skedaddled before taking a drink. “Such a devastating day for Olive. Thomas was such a great match.”

  “With all due respect, any man who’d cheat on your daughter doesn’t deserve to kiss the ground she walks on.”

  “What a descriptive way to put it.” She grinned. “You’ve always been friendly with Olive. She considers you a friend, you know. I wonder what you think of her?”

  This must be a trick question. Rafe swallowed and tugged his tattered gloves back on. What did he think of Olive? She was flitty, and she did throw hissy fits. The woman got ready for the day slower than molasses in snow. She was a southern princess. But… she was funny, especially when she cursed. Olive was blind to the status and culture of her world—to her credit. She would speak to the governor the same as she spoke to Rafe. As children they’d been good friends when Rafe had lived on the Cutler property. He could remember chasing fireflies with Olive at dusk. They’d pretended fairies and trolls lived in this very oak. He’d taught Olive how to swim in the ocean, not the pristine pool on the side of the house. Even when he’d moved into town after high school, they still saw each other on the battery and went to get ice cream at her favorite place. Until she’d gotten engaged to Tom Abernathy.