Read Online Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) by Gina Ardito - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gina Ardito
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remember what he looked like. Let’s face it, I don’t have a single maternal cell in my genetic makeup. Still, I could almost feel the poor kid’s shivers.
That powerful thirst returned, and I wondered if Gary had some brandy in the pantry. Hell, a quart of vanilla extract would do. I didn’t care about the taste—all that mattered was the alcohol content. In rehab, I heard about one woman who, after her family had removed all the booze from the house, had chugged down a bottle of Chanel No. 5. We addicts didn’t care where the buzz came from. When the need hit, it could drive a person to her knees. I was nearly there now, willing to crawl across a field of dead bodies for a drink. Desperate and wavering, I clutched my medallion, the totem that normally carried me through these battles.
Just one sip , some inner demon coaxed. You’ll feel so much better after a sip. You always think best with a little inspiration. You can handle one sip. You’ve been so good. One sip won’t hurt you.
That demon sure sounded convincing. I’d need reinforcements. Still holding onto the insidious flyer, I strode toward the kitchen doors and pushed through, my palm slapping painfully against the wood. Good. I needed to feel right now. The stainless steel gleamed, hurting my eyes, and I cursed under my breath as I struggled to avert my gaze from the shiny pantry, beckoning to me. I bet there’s a coupla different ingredients in there that’d give you a jolt. No one would ever know.
The office, I told myself. What I needed was in my office. A little just-in-case scenario I’d stashed in my purse…
Off the kitchen sat the small room that served as coat-closet-slash-business-office. I headed straight for the antique desk, the only leftover from Aunt Andrea’s shop, and pulled my purse out of the lowest drawer. Digging inside, I found the pamphlet I’d carried out of rehab last Friday afternoon.
I scanned the list, glanced at the clock, and sighed my relief. If I hustled, I could catch a meeting at the library, starting in twenty minutes. Mentally giving my demon the finger, I shoved the pamphlet and flyer into my purse, grabbed my keys, and scrambled to lock up for the day. With everything secure, I shoved my arms into my coat, picked up my purse, and raced out of the shop as if the devil chased me. Because, in essence, he did.
I climbed into my car and took off at speeds that could earn me a ticket if Sam or any of his cohorts were around.
At the library, I pulled into the closest open space, ran up the ramp, and inside. I was a blur past the front desk, down the stairs to the meeting rooms. I only stopped when the nutty aroma of fresh coffee hit my nostrils. Coffee and sweets were replacement drugs for recovering alcoholics. Following the odiferous trail, I wound up in Meeting Room One with about ten other people, a bunch of folding chairs, and a banquet table that held the promised urn, a basket of sweetener packets, half a gallon of milk, and a tray of Oreos. Ahh. Nirvana.
I grabbed a disposable cup, filled it with my black elixir, added a packet of artificial sweetener (because I was still kidding myself about those pesky extra pounds) and filched two cookies from the tray. With my bounty in my hands, I found a seat in the back of the room and dropped my purse on the empty chair beside me. At last, I found time to steady my breathing and even out the emotions that had gone into overdrive when I found the flyer. The demon still sat on my shoulder, whispering temptations in my head, but his influence became muted with the waves of support reverberating in the room. These were my people: addicts like myself who came together to fight back against the devil on their shoulders. Closing my eyes, I sipped the coffee, swallowed and leaned back, tilting my head up toward the ceiling.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
At the sultry male voice, my eyes snapped open and my head came up to face Max Trayham. Yes, that Max
That powerful thirst returned, and I wondered if Gary had some brandy in the pantry. Hell, a quart of vanilla extract would do. I didn’t care about the taste—all that mattered was the alcohol content. In rehab, I heard about one woman who, after her family had removed all the booze from the house, had chugged down a bottle of Chanel No. 5. We addicts didn’t care where the buzz came from. When the need hit, it could drive a person to her knees. I was nearly there now, willing to crawl across a field of dead bodies for a drink. Desperate and wavering, I clutched my medallion, the totem that normally carried me through these battles.
Just one sip , some inner demon coaxed. You’ll feel so much better after a sip. You always think best with a little inspiration. You can handle one sip. You’ve been so good. One sip won’t hurt you.
That demon sure sounded convincing. I’d need reinforcements. Still holding onto the insidious flyer, I strode toward the kitchen doors and pushed through, my palm slapping painfully against the wood. Good. I needed to feel right now. The stainless steel gleamed, hurting my eyes, and I cursed under my breath as I struggled to avert my gaze from the shiny pantry, beckoning to me. I bet there’s a coupla different ingredients in there that’d give you a jolt. No one would ever know.
The office, I told myself. What I needed was in my office. A little just-in-case scenario I’d stashed in my purse…
Off the kitchen sat the small room that served as coat-closet-slash-business-office. I headed straight for the antique desk, the only leftover from Aunt Andrea’s shop, and pulled my purse out of the lowest drawer. Digging inside, I found the pamphlet I’d carried out of rehab last Friday afternoon.
I scanned the list, glanced at the clock, and sighed my relief. If I hustled, I could catch a meeting at the library, starting in twenty minutes. Mentally giving my demon the finger, I shoved the pamphlet and flyer into my purse, grabbed my keys, and scrambled to lock up for the day. With everything secure, I shoved my arms into my coat, picked up my purse, and raced out of the shop as if the devil chased me. Because, in essence, he did.
I climbed into my car and took off at speeds that could earn me a ticket if Sam or any of his cohorts were around.
At the library, I pulled into the closest open space, ran up the ramp, and inside. I was a blur past the front desk, down the stairs to the meeting rooms. I only stopped when the nutty aroma of fresh coffee hit my nostrils. Coffee and sweets were replacement drugs for recovering alcoholics. Following the odiferous trail, I wound up in Meeting Room One with about ten other people, a bunch of folding chairs, and a banquet table that held the promised urn, a basket of sweetener packets, half a gallon of milk, and a tray of Oreos. Ahh. Nirvana.
I grabbed a disposable cup, filled it with my black elixir, added a packet of artificial sweetener (because I was still kidding myself about those pesky extra pounds) and filched two cookies from the tray. With my bounty in my hands, I found a seat in the back of the room and dropped my purse on the empty chair beside me. At last, I found time to steady my breathing and even out the emotions that had gone into overdrive when I found the flyer. The demon still sat on my shoulder, whispering temptations in my head, but his influence became muted with the waves of support reverberating in the room. These were my people: addicts like myself who came together to fight back against the devil on their shoulders. Closing my eyes, I sipped the coffee, swallowed and leaned back, tilting my head up toward the ceiling.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
At the sultry male voice, my eyes snapped open and my head came up to face Max Trayham. Yes, that Max
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