1985: Careless Whisper (Love in the 80s #6)

  1985: Careless Whispers

  Love in the '80s: A New Adult Mix

  Misty Provencher

  Vol. 6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Connect with the Author

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Special Thanks

  Also by Misty Provencher

  About the Author

  Sneak Peeks

  1980: You Shook Me All Night Long

  1981: Jessie’s Girl

  1982: Maneater

  1983: Cruel Summer

  1984: Against All Odds

  1986: Why Can’t This Be Love

  1985: Careless Whisper

  Copyright © 2016 by Misty Provencher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design

  Edited by Crystal Rae Bryant of Plot Ninja

  Book Design by Indie Formatting Services

  Published in the United States of America by WaWa Productions

  ISBN: 978-0-9971267-5-4

  Connect with the author online at: www.mistyprovencherauthor.com or on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, & Goodreads: @mistyprovencher

  A portion of all profits go to Direct Relief

  Direct Relief is a humanitarian aid organization, active in all 50 states and 70 countries, with a mission to improve the health and lives of people affected by poverty or emergencies.

  Nongovernmental, nonsectarian, and not-for-profit, Direct Relief provides assistance to people and communities without regard to politics, religious beliefs, or ethnic identities.

  Direct Relief’s assistance programs focus on maternal and child health, the prevention and treatment of disease, and emergency preparedness and response, and are tailored to the particular circumstances and needs of the world’s most vulnerable and at-risk populations.

  Direct Relief’s work earns wide recognition from independent charity evaluators, including a 100% fundraising efficiency rating from Forbes, the No. 1 spot on Charity Navigator’s list of the “10 Best Charities Everyone’s Heard Of,” and inclusion in Fast Company’s list of “the world’s most innovative nonprofits.”

  For Mindy Ruiz

  who always orders the double whip

  I arrive three days after Gada died. Even in the rain, our house looks like it did when I left here seven years ago. It’s a gingerbread bungalow with bright yellow siding, white trim, and little purple marigolds lining the sidewalk to the front door, still hanging on before the first frost. If you didn’t live here, you’d think someone was going to be baked in the oven it’s so cute.

  The front porch is empty except for Gada’s plaster goose dressed in a bright pink bonnet, blue apron, and frilly, lemon-colored bloomers. I feel around beneath the goose’s pantaloons for the house key and find the wires to the speaker/recorder box secured under the goose’s apron. Gada loved scaring the crap out of unsuspecting door ringers with her talking goose and recording their startled shrieks. I finally snag the key to the house I called ‘home’ for the first eighteen years of my life.

  Elementary school was the first time anyone ever asked me why my mother was so old. I told Lisa Camelia, in her plaid jumper and skewed ponytail, that Gada was more than just a plain, old mother, she was my grandmother. It was the first time—just from the look on my new friend’s face—that I realized most people didn’t live with their grandmothers.

  My mother, Charlene, was Gada’s only daughter and an addict. Charlene sold herself for drugs and didn’t know who my father was, for sure. That’s about all I knew about her besides that she left me with Gada right after I was born and never came back. Ever. Gada never made a big deal about it…except once.

  That was the day before Gada’s birthday. Gada got a call from the police saying my mother had OD’d and could Gada come downtown and identify the body. I was five. Gada locked herself in her bedroom and sobbed all afternoon while I sat by the door and slipped my favorite animal crackers beneath.

  The next day, Gada left me with the neighbor and went down to the police station alone. She came back late in the afternoon with McDonald’s hamburgers. I did funny somersaults on the living room floor because it made her laugh. Gada took me on her lap and said that I was the best birthday present ever; I was her life. She looked like she was going to cry again, so I told her she was a silly head and she laughed. We never talked about my mother after that.

  The rain drizzles down on my shoulders as I jimmy the key in the lock. Thank God I came from work and am still wearing my London Fog. The layers of my professional work wardrobe might as well be layers of protective armor. Seven years ago—the last time I stood on this porch—I was broken and weak. But now I’m sure I can handle what lies within because I’ve had years of practice being a successful, hard-balling, classy, corporate bitch that won’t allow anybody to shove me off the higher rungs on the ladder. All that tough skin has to be worth something now.

  Stepping inside, the house smells like it always did—like Gada’s lemony perfume—and that’s when it really hits me. I made it through the phone call from the hospital telling me Gada had died before I even knew she was a patient; I made it through hearing from Gada’s lawyer, Mr. Leslie Sharles, that her last request was for me to come back and stay at the house for a week (which I had to do anyway in order to clean it out, get things in order, and contact a realtor), and I made it through canceling all my appointments and juggling schedules with my boyfriend, Emilio, so he could rendezvous here with me in a couple of days and see where I grew up before I sell the place.

  But standing in the front hall, smelling Gada’s perfume and brushing up against her gardening coat that still hangs on a peg by the door, the guilt overwhelms me. I should’ve been back sooner. My tough skin gives out and I can’t go any further.

  Thank God nobody’s here to see me sink down in a soggy pile of coat and luggage on the nubby runner—something my strong, corporate self would never do. And then I do something I don’t allow myself to ever do, period.

  I break down

  I should’ve come back sooner, but I never planned to return at all. Not after everything that happened before I left.

  I thought I was right to stay away. Gada always said it was ok, she
understood. We were both wrong. She did so much to get me where I am now—college-educated, successful, and independent—the least I could’ve done was to come home and visit. I let the memories of the last month I spent here keep me from Gada all this time. She never complained about it once.

  I reach up and pull her old coat from its hook. She used to wear it while digging in the garden out back. The smell of summer gardening is all through it. I miss her. God, I miss her.

  She was proud of me, I know that. We talked on the phone a couple times a week and with every success, no matter how big or small, she always reminded me again of how smart I was to leave home that summer of ’85, making the sudden, radical switch from the local community college to Columbia University in New York instead.

  “It was a blessing, wasn’t it, Gracie?” she’d say, her smile audible through the phone line. “Things really worked out well, didn’t they? You’re happier than you would’ve been if you’d stayed home.”

  I’d always mmm hmmm her, or something just as non-committal. The way things happened that last summer, I didn’t think I had much choice, but in the end it doesn’t matter. I guess she was right. I’m happier. I guess.

  I do have Emilio now. We’ve been dating for seven months. But I’d be a liar if I say I never think of—

  The doorbell almost scares me out of my skin. I stand up, dust off, and wipe away any wayward mascara with my fingertips.

  Mrs. Riley, from two doors down, stands on the front porch with a plastic grocery bag covering her cotton-candy-blue up-do. She’s clutching a tinfoil topped casserole dish and a roll of mail stuffed in a grocery bag under her arm. Drops of water pool in the center of the foil as I open the storm door to let her in.

  “Oh, look at you in your professional suit, Gracie! Slacks! Like the men wear! But they do look good on you, sweetie. I saw you pull in and thought I’d bring this right over.” She smashes me against the closet door as she bustles in. “It’s good to see you, Gracie, but not like this. It would’ve been nice years ago, but now—” I haven’t been Gracie since— “I was absolutely heartbroken when I heard. Such a shame that Adelaide is gone. I don’t know how we’ll get on without her in the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Riley,” I say. I don’t know that it matters what I say at this point since I don’t think anything will stop her, or even slow her down, from her mission.

  She tilts her mail-stuffed armpit toward me and I take the roll. She juggles her casserole as she removes her coat, tossing it on a hook. I doubt strippers could undress that fast. She wipes her shoes on the runner before pushing past me down the five feet of hall, past the den’s French doors and staircase leading up to Gada’s long, rectangular bedroom on the right, and the living room on the left. Mrs. Riley goes straight for the kitchen. I’m still confused as to why she’s here, other than for the freshest gossip, but I keep a polite grin on my face and follow her.

  “How did you know I’d be here today?” I ask. I hadn’t announced it; there was no one in town that I would’ve told. Not anymore, at least.

  “Oh, I didn’t know when you’d be coming, sweetie, but I knew you’d have to come at some point,” she says, rounding the short, extended lip of the kitchen counter and heading for the stove. She pulls two of Gada’s crocheted hot pads from a drawer, hustles them back over to the abbreviated counter, and nestles her casserole on them. I lean on the counter and take a deep whiff. It smells thick, like cream soup and potatoes.

  “I’ve been making casseroles every day,” she says, “just in case. Lucky I saw you pull up and this was in the oven. I wanted to bring it over while it was fresh. You need a hot meal more than Walter does.”

  That is her bulldog, not her husband. He was decrepit when I left. The bulldog, not the husband. There’s never been a human Mr. Riley that I know of.

  “You’ve been missed around here, Grace.” Her back is to me again as she rifles through Gada’s drawers. She makes a point not to look at me as she fishes out a fork and serving spoon and lifts down a plate from the cupboard beside me. I know what’s coming next as she plops strips of chicken atop a steaming mountain of cheesy potatoes. “And when you left so sudden, no one knew what to think.” By no one, she means her and the gossip web she’s got tangled throughout our subdivision. Gada never did care for it. “We all thought you were going to stay home with James and commute to the community college, but then you took that last minute opportunity at Columbia and everyone was shocked…New York isn’t a cheap place to live, and we’re not living in the mansion subs, after all. We’re working class people around these parts. I mean, your house always did win Lawn of the Year and Gada made sure it was beautifully maintained, but we never could understand how Gada afforded Columbia University for you.”

  She pauses, but I don’t offer any explanations. It wasn’t any mystery to me, but Gada was never a fan of sharing her business freely. The truth was, Gada had stocked away some money she’d inherited from her family and she’d always been incredibly frugal. She cooked everything from scratch, garage-saled and thrift-shopped for our clothing, and all of our entertainment came from the library or a deck of cards. The only places Gada showed her extravagance was in how she maintained our house and where she sent me to school. Private schools and then, ultimately, Columbia University.

  Mrs. Riley dumps the serving spoon into her casserole as the silence wears on. She puts the plate of her food before me, scouring with her sly, watchful eyes as she changes the subject ever so delicately to the second, and bigger, mystery that occurred the day I left town. “Gada never did say what happened to make you change your mind and go off to New York—although it was obviously a better choice to pursue your degree at Columbia than to chase that Highview Stryker boy around. Look at you now—you’re our hometown success! Your Gada had every right to be proud of all you’ve accomplished, Gracie. And I’m sure she was a guiding factor in your going off to New York at the last minute, but you have to know that the gossips in the neighborhood came to their own conclusions, since no one knew exactly what happened. I’d love to be able to set those horrible old biddies straight—it’s scandalous, how they talk! And I have to say,” she draws closer, “I’ve always wondered myself, sweetie, did something happen between you and James Stryker?”

  James of the Highview Strykers. The title isn’t as prestigious as it sounds. It was usually uttered when someone’s car got egged or a bike was stolen. James’s family lived in a run-down house on Highview, a couple streets over. He had a gambling mother who was constantly spending the food stamp money and he was pretty sure he belonged to one of the four fathers his mother named as her almost-husbands at one time or another.

  The Stryker house was packed with five derelict boys who were more consistently blamed than the boogeyman (and for the most part, rightly so) for neighborhood troubles. If someone’s fence was clipped with wire cutters, it was those Highview Strykers. If the cops were patrolling the neighborhood, it was what did those Highview Strykers do now? Gada tried her best to keep me away from James but we were the same age, lived in the same neighborhood, and I was friends with the same girls he was. I never tried to defy Gada. What James and I were to each other just happened.

  In the end, the neighborhood was right about James Stryker. And even though they were right, the truth I don’t tell is that he has crossed my mind every single day since I left.

  I never gave anyone the chance to ask about what happened before, and the thing is, I’m not about to do it now.

  “I really appreciate the casserole, Mrs. Riley,” I say over the dish that’s been steaming under my face for the last five minutes. She frowns, seeing which way I’m going with this. “But I’m exhausted. I came as soon as I could and straight from work today. It’s been miserable since I found out about Gada—”

  Mrs. Riley isn’t giving up so easy. She reaffixes her sympathetic grin and injects a whine of soft condolence into her voice. “Then why have you stayed away,
sweetie? She would’ve loved to have you here. She needed—”

  I’m already leading her to the front door, gathering her coat and holding it up so she can slide her arms in. “I’m sorry to rush you out, Mrs. Riley, but I really need some time to sort things out. I appreciate the casserole. It was very thoughtful.”

  Her smile looks as though it’s frozen in a block of ice.

  “Alright,” she says softly, getting into her coat. She adjusts the shoulder pads, nonchalantly shoving off my hands. “If you need anything, you know where I’m at, sweetheart.”

  “I do,” I say as she steps out onto the drizzling front porch. “Thanks again.”

  She’s still shaking out the baggie to trap her hair as I close the door behind her

  I eat a couple bites of Mrs. Riley’s casserole while I stare at Gada’s kitchen. The plaster plaque I made for her in fifth grade, an imprint of my hand, still hangs across the room next to the window over the bleached sink. The short wrap-around counter that extends from the stove to the opening between the kitchen and living room is crumb-less, except for whatever I might’ve spilled. The table, planted in the middle of the kitchen, is the same.

  Gada’s shoes are still near the back door. I know they took her out on a stretcher. She was gone before they reached the hospital.

  My eyes well up again and as if on cue, the front doorbell rings again.

  “Dang it anyway,” I grumble, scrubbing off my cheeks with a paper napkin. I wad it up and dump it on the plate still full of Mrs. Riley’s food before I push myself away from the counter and make my way to the door. I expect to know the face on the other side of the door. We have a handful of neighbors that have lived here even longer than me, but when I open up, the familiar face waiting on the porch is the very last one I want to see.

  James Stryker. My past stands on my front porch in the downpour, more frightening to me than any ghost. The moment I lay eyes on him, the old zip—the stampede of tingles James always evoked in me whenever he stood close; they still make me feel like I’ve just been born—roars through me.