One night with you, p.1
One Night With You, page 1
One Night with You
A Dorseys of Conception Bay Romance
Fortune Whelan
One Night with You
Copyright© 2022 Fortune Whelan
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2022
Cover design by Elizabeth Mackey
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-957748-29-0
Keep Up with your Favorite Authors and their New Releases
For the latest news from Tule Publishing authors, sign up for our newsletter here or check out our website at TulePublishing.com
Stay social! For new release updates, behind-the-scenes sneak peeks, and reader giveaways:
Like us on
Follow us on
Follow us on
See you online!
Dedication
In memory of Dexter and Lucius
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
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
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Acknowledgments
The Dorseys of Conception Bay series
About the Author
Chapter One
Mourning a Matriarch: Bay Native “Grandma” Mae Johnston Passes Away at Age 94, Bay Today News, Jun 30
“I expect you home by the end of summer to help plan your engagement party.” Cheramie’s mother arched a commanding brow at her through the sterling-silver Kigu compact in her hand. “The announcements are scheduled to print next month. Finally,” her eyes widened as she drew the i to make the point of how long she’d been waiting to hit send and get on with their lives. “I sent you a proof by email last night.”
“Last night? Like, yesterday night? During the wake? You couldn’t schedule a send for—I don’t know—today even?”
Horrified but not completely surprised, Cheramie scrolled through her emails, and there it was, nestled between condolences and offers and promotions she’d opted into.
Senator and Mrs. Wallace Davies of Boston are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter, Cheramie Michelle Johnston-Davies, to Richard Drysdale Traeger III, beloved son of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Drysdale Traeger II, also of Boston.
Normally, she appreciated efficiency and foresight, but in this case, it wasn’t necessary. It was extremely unnecessary. All she could do was stare at the screen until little fuzzy black dots appeared and pulsed in front of her eyes.
“Well? Do you have something to say?”
What could she say? She tucked her phone back into her purse and stared through the blacked-out tinted car window, trying to lose her thoughts and feelings among the sidewalk crowd of passersby, uniformed Edgewater Hotel valets and guests.
“Johnston-Davies? That’s not my name.” She was a Johnston. Just a Johnston. Like Grandma Mae.
“What else are people supposed to call you? You’re not an orphan.”
No, not technically but with no father, no siblings and living all the way across the country from her mom, she sure felt like one sometimes. Cheramie sighed. This wasn’t a fight she wanted any part of. “Fine. Fine.” She waved it off.
“Fix your face. You look like someone died,” Mom said, using her fingers to smooth the faint lines at the corners of her own eyes.
“My grandmother died,” Cheramie reminded her. “And you sent me the proof of an engagement announcement during her wake.” She wasn’t ready to head home to the empty house she’d shared with her grandma yet, but she couldn’t stand to be around her mother another minute either. Their relationship was complicated.
“Mae was your father’s mother.” The compact snapped shut. “About time too,” her mom huffed. “When I agreed to you acting as your grandmother’s caregiver, I thought she had a year left…maybe less. But she lived another fifteen years?” She glared at Cheramie. “That woman hated me on sight and didn’t trust me to raise you properly. Do you know what that’s like?”
Like giving the valedictorian speech at your high school graduation only to have your mom walk in after the applause? Or graduating summa cum laude from a state school, but your mother was too ashamed to tell anyone? Yes, Cheramie absolutely knew what it was like to crave love, affection, and validation from a person but never be good enough or smart enough or enough of anything to earn it. And yet here she was, still trying to earn those things because she wasn’t a quitter.
“You can’t possibly know.” Mom looked her up and down. “You’re light-skinned, tall, and the sole heiress to your father’s entire fortune. For that, you’re marrying Richard Drysdale Traeger the Third. Your entire life is set out for you like the red carpet at Cannes.” Her mother lined her lightly tanned forearm against Cheramie’s noticeably paler one. “You’ll never struggle like I did.” Mom never said it out loud, but as Cheramie grew older, she finally understood her mother’s obsession with keeping her out of the sun. Keeping her sheltered and in the shade wasn’t about sensitive burning skin or moles or skin cancer.
And her mother’s words rang true, Cheramie hadn’t struggled. She’d been given everything. But she was still allowed to be sad for more than one hot minute over her grandmother’s death.
Mom put a hand on Cheramie’s knee. “We’ll plan for you to work for a year before you get pregnant. We’ll time it so you can surprise Richard on Christmas or his birthday. He’ll love that. And then you’ll have another baby right away. Tie your tubes. Then you won’t have to worry about your figure anymore. I have a dietitian and trainer already on retainer. A plastic surgeon, too.”
“I’m worth more than my uterus and its ability to house babies.”
“Of course, you are, dear. And more valuable because you have a virgin uterus.” Mom patted Cheramie’s stomach. “We have your grandmother to thank for that at least.”
“Mom!” First of all, how did she know? And second, her virginity wasn’t a conscious choice. She was still a virgin by circumstance.
“Please don’t. I hate that word.”
“You hate the word mom?” That didn’t matter; they were discussing Cheramie’s uterus. “Mother, it’s archaic, misogynistic, and just gross to value a woman by her…to value me by my…” Vaginal state? Virginal state?
“You’re prized. Revered. You’re special.”
To whom? Sex traffickers? Cheramie didn’t want to be prized, revered, or special because of her intact hymen, and she hated that her mother thought of her this way. She was a high school valedictorian, graduated state summa cum laude, and had an extremely bright future ahead of her. But after this conversation, having sex moved right to the top of her priority list. If people didn’t value her after that, she didn’t want to know them anyway.
“It’s perfectly acceptable to be modest. There’s nothing wrong with modesty. I raised you this way, and your grandmother, for all the things we disagreed on, continued to raise you this way too.”
“Before this conversation, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with modesty,” Cheramie grumbled.
“You think that way now, but as soon as you’re back East, you’ll be glad to fit in. Just look at you.” Mom tried to pinch an inch at her waist but failed. “I understand you’re trying to assert your individuality and independence, but like it or not, you’re one of us. And soon, you’ll be a Drysdale Traeger, right where you belong.”
Cheramie placed a hand on the lux Dolce & Gabbana black floral-print midi over top of the whalebone corset bracing her stomach. A dress she’d chosen from the truckload of designer clothes shipped to her from her mother the moment Grandma Mae expired. By the size of the collection and the styles of clothing, it seemed like she’d been curating this wardrobe for years.
“Thank you for wearing the clothes I sent for you,” her mom said. “You needed the right look to be a senator’s wife. And now you have it. I should know.”
The only physical trait Cheramie inherited from her father was his height. In every other way, she was her mother’s daughter. Matching oval-shaped faces; creamy, tawny, indeterminate complexions; and soft, cinnamon-tinted waves gathered into low buns. It usually took someone confused, curious, observant and extraordinarily brave enough three guesses and a myriad of clues to ascertain her genetic heritage.
You don’t look like Mae, are you sure you’re relat
I’m sure. I look more like my mother.
The questions became less frequent, the older she became. But they didn’t become any less hurtful or insensitive, adding to the visual reminder that things were always going to be easier for her.
“What I wear doesn’t mean anything,” Cheramie argued.
“On the contrary…it means everything.”
“We’re not the same person. We don’t have the same goals and aspirations.”
“Denying facts doesn’t make them false.”
Obvious Fact: She and her mother shared DNA.
Grudging Fact: Cheramie, like her mother, was going to be a senator’s wife.
But also, Fact: Cheramie looked forward to all the people she’d be able to help as the partner of a prominent politician. She aspired to be Meghan Markle and Vivienne Westwood remixed—part princess, part punk rock. Proposals for new playgrounds, literary endowments for schools and public libraries, a STEM competition and fair for middle and high schoolers, and a scholarship fund in memory of her father and grandmother were already drafted and ready to send. She refused to squander her privileged position—not like her mother did and vowed to fill her social calendar with commencement speeches and pediatric hospital visits, instead of brunches and fashion shows.
“We’re not the same person, Mom, that’s a fact.”
Her mother ignored Cheramie’s summation, sucked in her cheeks, and puckered her lips. “Give Mother a kiss goodbye.”
Cheramie was getting too old for this but acquiesced.
“If I, were you, I’d leave this dreadful place immediately.” Her mother side-eyed her, gauging her reaction. “I purchased the seat next to mine to put my purse. But you could sit there instead.”
Her mother didn’t really want to give up her purse’s seat. But she would if it meant Cheramie leaving Conception Bay tomorrow.
“Thank you for the offer, but I have to stay and handle Grandma Mae’s affairs.”
Her mother exhaled, pressing a relieved hand to her chest. “Thank goodness; I regretted the offer as soon as I said it. I don’t know what came over me. I’m excited to finally start planning your wedding. Table clothes, flowers, centerpieces.” She fanned herself with her open hand. “The ladies tease me at brunch saying you’re as old as a spinster and take bets that you’ll still back out of the marriage.”
“Why would they say or do those things?” Again, unnecessary and mean too.
“Because you’ve spent so much time with your grandmother, that’s why.” Mom shook her head. “What sort of stipulation is having you personally handle her affairs, anyway? The old woman couldn’t hire a lawyer to take care of some random paperwork. She had enough money, and heaven knows she didn’t spend it.” Mom snorted. “She’s dead… She couldn’t spare a few dollars—”
“Goodbye, Mother,” Cheramie interrupted her before she reached the point where she couldn’t retract her biting remarks without poor excuses. Cheramie reached across her and yanked the handle on the door. “I’ll see you at the end of summer.”
“By the end of summer. Fifteen years has been long enough.” Her mother blew her rapid air-kisses. “Bye-bye, dear.”
Cheramie didn’t return the air-kisses. She wasn’t the air-kissing type. Or even the regular-kissing type, her first kiss being the standard, handsy, exploratory middle-school type and her last kiss being the standard, slightly tipsy, handsy, exploratory college type. Whatever the appeal of prolonged lip mashing so close to someone else’s face was, Cheramie didn’t get it.
It was fine. It didn’t matter. She and Richard were a good match, and thankfully, kissing didn’t preclude good matches. Kissing shouldn’t preclude good matches. Cheramie believed she had more important things to accomplish, a crusader armed with hard drives full of actionable plans. The less time Cheramie spent under the same roof and influence of her mother, the better. Marriage it was. Richard hadn’t done anything to her or against her. Really, like living with Grandma Mae, the pros of being with Richard outweighed the cons.
“Where to?” Cameron Hill, Grandma Mae’s driver and the only person Cheramie considered an actual, trusted confidante and friend, asked, “Do you want me to drive you back to the Bay?”
Cheramie watched her mother strut, hips gliding side to side until she disappeared into the Edgewater Hotel’s lobby. “Hang on. I need to think.” More like overthink. She required time and space to organize her thoughts before they became an overwhelming, useless jumble.
The emotional, needed-a-hug-right-now part of her wanted to retreat into the comfort of the home she’d shared with Grandma Mae. Curl up on the sofa, run a hot bath, sip tea. Any of the above. But only if the rational, responsible part of her could be productive, do some work and feel accomplished first. Cheramie hated loose ends. Loose ends were messy and unfinished like an abandoned jigsaw puzzle or a book part way through. How did anyone live without knowing?
“You know if it were me,” Cameron started, being the excellent friend he was, “I’d probably need at least a night to relax after an obviously overwhelming last few days.” Obviously overwhelming was their not-so-secret code for Cheramie’s mother.
“Working helps me settle,” she argued.
“Working helps you ignore your feelings. Your grandmother, whom you were extremely close with, just died. Not unexpectedly, you know, but still.”
Cheramie’s insides wanted her to get to work, put her head down, and distract herself from what was going on around her. There was solace behind a closed office door. Taking care of Grandma Mae’s affairs was a gift. A way to process her grief and tie up loose ends. She didn’t understand how a good cry helped anyone. Grandma Mae left her a to-do list, her final tax returns, and signing authority to close out utilities and credit cards. Cheramie could grieve and say goodbye to her grandmother one task at a time. This made sense to her. This was helpful.
Putting off to-dos made her skin itch. And one massive to-do had her inheritance bound to it. When ground broke on the revitalization project, she’d receive half of her inheritance and would receive the remaining amounts when it was completed, including the other key to her grandmother’s safety-deposit box. But she wasn’t getting that until the project was completed. Signed, sealed and delivered to the people of Conception Bay.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking about,” Cameron said, “but if it’s anything other than grieving Mae properly, you’re a terrible person.”
Cheramie shot him a look. He was teasing, but he was right. She didn’t want to go back to the house. Not yet. She hadn’t cried either, not even in front of her mother. Especially not in front of her mother. The last time she cried, at her father’s funeral, mom told her to stop making a scene. Cheramie hadn’t made a scene since. Not for anything or anyone. Crying didn’t make her feel better, only worse, shameful and embarrassed.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I have a nosy and opinionated driver.”
“True. But also, number one, you’re emotionally stunted and B, without anyone telling you what to do, you have no idea what to do.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
She caught Cameron’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he shook his head. “Not true,” she said. Emotionally stunted maybe, but she had plenty to do.
“I said what I said.”
A hotel valet knocked on Cameron’s window. She had to decide—now. Cheramie pressed her lips together as Cameron signaled to pull away from the curb, the click, click, click like a ticking time bomb.
“I don’t want to go back.”
His brows hitched slightly, then drew together.
“What’s that look for?”
“You just want to drive around aimlessly? Or—”
“Hang around the city. Let’s do that.”
Cameron covered a snicker with a cough. “Sure, let’s do that. Hang around the city without fixed plans.” He cranked the wheel toward the street, goading her.
“No. Wait,” she said, firmly. She didn’t have the capacity for chaos or aimlessness. He was right about that. She needed purpose. “Park the car. Let’s go inside.” Cheramie burst from the back seat of the car. She couldn’t go back to the house, and she didn’t want to drive around. She just missed her grandmother.
