Bidding On The Bachelor. Kerri Carpenter
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Back in Bayside for five minutes and the welcome committee was already starting with the gossip. She wondered how long it would take for the whole town to know she’d returned. They wouldn’t know she’d come home with her tail between her legs. Not as long as she could help it.
She hightailed it to her aunt’s cottage in record time.
She found the key where Aunt Val had instructed her to look, in the flowerpot around back. She peered closer. A flowerpot that appeared to be holding a weed plant if she wasn’t mistaken. Given that, she wasn’t sure if she was excited or nervous about what she might find inside.
Carissa let herself into the two-bedroom cottage, flicked the light switch and smiled. It was the same cozy and eccentric home she remembered from high school, maybe with a few more knickknacks collected over the years. Every room was painted a different pastel color. The kitchen wasn’t the most updated she’d ever seen but it was definitely workable. And bonus, it overlooked the deck, the small backyard and the bay beyond that. The view was probably worth more than the entire rest of the house.
The decor was beachy and comfortable, the exact opposite of the modern high-rise she’d shared with Preston in Chicago. Perfect. Two minutes in this place and she already felt more at ease than she had in six years in her condo. This place screamed for you to kick off your shoes, whip up a margarita and blast some Jimmy Buffett from the radio.
Carissa nodded definitely. “This will do just fine,” she murmured to herself. She saw a long note on the counter and quickly scanned it. Her aunt explained the AC system, which apparently went on the fritz from time to time. Great—since it was the last week of August, the temperature in Virginia was sweltering.
She also left instructions for watering her eclectic—and hopefully legal—garden out back. There were notes about the proper remote for the television, what days the trash was picked up, and a large warning for her not to enjoy the absinthe in the liquor cabinet. But everything else was hers to use, borrow and enjoy.
Carissa spent the next hour hauling her boxes from the car and getting settled. Her suitcases went into the guest bedroom she would be using. A bedroom, she noted, that was decorated in an explosion of peach paint and shell tchotchkes. It was kind of like sleeping in The Golden Girls house but Carissa couldn’t complain. The rent was free and she would be able to catch her breath.
Her parents had never liked this house. They’d claimed her aunt had too much crap and the interior decorating was childlike and outdated. But Carissa had always loved coming over to visit Aunt Val. She didn’t have to worry if she spilled crumbs on the floor or made her bed. Living in her childhood home had been like growing up in a museum. The floors had been hard and the furniture uncomfortable. Forget eating anywhere but the kitchen or dining room. And a cleaning lady came through twice a week.
How’d that work out for you, Mom and Dad? Carissa shook her head. Her parents had lost all of their money and most of their stuff. Her dad had lost the money, she corrected. Not that it had been his to begin with. Her mother had come from a wealthy family with old money, which her dad had misspent, mismanaged and eventually blown through.
She didn’t quite feel like unpacking yet so she meandered into the kitchen for a snack. Aunt Val said she would provide some munchies to get her started. Carissa eyed the weed plant out the sliding glass door as she recalled the use of the word munchies. But when she started hunting through the cabinets and fridge, there wasn’t so much as a bag of chips to be found. There was another note attached to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a starfish.
Didn’t have time to go to store. Sorry, Dollface.
Well, that explained that. There was a calendar hanging on the wall next to the fridge. She sighed. Just what she needed to see. A visual reminder of what today was.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday to me.
Happy birthday dear recently divorced, almost completely broke twenty-nine-year-old meeeeeee.
Happy freaking birthday to me.
As part of her practical nature, Carissa never needed or wanted a big party, lots of presents or any kind of fuss made over her birthday. But even she hated the fact that she’d spent the first day of the last year of her twenties driving hundreds of miles because she’d just gotten divorced. Twenty-nine years old and already she’d been both married and divorced. Not exactly the path she’d envisioned for her life.
Snagging her car keys and shaking off the morbid mood, Carissa headed out the door toward the grocery store for a few essentials: coffee, milk, bread, peanut butter and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. But since there was a nice breeze, she decided to forgo the car and walk to the store instead. After the long drive, she could use the exercise.
Once at the store, she steered her shopping cart down one aisle after another, unsure of what she was in the mood for. She grabbed cereal and some snacks, a couple bags of fruit and the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. A little birthday present to herself. But as she perused the different brands of coffee, she couldn’t help but tune in to someone else’s conversation. In fact, a couple different snippets of conversations. All about her.
I’m not making this up. It was her. Carissa Blackwell.
Didn’t you read the Bayside Blogger’s tweets today? She already knows about this.
...can’t believe she’s back here! Didn’t she swear off Bayside back in high school?
Strange that no one ever heard from her parents again. It’s like they disappeared into thin air.
Carissa checked the time on her phone. Two hours. That was all it had taken for her to become the topic of hot gossip. And who was this Bayside Blogger who seemed to know her every move?
Didn’t matter. Enough of this. She needed to get outside, stat. She pushed her cart to the side, items completely forgotten, and exited the store.
All she wanted was to escape the gossips and get some air.
As she walked along the back streets of the neighborhood back toward the cottage, she remembered something. There was a dive bar that used to sit back this way. She could go for a drink. Or two.
While she headed in the direction of the bar, one of the gossipers’ words reverberated through her head. Can’t believe she’s back here.
Carissa kicked at an imaginary stone. “Yeah, that makes two of us,” she muttered.
Then, like a beacon calling her home, she saw the old bar at the end of the street, surrounded by a small parking lot full of stones and overgrown trees. Score. She definitely wouldn’t be recognized here. Double score. Carissa knew if she filled in the gaps on the half–burned out neon sign hanging above the door, she’d read the name, The Rusty Keg.
True, she’d come out for a snack. But bars had snacks. Even more importantly, bars had alcohol. And nothing was going to make this nightmare of a day better than some good old-fashioned liquor.
She pushed open the creaky door and was immediately assaulted by a musky smell of cheap beer, fried food and sweat. The place was dark, dank and completely off the beaten path.
In other words, it was perfect.
Carissa strolled up to the bar, noticing the scratched-up wood just waiting to give someone a splinter. She reached under the bar, feeling around for a purse hook, then immediately snatched her hand back. Had she just touched someone’s used wad of gum? Yuck. She shook her head. An establishment with a half-lit, crooked sign above the door outside and a rotting bar with mismatched bar stools that probably hadn’t been cleaned since the nineties was definitely not going to have purse hooks. They probably didn’t even have pinot noir. She slid a glance toward the single-stall bathroom and scrunched her nose. Forget about toilet seat covers. That was probably a mere pipe dream.
“What can I get you?” a burly man with a full Duck Dynasty–worthy beard bellowed from behind the bar.
“Shot of tequila and the local beer on tap.”
He