Chapter 3
“Why do I have to go to church?” Lachlan stood with his legs braced apart on the well manicured lawn.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I leveled a look at him.
“Because it’s a good place to learn about God.
It’s important to believe in something bigger than us, buddy.
” I continued the argument that had started over breakfast when I told him to change into nicer clothes.
He demanded proof God existed before he got out of his “Sunday comfies” and into impress-people clothes.
My explanation about how faith was a kind of proof and the universe is so much bigger than us, so it makes sense something, or someone, bigger than us made it, fell on deaf ears.
He left with a disgruntled look. I’d thought he was changing until he came back down, my phone in his hand with a smug “Aunt Alex wants to talk to you.”
By the time I was done with my best friend’s and my son’s antics, I was reminding myself every minute on the minute that “Thou shalt not kill.”
It was a mantra I’d all but tattooed on my tongue this past week.
As you can expect, the first thing I did Monday was call my divorce lawyer.
I would never know how he did it, but not two hours later, I had a new court order ordering Jeremy to have court-supervised visits.
I was also now the proud owner of some delightful photos of Jeremy with his arm twisted behind his back, his black hair wild, and his face maroon with rage, being led from the courtroom.
Well, those I got from Abby. The sly shutterbug.
Abby was almost as devious as her sister, and Alex was the crowned queen of deviousness.
I’ll never know how she managed to get those photos when there was a camera ban in court, and I didn’t want to.
If I weren’t worried about Lachlan seeing them, those suckers would have been framed and on my desk.
I should have known better than to think my day was going to continue its upward trajectory.
My publisher called just as I’d finished lunch, kicking off my new mantra.
Apparently, an anonymous source on some website claimed to know who the real P.J.
Alexander was. Not only that, they’d linked P.J.
Alexander, my romance pen name, to A.J. Lane, the pen name I used for my romantasy books.
Something that had never been linked before, letting us know that whoever was making these claims might be closer to me than I realized.
They were auctioning off the information to the highest bidder.
I knew it wasn’t long before the online sleuths would be hot on my tail.
My publisher’s investigators were on it, but my agent and I had a pretty good idea who was behind it.
I made another call to my lawyer, and the post was deleted, confirming my suspicions, but the damage was done.
I’d spent the next hour down the internet spiral reading all the posts as people tore apart my career as A.J.
Lane, calling me depraved, sick, and a pervert, and saying they were returning my books and canceling their preorder for the final book in the trilogy.
The criticism was brutal. It didn’t matter that there were as many as, if not more, positive reviews, including people wanting to buy the A.J.
Lane books and vice versa now that they knew it was the same writer. All my brain saw were those words.
Depraved. Perverted. Whore.
My head was spinning when the doorbell rang an hour into my spiral.
To top my day off, a city inspector had been standing on my doorstep, holding a clipboard and an apologetic smile.
Jerome, the city inspector, was not part of the town welcoming committee.
I wasn’t even surprised when he’d advised me he’d received a complaint about my house, stating it was unsafe. Fucking Jeremy and Layla. And damn it all to hell, they were right. By the time Jerome was done, all I could do was sit and stare at the peeling paint in my living room.
The electrical in the basement wasn’t up to code and had exposed wires, which meant we had to shut the breaker down.
My back porch had wood rot and could fall apart if you stepped on it wrong.
The plumbing to the main floor powder room and the master bathroom had leaked.
Oh, and was also not up to code. The stairs on my front porch needed a railing.
Ah yes, and part of my subfloor in my dining room wasn’t lined up correctly, meaning I couldn’t go in there until it was fixed.
The best part? I had two weeks to secure someone to fix the issues, or we’d be forced to move out and I’d be fined.
If I thought getting a contractor in Atlanta was difficult, getting one in Maplehurst was all but impossible. Every single one I’d called—including Rowdy, who was on another job but would call me if it finished early—was booked to the point no one could even come out for six weeks.
My faith lately had been sorely tested, and now my kid was testing it further.
“Look.” I leaned down, trying to ignore the curious stares of people who pretended like they weren’t staring, but were totally staring.
Cue the breeze of judgment wafting by. “I know there has been a lot of change lately.” At Lachlan’s incredulous look, I amended, “Okay, a tsunami of change, but you can think of this like an adventure. A chance to learn something new and maybe meet new people.”
“It’s church, Mom. I hate to break your heart, but the same things are taught in this church as they were in our old one. The only adventure here will be if someone pulls the fire alarm.”
Being patronized by my twelve-year-old was a new experience for me, and one my face told him I didn’t appreciate. “Just give it a chance, okay?”
Recognizing the danger in pushing me anymore, Lachlan uncrossed his arms. Sighing in that put-out way of his, he argued, “But Aunt Alex says churches are—”
I slapped a hand over his mouth. “You never mind what your aunt says!”
“MMff—fine— “ he grumbled.
Removing my hand, I shot a nervous look at the people who were now studying us like alien specimens. My favorite thing…attention.
“Aunt Alex says God is a myth created by delusional schizophrenics!” Lachlan rushed out loudly, ensuring everyone, including the swan in the pond across the street, heard.
I’m going to kill her.
Taking a deep breath, I held it for a second and then breathed out heavily, a move I called “The Alex” I prayed for patience.
“Oh, yeah? Then how about this? How about you go in there”—I pointed to the pristine white building where people were heading inside with the sermon about to start—“and prove her right? Cause if what she says is true, then you should be able to have no problem getting the evidence in Sunday school. And if you can, I won’t make you go back. ” I extended my hand.
“Deal!” He shook my hand, taking off. “I’ll prove God doesn’t exist by the end of the day!” he yelled, just in case anyone hadn’t already overheard him.
My eye twitched. Thou shalt not kill thy best friend, Phoebe.
“You’ve got your hands full there,” a warm, friendly voice laughed.
I winced, turning to the woman who came up beside me. I expected judgment or silent condemnation of me for my son’s anti-Christ ways. Instead, she was smiling.
To my shock, the grip I had on my purse, which had turned my fingers numb to the point I hadn’t even remembered I was holding the leather bag, relaxed. “Apparently, God likes to test me in various ways.”
“That he does.” She extended her hand. “I’m Helen. Helen Montgomery.”
Taking her hand, I shook it. “Phoebe Lebonaire.”
“Oh, honey. I know.” Her brown eyes twinkled in merriment. “There isn’t a soul in Maplehurst who doesn’t know about our newest additions. Of course, your ex’s live theater performance last Sunday on your porch made you the gossip mill’s newest sensation.”
Great. I groaned, looking around at the people who were now all steadily making their way into the building with church about to begin.
Helen threw her head back, letting out a boisterous laugh. The white striped dress she wore was a touch too low-cut for a conservative church. In Atlanta, you wouldn’t be caught dead showing your clavicle, let alone anything else.
Patting me on the shoulder, she threaded my arm through hers. “I’d say don’t worry, but in this town, gossip is a weapon.”
Just what I was afraid of.
“Joy.”
“It won’t be so bad once you get a few weapons of your own in your Maplehurst arsenal.” She led me inside to one of the pews in the front. I would have stopped and turned to the back( I was a strictly sit-in-the-back-don’t-make-a-sound kind of woman), except she was surprisingly strong.
In the pew were two women, and neither seemed overly surprised to find me being dragged along by Helen. “Phoebe, this is Cady-Jo”—she gestured to the woman with stunning red, curly hair— “and Louise.” She pointed to the Elle MacPherson look-alike.
They both slid down, making room for us.
Louise leaned across Cady-Jo. “We’re meeting after church at my house for lunch and so the kids can play.
It’s a weekly tradition. You and your son should come.
My twins are a year older than him, I think, and Scarlette, Cady-Jo’s youngest, is his age.
It will give him a chance to get to know some kids before school starts. ”
It started tomorrow, but I didn’t bother to point that out.
“Would you join us?” Helen asked.
They were clearly sincere in their invitation, and my shock must have registered on my face.
In Atlanta, though people were friendly enough, they sure as heck wouldn’t invite a stranger over after knowing them for less than ten minutes without a full background check.
Maybe not even then… “Th—thank you, I truly appreciate the offer. But we couldn’t impose like that. ”
Waving off my concerns, Louise declared, “Nonsense. You’ll come.
We have some of the best wine in town, and by the time we’re done”—she shot a dark look at the women I could hear snickering behind me.
No doubt about me. My fingers started to rub together—“you’ll know exactly who the best people are in town. ”
My throat convulsed while I tried to think up an excuse.
No.
No! This was my new home, and what had I just said to Lachlan?
A chance for a new adventure? Meeting new people?
Doing something out of my normal comfort zone was an adventure of sorts.
Wasn’t it? Even if I did end up back in the fetal position, I couldn’t make my kid do something and then turtle when it was my turn.
“If you’re sure it won’t be a bother…then we’d love to come.
” I forced a smile while inside I freaked out.
Was I ready to meet new people? Oh, God, what if they didn’t like me?
What if they did? What if they really want to know me?
They’d already heard about the spectacle my ex had made.
What if this was a way to get more information?
“Great!” Helen squeezed my restless fingers that were rubbing the smooth brass latch on my handbag. “We’ll collect the kids and head over after the service together.”
As the minister made her way to the pulpit, I tried to tell myself everything would be okay.
I could do this.