Fortuity: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (The Transcend Series Book 3) Read online

  FORTUITY

  by Jewel E. Ann

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Jewel E. Ann

  ISBN: 978-1-7345182-4-5

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations

  Formatting: BB eBooks

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  This is the third book in the Transcend Series. However, it has been written as a standalone, contemporary romance novel. There are some spoilers to the Transcend and Epoch Duet, but only necessary elements for character development.

  Dedication

  To all the heroes “essential workers” who could not stay home during the pandemic because we needed you. Your commitment and sacrifice will never be forgotten.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Sign Up For Jewel’s Newsletter

  Preview of Look the Part

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Jewel E. Ann

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Why do the wrong people die?

  The attorney offers a rehearsed smile, as if the cruise ship didn’t go up in flames. “Do you have any questions?”

  My brother and his wife died, and they left me with their ten-year-old son, Gabriel.

  Questions? Yes. I have so many questions.

  Why didn’t they purchase more life insurance? Why couldn’t they have waited eight more years to die? I’m not implying I ever wanted them to die, but there’s something to be said for timing, especially in death.

  “Kyle and Emily wanted you to live with Gabriel in their house. Keep him in the same school. Do as much as possible to not disrupt his life.”

  “My nephew lost both of his parents. I think it’s a little late to not disrupt his life.”

  “Of course.” Her smile slips from her face.

  Pausing my temple-rubbing motions, I ease my gaze upward to meet that of the thirty-something brunette. I don’t know what to say.

  Her face resembles a wadded up piece of paper. The cringe isn’t a good look on her. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stay in their house. You don’t have to move to San Diego. Gabriel is ten. I have a ten-year-old son. They’re resilient. I’m sure he will adapt to Boise, a new school, and new friends.”

  This doesn’t feel real. Please let her be nothing more than a bobblehead in one of my crazy, early morning dreams—that I wouldn’t have if I’d just get my ass out of bed instead of giving the middle finger to my Pilates class.

  My brother and his wife took a cruise. How does one die in a fire surrounded by hundreds of miles of water? Just … jump in the water!

  “Or … you don’t have to do this at all. There is nothing that legally requires you to take custody of Gabriel.”

  Just wake the hell up and go to Pilates!

  Kyle called to say goodbye and to let me know I would be responsible for Gabe if their plane went down on their way to Spain. It was an afterthought. A tiny footnote at the end of a long book. That was the first time Brother Dearest mentioned my huge responsibility. I brushed it off with “Wow! You must be desperate to choose me.”

  He brushed it off with a laugh and “Mom and Dad are too old to do it. But don’t worry … we’ll make it back in one piece.”

  Liar.

  “Miss Glock—”

  “Gracelyn,” I correct her.

  Her lips curl into a tiny smile. “Gracelyn, I realize no amount of money can make up for your family’s loss. However, I anticipate the cruise line will pay a sizable sum to settle multiple wrongful death suits. I’m not suggesting your family settle. I just don’t want you to feel like the life insurance is all you’ll have to cover the expenses of raising Gabriel.”

  It’s not the money.

  Okay … that’s not entirely true. I’ve made it forty-one years without an actual career, a husband, children, or a 401(k). Money will be a concern.

  “Of course I’m taking him. I’ll figure it out.” I stand on shaky legs and slip my handbag over my shoulder. It weighs a hundred pounds—or maybe that’s the weight of the world. My chin juts upward; believing and an air of confidence is ninety percent. Right?

  “Okay. We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, call me if you have any concerns or questions.” She hands me her business card and escorts me to the door.

  “Thanks.”

  After a quick stop in the ladies’ room to contemplate vomiting before splashing cold water on my face, I climb into Kyle’s and Emily’s green Land Rover and drive to their house. We buried their remains last week. Emily was an only child. Her father died of cancer five years ago, and her mom, Sharon, has early-onset dementia. Sharon’s caregiver (a cousin) took her back to the assisted living facility right after the funeral.

  “Hey, how did it go?” Mom asks, rummaging through the fridge because …

  So.

  Much.

  FOOD!

  “Fine.”

  She shuts the door and leans against it as I plop my ass into the chair, transfixed by the table covered in food—enough baked goods to give an entire village diabetes.

  “Doesn’t sound fine.” She wipes a tear from her cheek.

  I don’t know what it feels like to lose a child—or even have one for that matter. My tears fell quickly after the news of their deaths. More tears made a proper appearance at their funeral. Today, the reality of my new role replaced the tears.

  I’m … a mom? No. That’s not right. I’m still a fun aunt. Gabe won’t think of me as his mom.

  Fun aunt.

  Maybe his friend.

  An eight year babysitter.

  “I know they thought we were too old to take care of Gabe, but that’s not true. He can come to Great Falls with us. I think he’d like living in Montana.” Mom wears a fairly believable smile on her weary face, but I notice her new
wrinkles. Craters of pain that can never be erased.

  I shake my head, snatching a stale chocolate chip cookie from one of the plastic containers. Years ago, I kicked my emotional eating habit, introduced my body to Pilates, dropped twenty pounds, and took a vow of celibacy as a last attempt at self-preservation.

  Maybe I slip up and eat a few too many cookies. No big deal. I’ve inherited a ten-year-old.

  A TEN-YEAR-OLD!

  Really, Kyle, leave me your Land Rover and Emily’s Pilates reformer. But Gabe? I love him … more than the world. I’m just not equipped for parenthood. What if I mess him up? I’ve messed up so much in my life.

  The early stages of menopause tap on my shoulder every day. My unused uterus put in its request for early retirement. After I finish this stale cookie, there’s a fifty percent chance my face flushes and I sweat through my clothes.

  Hot flashes.

  Mood swings.

  Seven p.m. mandatory bra removal.

  No kid, especially not a young boy, needs to witness such a hot mess.

  “Kyle and Emily want him to stay in San Diego. Same school. Close to friends. While I have no desire to live here, I agree with them. The less we have to disrupt his life, the better his chances are of making it through this grieving process and returning to some semblance of normalcy.”

  With his aunt Gracelyn—Queen Hot Mess.

  “I don’t want you to be overwhelmed.” Mom pulls out a chair and sits next to me, frowning at the baked goods. She’s had her fair share. The emotional eating apple (or cookie) doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  “He’s a great kid. I love him to pieces. We’ll be fine.”

  “You need a job here.” Mom goes for some sort of chocolate drizzled popcorn. It has to be staler than my cookie.

  Yep. She spits it back into the bowl.

  I grin. “I’ll make sure he talks to someone, if he doesn’t want to talk to me. I’ll get a job.” Glancing around at the fancy surroundings, I twist my lips. “I doubt we’ll be able to stay here very long.”

  “Oh … no.” Mom shakes her head. “The taxes and upkeep on this place must be insane.”

  Kyle and Emily splurged on a house they could barely afford when they should have splurged on better life insurance.

  “Sell the house. Use the money to raise Gabe and put some back for his college.”

  I nod several times.

  “Are you sure about all of this?” Mom rests her hand on my leg.

  “Absolutely.”

  No. Not even close.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nathaniel

  Two months later …

  “I think this is a good thing.” Morgan drops her backpack inside the four-bedroom rental on the beach.

  “You say that about every place we stay.” I lug our two suitcases into the narrow tile entry.

  “Yes. But San Diego feels extra good.”

  “You’re ten. I think the definition of being ten is extra good.”

  “Three months?” She spins in a circle, her long, wavy, blond hair twirling like a kite in the wind.

  My world.

  This girl is my world.

  “Yes.” I haul the luggage up the stairs as she shadows me.

  “Then I get to go home! Public school. And I will meet the boy I’m going to marry. Right?”

  Ten is the new fourteen. My daughter is too smart.

  “Three months until we settle into a place that’s ours. Three months until you join the herd, eat lunch out of a bag, and find out how truly mean boys can be at your age. You’ll meet the boy you’re going to marry when you’re thirty.”

  “Daaad!” Morgan giggles when I stop at the first bedroom.

  “Unpack your stuff.”

  She jumps onto the queen bed adorned in white and sea-foam green blankets and pillows. “Tell me how you met Mom.”

  “Unpack and then you can tell me how I met your mom since I’ve told you that story so many times.” I give her a wink and find another bedroom, hoping I didn’t just give her the bigger bed. She’s strict with things like first come, first served and finders keepers.

  Eight years ago, we left Wisconsin in search of … the world. Morgan learned to speak, read, and write—in multiple languages—by immersion. Her only school has been life. And …

  Books.

  Books.

  Books.

  I have a phone, but I’ve given her limited access to technology other than computers at libraries or ticket machines for subways. She has no firsthand experience with social media, apps, texting, email, or what it means to binge something on Netflix.

  However, her feet have touched five continents and countless countries. She has a bag filled with stationary and pens she uses to write to all the friends she’s made during her time traveling the world.

  “Oh, thank god,” I whisper, seeing a king bed, a balcony, and an en suite bathroom.

  Three months of sleeping on a twin bed in Budapest wasn’t memorable in a good way. Princess Morgan slept in a king bed with three stuffed animals because … finders keepers, no take-backs, and a deal is a deal.

  “A kid!” Morgan squeals.

  I smirk. It’s always a bonus when we rent a place with kids in the neighborhood—well, maybe not always. She’s met plenty of bad influences over the years. I’ve had to brush it off as opportunities for character building.

  My exuberant daughter spins away from her bedroom window as I lean against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest. “It’s a boyeee! And he looks close to my age!” Fisting both of her hands at her mouth, she attempts to contain her excitement, but she fails.

  “Boys are trouble.”

  Her blue eyes make a full swoop with her dramatic eye roll. “You were a boy. Were you trouble?”

  “Yes.” I pivot and head down the stairs. “The worst kind of trouble,” I mumble to myself.

  I met a girl. Her name was Morgan. I called her Daisy because it was her middle name and she didn’t like it. She ruined me for eternity and every life beyond that. She still haunts my dreams. And I gave my daughter her name.

  Nothing fucked-up about that.

  When I get to the main room, I peek out the window to inspect the young lad that will stay far away from my little girl. With his nose shoved into the screen of his phone, he blindly follows a woman to our landlord’s, Mr. Hans’s, front door. We haven’t met Hugh yet. When he emailed me the lockbox code, he mentioned he lives in the house directly north of this one.

  The woman with chin-length zebra hair (black with thick streaks of blond) stops midway to the front door and squints at the For Rent sign in his yard. Mr. Hans gave me the impression he lived there. What’s he renting?

  *

  Gracelyn

  “The beach. Do you like the beach?”

  Gabe shrugs without glancing up at me. I study the For Rent sign, the houses lining the long stretch of beach, and the solid dose of life that feels as deep and vast as the water reaching the horizon.

  “If you don’t like it, we’ll keep looking.” The three wooden deck steps creak, announcing our arrival, as I approach the screen door. He told us to come around back. All of these beachfront homes have covered decks with lovely patio furniture and some with swings like this one. A wide and weathered boardwalk separates the decks from the sand.

  After two knocks and ten seconds, the door opens.

  “Hello! You must be Elvis.” The old man with white Einstein hair, who resembles Christopher Lloyd (particularly his role as Doc Brown in Back to the Future) smiles clear to the corners of his expressive, slightly psychotic eyes. If he weren’t a little hunchbacked, he’d stand at least six feet tall.

  “I’m Gracelyn, not Elvis.”

  “Ha! Yes, dear, but when you said your name on the phone, I imagined it’s a slight nod to Elvis.”

  “That’s Graceland.”

  “Potato potahto. Come in.” He steps aside.

  I take a few extra seconds to consider my gut feeling.
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  The wide psychotic eyes.

  His white, half-buttoned shirt with the bottom of it sticking out of his partially zipped fly.

  Brown Birkenstocks.

  Gray socks with his right big toe sticking out of a hole.

  “My wife died five years ago.” He wiggles his naked toe.

  My gaze shoots to meet his.

  “Haven’t bought any new clothes since she died. She did all the shopping. I fixed stuff around the house. I can fix leaks and hang pictures, but I haven’t figured out how to sew holes in my socks … or maybe you patch socks? I’m not sure.”

  “Uh, I think you just get new socks.” Gabe joins the conversation.

  “Is that so?” He cocks his head at Gabe. “Hugh Hans. What’s your name, young man?” Hugh offers his hand to my nephew, my new and very unexpected responsibility.

  These two months have not been easy. I pretend that Kyle and Emily are still on vacation and I’m simply watching Gabe. I feel confident as a babysitter. When I dwell on the tiny fact that I’m the sole person responsible for raising him … everything in my chest starts to constrict.

  “Gabriel.” He shakes Hugh’s hand.

  “Ah … Gabriel. Such a great name. It means ‘God is my strength.’ Bravo to your parents for giving you such a great name.” Hugh’s raspy, yet enthusiastic, voice seems to keep Gabe’s attention, eliciting a rare smile from him as he slides his phone into his pocket.

  Incredible. He’s engaged, ready to give this stranger his attention. I need Mr. Hans’s secret spell. I’m not sure I’ve seen Gabe smile more than once or twice since the tragedy.

  Gabe didn’t want to stay in the house any more than I did. That surprised me. I thought he’d feel comforted and close to his parents there. I thought wrong. The house sold yesterday. We have thirty days to find a place.

  “My parents died.” Gabe follows me into the house.

  “I’m very sorry.” Hugh shuts the door as Gabe and I slip off our shoes.

  “It’s not your fault,” Gabe mumbles.

  Hugh shoots me a tiny smile and a wink. “Thank goodness.”

  I ruffle Gabe’s dark hair, and he shoos away my hand as we follow Hugh’s snail’s pace up the stairs.