Read With Your Heart: a small town romance Read online

  www.lbdunbar.com

  Originally published as Sight Words © 2015 Laura Dunbar

  Read with Your Heart © 2020 Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  www.lbdunbar.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore - Shanoff Designs

  Editor: Kimberly Dallaire

  Editor: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Rebecca Kimbel - The Writing Refinery

  Editor: Jenny Sims - Editing4Indies

  Proofread: Karen Fischer

  Table of Contents

  Other books by L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  Lesson 1

  Lesson 2

  Lesson 3

  Lesson 4

  Lesson 5

  Lesson 6

  Lesson 7

  Lesson 8

  Lesson 9

  Lesson 10

  Lesson 11

  Lesson 12

  Lesson 13

  Lesson 14

  Lesson 15

  Lesson 16

  Lesson 17

  Lesson 18

  Lesson 19

  Lesson 20

  Lesson 21

  Lesson 22

  Lesson 23

  Lesson 24

  Lesson 25

  Lesson 26

  Lesson 27

  Lesson 28

  Lesson 29

  Epilogue

  More by L.B. Dunbar

  Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar

  Little Nibble of Look With Your Heart

  (L)ittle (B)lessings

  About the Author

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Silver Fox Former Rock Stars

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge

  Silver Brewer

  Silver Player

  Silver Mayor

  Silver Biker

  Collision novellas

  Collide

  Caught – a short story

  Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)

  Love in Due Time

  Love in Deed

  Love in a Pickle (2021)

  Standalone over 40 Romance

  The Sex Education of M.E.

  The Heart Collection

  Speak from the Heart

  Read with your Heart

  Look with your Heart

  Fight from the Heart

  View with your Heart

  Spin-off Standalone

  The History in Us

  The Legendary Rock Star Series

  The Legend of Arturo King

  The Story of Lansing Lotte

  The Quest of Perkins Vale

  The Truth of Tristan Lyons

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  The Island Duet

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Paradise Stories

  Abel

  Cain

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  Dedication

  To my former students.

  Always write from the heart, and the head.

  + + +

  Leon, Israel, Magdalena, and Amaryllis Ramirez represent a very real population of students. My former students. Their fictional stories are a combination of reality that twists and turns to protect the identity of those who have lived these lives. The liberty I’ve taken fits my story, but in no way trivializes their lives. There are siblings who take on the responsibility of protecting their families. There are young girls who believe a man is their only means of survival and having a baby while still young is their ultimate goal. There are students who cannot read and write, yet advance grades. And finally, there are children who die from gang warfare, either through intentional murder or chance in crossfire. No matter how you slice it, these are more than stories, but the reality of some children.

  As a former teacher, I hope I’ve helped someone along the journey, be it a kind word or small smile of encouragement, supportive praise for hard work or a listening ear when life seemed too difficult. I’d love to think I’ve impressed upon youthful minds the importance of reading and writing as well as the joy of it, but I can’t say with one hundred percent conviction that my enthusiasm for both subjects rubbed off on all my students. I can’t say that my firm belief that education leads to greater success was accepted by every one of the students who passed through my classrooms.

  I can say I consider success when a student was the first to go college in her family, or when a boy with a language barrier was actually accelerated and went on to be valedictorian of his class.

  Or when an entire class of doubters ended up admitting Shakespeare was pretty cool after all.

  One of the greatest (and saddest) moments in my teaching career came when I gave a child a book.

  It’s yours to keep, I’d said.

  This child looked up at me and said he’d never owned one before.

  Children do not choose their parents. They do not select the hand they are dealt, but they do have choices in how they play that hand: accept the challenge to change their fate or succumb to it. The road less traveled is difficult, but those who take it find the rewards are plentiful. For the real Ramirezes (and any other former student of mine), I hope education has resulted in a bounty of intelligence and success, family and romantic love, and maybe an appreciation for Shakespeare.

  “O, learn to read what silent love has writ;

  to hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.” – Shakespeare.

  Lesson 1

  New Beginnings

  [Tricia]

  Single white female seeks freedom.

  If I were to take out a personal ad looking for a date, this might be the headline, but I’m not looking to date. Soon, I’ll be looking for a roommate.

  “Tell me again why you need a house?” My sister, Pam, stands before me inside the two-story home on Birch Street. It’s more house than I need, but it could be all mine. Someday.

  “Because I never had a home with Trent, and I want my own place.”

  My sister stares back at me. We aren’t particularly close as sisters go, but I see the concern in her eyes. My family doesn’t know everything that happened within my marriage to Trent Walker. They don’t know how difficult the past few years have been with my soon-to-be ex-husband.

  Ex-husband has a nice ring to it, when I consider who Trent is and who I thought he was.

  “Are you going to run an ad for a roommate?” Pam asks. My older sister is the opposite of me in every way. She’s short while I’m tallish. She’s curvy and voluptuous. I’m cut like a box and built like a boy with no hips, long legs, and small breasts. Athletic, people like to say about me. Pam is also blond to my dark, but despite our appearance, she’s the one who likes the darker things
in life while I’ve always wanted a fairy tale.

  Funny how life dealt me the opposite.

  “Yes. I can’t afford this place on my own yet, and I don’t want to buy it outright before the divorce is final because it would be considered a shared asset. A roommate could help me build some collateral for an eventual purchase.” I want a place of my own. The idea sounds nice. I’d traded one house for another but had never had a place that felt like my own. I’d left my parents’ home for college and upon graduation, returned to Elk Lake City to marry my hometown honey whom I’d linked up with my junior year of college. We’d moved into a cabin on the back of his family’s property, and even after a decade of marriage, it felt more like a bachelor’s hunting hangout than a home.

  I’d never lived alone, but I’m ready for this adventure.

  You got this, girl, my father’s voice whispers through my head. He’d be proud of me for finally standing up for myself. Finally leaving Trent. My father never approved of him. Too bad Dad passed away before he could see this moment.

  Pam’s head turns to inspect the inside of the living room, and I try not to see it through her eyes. It isn’t beautiful. In fact, it’s downright ugly with shag carpeting, a velour material couch, and lamps so outdated I’m not certain they use light bulbs.

  “I hope Mrs. Drummond gave you a deal,” she mutters. My new landlord offered me a rent-to-own option. She’s a former librarian, a town busybody, and growing older. She owns the double lot where this home stands with a sister house beside it. The two are twins but mirror opposites in layout. One downside of the homes is that they butt up to the alley behind the main street of our harbor town on the shores of Lake Michigan, but there are worse places to live, and right now, this home feels like a castle.

  And all mine. Soon.

  Another pitfall is the shared driveway, which has just come to life with the rumble of a motorcycle.

  Pam steps into the dining room where windows on the left side of the room look out on the drive. She brushes back the ancient lace curtains, making it obvious she’s checking out my neighbor.

  “Who’s that?” she whispers as I step up behind her, easily peering over her shoulder because of our height differences. A man dressed in head-to-toe black sits upon a large motorcycle, the engine revving between his firm thighs while long arms hold the roaring machine upright. He isn’t wearing a helmet, which I don’t think is legal in Michigan, so we have a clear view of his midnight hair, cut close to his head, and the deep tan of his exposed skin reminds me of a worn horse saddle. His T-shirt pulls against solid back muscles. Something in me stirs even without the full view of him. Those arms. Those legs. That back.

  I shake the thought and immediately note two additional things.

  First, he isn’t from around here. I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’d recognize a man like him.

  Second, I have no interest in a dangerous man like that. I’ve already been down the dark route, and I have no desire to ride that road again.

  As Pam and I both follow my neighbor’s retreat from the driveway, we pause a moment as if collectively catching our breaths.

  “Well,” Pam says, causing me to flinch out of my stupor. “We should celebrate your new beginning. Let’s head to the Tavern.” She chuckles, and I understand her laughter. The Town Tavern is a local favorite and quite literally in my backyard, across the alley.

  My own yard. I like the sound of that. A yard where I can do what I wish. Plant some flowers. Have a vegetable garden. Keep it clear of man toys and junk.

  Pam leads the way through my outdated kitchen and out the back door of my new place. We cross the small yard and enter the alley. It’s Thursday night and going to the Tavern has become an unspoken tradition for our family. We were typical siblings—fighting and loving—but we pulled together after the death of our father, and this ritual seems to be a reminder to appreciate one another, even if we don’t always get along. Family is important. We’ve always believed that in our own way.

  For me, it used to mean a husband and babies.

  The latter never happened. The former I’m happy to be rid of.

  “How’re you holding up?” my older brother Jess asks as I take a seat next to him at the bar. My brother looks like a rock star with his chin-length blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and intense blue eyes. He’s suspicious of my divorce, having been through his own, but he hasn’t asked me outright what happened with Trent. Jess is reserved like that, hoping I’ll tell him when I’m ready. Only I don’t want anyone in my family to know what happened. I’m too embarrassed.

  “I’m fabulous,” I say, and it isn’t a total lie. The divorce, the house . . . It’s going to be a good year. As a teacher, I measure the year from September to June, not from January to December, so my year is about to begin. I report to work on Monday to attend planning meetings and set up my classroom even though school won’t start for more than a week. This gives me the weekend to settle into my new home.

  Home. What a great word. I grew up in an amazing house, filled with love and laughter, fights and folly. As the youngest of four, I can admit I was a bit spoiled. I fondly look back on my upbringing in a warm home with devoted parents and teasing siblings. My ten-year marriage was quite the opposite, though, and the house we shared was anything but a home. It was hardly even a house. We didn’t have any privacy from his family or his friends. It was a bachelor pad before we married, and most of his hunting buddies continued to treat the place as if it was still a hangout when we were newlyweds. Over time, I grew complacent.

  It no longer matters, I remind myself.

  “Need any help moving in this weekend?” Jess asks me, and I smile.

  “Actually, I think I’m good.” I didn’t have much to move, having left most things with Trent. None of it was mine anyway. Just a few decorative pillows, some wall art, and a plant or two. I’d left everything behind, wanting a fresh start. I’d been slowly moving items back to my mother’s house, like my grandmother’s quilt and boxes of books. On the day I’d officially left, I filled my car with my clothes and didn’t look back.

  “If you need anything, you call me,” Jess states, emphasizing in his glare that I better call him. Would it be so bad to lean on my family a little bit more? I’ve been holding too much inside for too long and accepting his help is such a simple act. Still, I want to do this on my own.

  A beer is placed before me even though I hadn’t ordered yet. I pick up the bottle from the local brewing company and clink mine with Jess’s.

  “Here’s to new beginnings.”

  Lesson 2

  Destiny comes from within us.

  [Leon]

  I’m completely trapped.

  My imagination races as I bounce the basketball, pretend someone’s at my back, fake left, and spin right for the shot.

  Swoosh. The synthetic rope net flips against the base of the fiberglass backboard.

  I rebound my own ball and dribble to the middle of the open court. I have to give this small town credit. It has decent outdoor courts—nice boards, smooth concrete, and solid hoops. Not like home.

  Home.

  I will away thoughts of a place I can no longer consider my own. When I first made the decision to travel to this small lake town, I’d known it would be different, but when I’d arrived, it had felt like I’d entered an alternate universe. Mayberry-ish with one main street, complete with fancy streetlights and quiet businesses in architecturally pleasing buildings. No metal gates. No trash in the road. No blue police monitor blinking at the top of a pole.

  This place was safe—serene and peaceful—and exactly what I wanted.

  I’d done my time, and I wanted to be under the radar now.

  “I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities; a still and quiet conscience.” Shakespeare, man . . . he’s the bomb, and I want what he said. He’s one of my idols, and I’ve always had an affinity for him.

  Still, life here is lonely. I miss a few of my boys,
especially AJ, but he shouldn’t know where I am any more than anyone else. It is better this way.

  A new beginning.

  I take the two-point shot from the free throw line as if I’d been fouled on the last shot I took. It’s hard playing ball on my own, so I was grateful to learn there’s a pick-up game at the high school for adults. I need to take it easy because some of the guys who attend are older, but it’s a decent workout. I still like to practice more than one night a week, though. Dribbling the ball settles my thoughts. I focus on the movements of my body and not the memories pinging around in my head.

  “He takes the shot,” I whisper and release the ball, watching, anticipating, knowing it’s going to glide through the hoop. “He scores.”

  “Ahh,” I exaggerate, holding my hands cupped around my mouth. I don’t have to worry about anyone hearing or seeing me. There’s a public ball court in town, but I prefer the solitary experience of this one near the high school. Tonight, I stand out a bit in my gear—jeans, boots, and a T-shirt. Not your typical attire for a court, but I came here on my motorcycle tonight after taking a ride to clear my thoughts. I keep the basketball hidden between the bushes along the building.

  It’s still beautiful and balmy up here despite being late August, and the drive tonight did me some good. My bike is the first thing I’ve ever owned outright. Even the parts are all legitimate.

  No more stealing.

  I rebound my ball and dribble back to the center court, weaving the ball between my legs as I move. This was my sport. I always thought I’d go all the way—NBA, baby—but those are kid dreams when you grow up where I did, how I did. I never made it out of high school, and now I’m thirty-five years old. I’m damn lucky I have a job. The work is decent and the pay okay. It’s enough I can afford to rent a house, but I’m living paycheck to paycheck.

  Welcome to the honest life, Leon.