Learning at 40 (Lakeside Cottage Book 2) Read online

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  Copyright © 2021 Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  https://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: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Jenny Sims/Editing4Indies

  Proofreader: Gemma Brocato

  Proofreader: Karen Fischer

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Second Epilogue: Loving at 40

  More by L.B. Dunbar

  Connect with L.B. Dunbar

  About the Author

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Lakeside Cottage

  Living at 40

  Loving at 40

  Learning at 40

  Letting Go at 40

  The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge

  Silver Brewer

  Silver Player

  Silver Mayor

  Silver Biker

  Silver Fox Former Rock Stars

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  Collision novellas

  Collide

  Caught

  Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)

  Love in Due Time

  Love in Deed

  Love in a Pickle

  The World of True North (an imprint of Sarina Bowen)

  Cowboy

  Studfinder

  Rom-com for the over 40

  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

  A Heart Collection Spin-off

  The Heart Remembers

  THE EARLY YEARS

  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

  Paradise Stories

  Abel

  Cain

  The Island Duet

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  Dedication

  Summer dreams and 2021.

  Stay safe and well, my reader friends.

  Prologue

  [Zack]

  July

  Ben was dead.

  There was no easy way to sugarcoat the truth. Our best friend had died after a short life and a brief struggle with pancreatic cancer. I’m still dressed in my funeral attire, minus my sports coat. My tie is loosened, and I gawk out the second-floor bedroom window into the yard next door. Anna’s family calls this place Lakeside Cottage, but for the past year, it was the permanent residence of one of my oldest friends and his family. I used to live next door—once upon a time.

  Swiping a hand through my hair, I sigh. The past eleven months have been hell. Just shy of a year ago, Ben told us about his diagnosis. He’d already been through treatment without success. Ben Kulis. Clueless Kulis, we teased him in college. The nickname came about because he only had eyes for one woman. That woman would become his wife, Anna. They were sickly sweet, madly in love, and now she was a widow too young. Ben was the best of men. Loyal to a fault, he saw the good in most people even when they didn’t recognize it in themselves. Having been Anna’s friend first, being Ben’s pal happened second but was no less important.

  Staring out the dark window, I’m distracted when a light from the house next door illuminates a portion of the yard. A yard that was mine once upon a time. My childhood dreams were built there until everything shattered when I was a teenager.

  I hate this room. I hate that it faces what I once had. I hate that facing what I once had reminds me of all that I’ve lost.

  A house. A home. A wife. A friend.

  Ben would have told me to let it go regarding that house next door. I’m certain he said something similar to that before the phrase—let it go—became so popular. It was only a house, he probably said, but it had been my house. My home. As a landscape designer who loved plant metaphors, he might have added, “Home is where you plant your garden and sow your seeds.” Instead of that house being a special place, I was uprooted as a teen and forced to bloom elsewhere.

  Regarding my ex-wife, he told me to let her go as well, and I did.

  Suddenly, a woman enters the yard, distracting me from my thoughts of shattered dreams and broken homes. Her hair appears golden in the dim light, flowing behind her like a mystical creature from a child’s bedtime story. Her light dress covers her from shoulder to ankle yet leaves nothing to the imagination. In profile, I see the outline of her form. Pert breasts. Long legs. And that hair like a veil drifting behind her in the light wind.

  She looks like an angel.

  And I must be losing my mind.

  This must be the neighbor who arrived around the time we visited last summer. Anna and Ben claim they never formally met her, only passed friendly hellos through the tall shrubbery between the homes. Anna’s best guess is she’s roughly our age. We all turned forty the year of the great reunion when Ben dropped the bomb about his situation. Now, we are forty-one.

  Roughly loosening the remainder of my tie, I continue to stare into the mostly dark yard. The patio is illuminated by the soft glow of light coming from the house. The kitchen. I recall my mother cooking there, my brother doing homework at the oval table, and my father’s laughter. Tonight seems to be a night of memories. My childhood home. My best friend’s passing. And this woman is invading them both.

  With my room on the second floor and steeped in darkness, I remain submerged in my dismal mood but mesmerized by her presence.

  Why tonight? Of all the times I’ve visited this home in the past year, why am I seeing her tonight? And why
does she look so beautiful, so peaceful, just standing in my yard—her yard—facing the lake off in the distance? Her head tips back, and I imagine her closing her eyes, allowing the soft breeze to coast over her face, caress her skin, kiss her lips.

  I’m not a romantic at heart, but I’m definitely turned on. The idea of being the one to touch her cheeks, stroke down her nose, and stare into eyes I cannot see from this distance overwhelms me. And that hair. I want to comb my fingers through that spun gold and curl a fist in the silky threads. My mouth waters at the possibility of kissing the column of her throat, visibly on display with her head tilted backward, face aimed upward. Heaven is calling her.

  Ben.

  My eyes prickle, and my throat tightens. If I were a man who believed in something mystical, I’d think Ben placed this angel in my old yard just for me.

  Mine whispers through my thoughts. Why?

  I can’t seem to turn away from the window when I know I should. Staring down upon her makes me feel like a voyeur, witnessing something private, almost intimate. I want to stand in that yard with her. I want to rub my hands over her shoulder where the edge of her dress slips downward, exposing the curve of muscle at the top of her arm. I want to kiss her there.

  My reaction doesn’t feel appropriate—watching her, wanting her—on this day, when I buried a friend. Still, I stare out the window at the stranger next door. My fingers curl into a fist on the window’s trim, balancing me upright, holding me in place. I can’t seem to look away.

  Then she looks at me.

  Her head swivels so quickly, I remain caught in eyes I can’t see as her face angles toward the second floor, toward this window, toward me.

  What does she see? The miserable man that I am. The shitty husband I once was. The poor father I’ve been.

  I don’t want to be any of those things, but I don’t know how to change. I don’t know what to do or what I want. I only know I want to be better. I want to feel better inside.

  Staring down at her, I’m certain she sees me until I remember I’m covered in darkness. The lights remain off in my room, and I’m at the edge of the window. She can’t possibly see me. I’ve been so good at pretending I’m something other than who I am. I don’t think anyone knows the real me.

  Not even me.

  1

  [Zack]

  August

  “Hello?” I call out as I enter Lakeside Cottage, nearly trampled by my own two children who race around me to find Ben’s teenage sons.

  “In here!” Anna hollers back, her voice strained. Crossing the large entryway, I enter the open concept sitting area and kitchen combination filled with bright sunlight. It’s been a few weeks since Ben’s passing, and we’re here for happier times. One final promise we made to Ben was to return every summer for the first two weeks of August. On the cusp of Ben’s death, I worry the annual tradition is a little too new. I don’t want Anna to be stressed about our return.

  Standing beside the kitchen island is our friend who lived here during Ben’s last year—Mason Becker. The two of them appear as if they’ve been fighting. Watching Mason swipe a hand aggressively through his perfect hair, I approach Anna first.

  “Hey.” I greet one of my oldest friends with wide-open arms, and she collapses against my chest. Anna’s mother and mine were best friends. Anna’s father was considered a sausage king in Chicago, and when this house came on the market, her parents purchased it as a second home. My childhood home was next door. Our mothers were thrilled to be neighbors for at least part of the year. We spent entire summers together. Anna and I grew up with the maternal hope we would one day marry and join our families. As I consider Anna like a sister, a romantic interest never arose between us, but she’s been one of my best friends our entire lives. Our older brothers were friends when they were younger as well. The only hope of joining the Weller-McCaryn families would be her youngest sister, Amelia, and my older brother, Noah. But the chances of that happening are slim to never in a million years.

  “How are you?” I ask, and her body stiffens.

  “I’m getting a little tired of that question.” There’s a defensive edge in her voice I haven’t ever heard from her. My dark brunette friend has circles under her equally dark eyes and looks exhausted. She also looks thin. Dismissing the warning in her tone, I glance up at Mason. He appears exasperated.

  “Mason,” I greet, releasing Anna and stepping over to him.

  To me, Mason Becker is an anomaly in our circle of friends. I don’t know how Ben allowed a man who loved his wife to remain close all these years. It wasn’t as though Ben didn’t see how Mason felt about Anna. He just chose to ignore it. The rest of us? We weren’t so blind.

  I trust my wife one-thousand percent, he once said to me when I questioned him. He didn’t need to trust Mason because he knew Anna would never stray. He also believed in Mason in a way I’m not certain I would if it were my wife he lusted after. However, Mason hated Jeanine, my ex-wife. The feeling was mutual.

  Mason is a manwhore. He’s what I’ve heard women call model-worthy gorgeous. He has this artful hair, slicked back in wavy perfection, curling up on his neck. I swear he probably blow-dries his hair, the pussy.

  He’s lived the glory of bachelorhood his entire forty-one years, never taking a woman seriously, other than a blip on the map named Samantha, the mother of his now five-year-old daughter, Lynlee. Mason never considered marrying her. It’s probably one of the few smart decisions he’s made in his life. They would have killed each other.

  To Mason’s credit, he’s been living here since Ben announced he was sick. He stepped up to be the physical strength eventually needed to assist Ben with his condition. He was also an extra support to Ben’s family of two teenage boys and a middle-school-aged daughter. If only my friend was as great to his own child.

  Mason and I clap backs before pulling away from one another.

  “Where’s Logan?”

  Our original foursome includes me, Mason, Ben, and Logan Anders, newly married to Ben’s younger sister. They live up the street about half a mile. There was discussion about Logan physically staying at the house in order to celebrate Ben’s life, as we are calling this reunion of sorts; however, we don’t want to overwhelm Anna, and with Logan’s new baby, it’s best he stays in his own home. Anna’s been warned we aren’t here to be catered to. For lack of a better explanation, we’re here to use the place, recall good times with Ben, and get drunk. Anna is not responsible for us.

  “He’ll be here tonight with Autumn and baby Ben.” Autumn had a baby shortly before her older brother’s passing, and she and Logan decided to name their son after Ben. At forty, Logan became a father again, and it suits him. He already has a daughter from his previous marriage, and I need some serious dad advice from him as a new divorcé with out-of-control children. Not that Logan’s daughter is out of control. Lorna is an angel compared to my monsters.

  On that note, the two hellions race past me, and I’m suddenly wondering where they’ve been and what kind of trouble they’ve already caused. I don’t remember being so . . . inventive at seven years old as these two seem to be. Oliver is the follower, while Trevor is the alpha of the two.

  “Halt,” I call out, sounding militant. “Where have you two been?”

  They stop with their backs to me, both ramrod stiff but not turning around. Guilty.

  “What did you do?”

  Trevor slowly turns, giving me the eyes of his mother, wicked and deceptive despite his innocent age. “He didn’t do anything,” Thing One admits, pointing a finger at his brother, which means Oliver did do something. I direct my gaze to the smaller twin.

  “Oliver.” My voice threatens that I want the truth, but the truth is, my children hardly tell it. In so many ways, I’m puzzled by my own boys. They should listen. They should obey. It’s not that difficult. They are my children. I love them, but I’m lost.

  “He didn’t do anything,” Oliver claims of his brother, leading me to wonder whic
h one did do something and what exactly did they do.

  “Speak,” I snap.

  “I had to go to the bathroom,” Oliver finally states, and I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. The bathroom leaves all sorts of open possibilities and deep concerns. Dueling swords as they piss. Items down the toilet. Clogging the sink until water cascades over the rim. Taking hearty shits despite being such little people and leaving it for the next person to witness.

  “It’s not like she saw us,” Trevor states.

  “Who?” I bark, flipping open my eyes and glaring at my boys.

  “The lady,” Oliver adds.

  “What lady?” I lower my hands to my sides, and sweat beads on my forehead.

  “The one next door,” Trevor admits.

  “River?” Anna questions, giving a name to the witness of my son’s exhibitionist peeing.

  “Who?” I ask, turning to Anna.

  “The lady next door. The new neighbor. Remember, she moved in last summer.” Anna turns her attention to the boys. “Gold hair. Friendly smile. Nice laugh.”

  Gold hair? New neighbor? Could it be who I think it is?

  Trevor shrugs. Oliver says, “She didn’t laugh at me.” His face pouts like he’s offended that she might have, or maybe he’s upset she didn’t offer him the sound.

  “Don’t worry, little man. She’s probably seen a little pecker before,” Mason says, and I roll my eyes. He has no idea what he’s just started.

  “His pecker isn’t little,” Trevor defends, as if they have big dicks at seven.

  “We aren’t discussing our body parts,” I remind them after having this discussion in the car ride from the east side of the state to the west. Three hours plus bathroom breaks included at least four discussions on how we are not talking about body parts with others. Dicks. Buttholes. Fingers in our nose.

  “Wow, the cojones on that kid,” Mason teases.

  I turn to Mason as Oliver asks, “What are cojones?”