Worth the Trip
(A Fisher’s Light Companion Novella)
By
Tara Sivec
Other books by Tara Sivec
Romantic Comedy
The Chocolate Lovers Series:
Seduction and Snacks (Chocolate Lovers #1)
Futures and Frosting (Chocolate Lovers #2)
Troubles and Treats (Chocolate Lovers #3)
The Chocoholics Series:
Love and Lists (Chocoholics #1)
Passion and Ponies (Chocoholics #2)
Tattoos and TaTas (Chocoholics #2.5)
Romantic Suspense
The Playing With Fire Series:
A Beautiful Lie (Playing With Fire #1)
Because of You (Playing With Fire #2)
Worn Me Down (Playing With Fire #3)
Closer to the Edge (Playing With Fire #4)
Romantic Suspense/Erotica
The Ignite Trilogy:
Burned (Ignite Trilogy Volume 1)
Branded (Ignite Trilogy Volume 2)
New Adult Drama
Watch Over Me
Romantic Comedy/Mystery
The Fool Me Once Series:
Shame on You (Fool Me Once #1)
Shame on Me (Fool Me Once #2)
Shame on Him (Fool Me Once #3)
Contemporary Romance
Fisher’s Light
Worth the Trip
Copyright © 2015 Tara Sivec
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 written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notice
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you wish to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of adult fiction. The author does not endorse or condone any of the behavior enclosed within. The subject matter is not appropriate for minors. Please note this novel contains profanity and explicit sexual situations. All trademarks and copyrighted items mentioned are the property of their respective owners.
Editing by Nikki Rushbrook
Cover Design by Indie Book Cover Designs
www.michellepreast.com
Interior Design by Paul Salvette, BB eBooks
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Other books by Tara Sivec
Copyright Page
Prologue
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
Prologue
Age is just a number.
That’s what people say, at least. Sitting here on my old, worn-out couch, flipping through a photo album in the middle of the night, I think those people are full of shit. I have two hundred Canadian coins in a tin on my bookshelf. There are sixty-one pictures in this photo album. I have one hundred and four old 45’s that I still listen to on my 1953 RCA record player. Those are just numbers, the sum total of things that I’ve collected over the years.
As I turn the page in the photo album resting on my lap, I see the age spots and wrinkles on the top of my hand. I feel the arthritis in my right hip and knee flaring up because I’ve been sitting on this couch too long. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a good-looking, cocky son-of-a-bitch who had life by the balls, I see an old man with too many regrets and I feel each and every moment of my eighty-three years.
Age isn’t just a number. It’s days, weeks, months, years of disappointments and memories and watching your life pass right in front of your eyes, knowing you can’t go back and do things differently. You have one shot to get it right and if you screw it up…well, that’s just too damn bad.
I glance over at the grandfather clock, standing tall next to the couch, ticking loudly in the quiet room. Staring at the pendulum swinging back and forth, with the heavy weight of the photo album filled with memories of my time here on this earth in my lap, feels like I’m watching the hands of time count down to the end of my life.
So many years on this island, taking care of neighbors and friends and making sure my son never screwed up his own son the way I did him. Years of living, but not really being alive. My son grew into a man I hardly recognize and has made choices I don’t agree with, but how can I blame him? My actions were the catalyst for the path he chose. My grandson is fighting his way back to the woman he loves, and while I’m happy that he’s finally removed his head from his ass where she’s concerned, I realize that everyone around me has their own lives to live and all I have left is this book full of memories. I’ve never regretted being alone all these years. I think about her smile and her kisses that still haunt my dreams and I’m certain that no other woman would have ever compared to the one I married.
I run my fingertips over the face that fills so many pictures in this album. The woman who loved me more than I ever deserved. The woman who made me feel like I could do anything I put my mind to. She loved me until her dying breath and it’s only fair that I do the same.
A sharp pain shoots up my left arm and my hand starts to tingle. Flexing my hand, I shake my arm to try and get it to stop. It’s been doing this off and on since I woke up and I know I should probably call Doc Wilson, but I’ve got more important things to attend to. My time on this earth is coming to an end, and I’ve gotten my affairs in order and done what I can to push my grandson back into the arms of the woman he loves so that I can die knowing he’s going to be okay. I wish I could fix the mess I made with my son, but some mistakes can’t be mended with an apology. There isn’t a Band-Aid big enough to stop the bleeding in that wound. I can’t even tell him that I did the best I could, because Lord knows that’s a damn lie.
Gently peeling back the thin sheet of plastic covering the photos in the album, I pull out the first black and white photo and smile to myself, even though seeing her so young and vibrant and full of life makes me feel like someone shoved a knife right through my heart. I grab the notebook and pen sitting next to me on the couch and start writing. I know I’m a coward for waiting this long to explain my side of things, but it’s time I told my story.
I should have tried long before now to make amends. There’s nothing like staring right at death’s door to put a fire under your ass. I’m going to die with enough regrets to fill ten notebooks and that’s a tough pill to swallow, but when I meet my maker, I want to be able to hold my head high with the knowledge that at least I confronted all my mistakes.
The Life and Times of Jefferson “Trip” Fisher
I’m sorry, I love you, please forgive me.
Chapter 1
June 1939
“Come on, just dump it over your head. Don’t be a chicken!”
Beverly scrunches up her face and gets angry when I call her that. She HATES being called a chicken.
“I am NOT a chicken, Jefferson Fisher!” she argue
s, holding the bucket of sand in her arms and looking down at her dress. “My mom just bought me this dress. I can’t get it dirty.”
I stare at the stupid blue dress, snatch the bucket from her arms and dump it over my own head, laughing as the sand rains down on top of me. I scoop more sand into the bucket and hand it back to Beverly. If I have to babysit a dumb girl, then I’m going to have some fun. My parents and her parents are good friends and I have to spend every weekend with her, making sure she doesn’t get her silly dress dirty or get hurt just because I’m two years older than her and have to be in charge.
“See? I’m not dirty. Now it’s your turn. If you don’t do it, I’m going to tell everyone that Beverly Ann O’Byrne is a chicken!”
I start making clucking noises and Beverly finally huffs, takes the bucket from my hands and dumps it over her own head. I realize a little too late that I filled up the bucket with wet sand, not dry like I used. Instead of raining down on top of her head, it plops there, sticking in her hair and dripping down into her eyes.
Beverly starts howling and yelling at me, trying to wipe the wet mush out of her eyes, but she just makes it worse, spreading it all over her face. I’m laughing so hard that my side starts to ache, and I clutch it as I close my eyes and continue chuckling. Something wet smacks me in the face, cutting off my laughter, and my eyes pop open. No longer angry, Beverly has a huge smile on her face and before I can call her a dumb ninny, she scoops up a handful of wet sand and throws it right at my chest. I stare down in shock as the sand plops from my chest into my lap.
“Oh, you’re in big trouble now!” I tell her as I grab two handfuls of sand and throw them, hitting her right in the chest, as well.
We quickly scramble away from each other, scooping up sand with our muddy hands and pelting the piles back and forth until we collapse into a laughing, dirty mess.
“Beverly Ann! Look how dirty your dress is!”
We stop immediately and stare guiltily at the man standing a few feet from us, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face.
“And Mister Jefferson,” he says, turning his face to mine. “Are you the reason my daughter is filthy this morning?”
I see a hint of a smile behind his frown and I jump up from the sand and walk over to him.
“It wasn’t my idea, it was Beverly’s. She wanted to play in the sand, but I tried to tell her not to get dirty.”
Beverly jumps up and runs over to us. “He’s lying, Daddy! It was his idea!”
Mr. O’Byrne throws his head back and laughs before grabbing both of our dirty hands and walking us up towards the house.
“What am I going to do with you two? We’re supposed to be having a nice breakfast and now look at you. I’m going to have to hose you two off with the garden hose!”
Beverly and I look up at him, horrified.
“No! That water is so cold!” she protests.
“How about I just throw you in the ocean to wash you off?” her father suggests with another laugh when we give him a dirty look.
“Daddy!” Beverly complains.
He scoops her up into his arms, not even caring that he’s getting sand all over himself. “Okay, fine. I guess we’ll just go inside and tell your mother a huge sand monster came along and attacked both of you.”
I nod my head emphatically as Mr. O’Byrne situates Beverly in his arms and reaches for my hand again. “Yes! It was a big, dirty sand monster and he just started throwing his dirty sand all over us! We tried to fight back, but it was no use.”
We all laugh as we continue on into the house for breakfast with my parents and Beverly’s parents, something we’ve done every weekend for as long as I can remember. The story of the sand monster gets bigger and better as we walk and I KNOW our mothers are going to believe it.
We walk through the back door and Mr. O’Byrne sets Beverly down next to me. “You two stay here, I’ll head into the dining room and plead your case to your mothers.”
He ruffles my hair and gives Beverly a kiss on the cheek before turning and walking away, leaving us alone by the door.
Beverly looks at me and I look at her.
“If my mom doesn’t believe my dad about the sand monster, I’m telling her it was all your fault,” she informs me, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Oh, yeah? Well, I’m going to tell MY mom that you threw sand at me first. You started it,” I reply, crossing my own arms and glaring at her.
We stand toe-to-toe, shooting dirty looks at each other while we listen to low, murmured voices in the other room, waiting for one of our mothers to start shouting at us.
“At least I wasn’t a chicken,” Beverly informs me, lifting her chin high.
“You’re still a chicken,” I remind her, adding a few squawks and a flap of my arms.
“BEVERLY O’BYRNE AND JEFFERSON FISHER! GET IN HERE RIGHT NOW!”
We drop our arms to our sides and stare down the hall towards the dining room.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter under my breath.
“Race you to the lighthouse?” Beverly whispers.
She turns, throws open the back door and takes off running. With one last look over my shoulder, I follow behind her, back onto the beach. I’d rather get a whoopin’ for running away than listen to our mothers yell at us for getting dirty. Plus, I can’t keep letting a girl beat me to the lighthouse. One of these days, I’m going to catch her.
Chapter 2
Smiling to myself and ignoring the pain in my chest and arm that is getting steadily worse, I put the photo of Beverly when she was five and me at seven, covered in sand from head-to-toe, back into the photo album and smooth the protective plastic over top of it. Even though she was covered in sand, she is smiling the biggest smile in the world at the camera. Her long, curly brown hair is in disarray and I can just hear her mother shouting at her to run a brush through it after we finally made our way back to the house an hour later because we were hungry.
Beverly and I were always trying to get each other in trouble and one-up each other. I was only two years old when Beverly’s father moved his family to the island to open an accounting firm. My dad, a fisherman turned financier, sought out Mr. O’Bryne for advice on how to navigate the stock market and the two became fast friends. Our mothers bonded over talk of babies and the rest, as they say, is history. The friendship grew when my father opened Fisher’s Bank and Trust in 1940, and impressed with the way Mr. O’Byrne managed the books of the thriving local businesses, hired him as his bank manager.
Our parents being the best of friends, Beverly and I were frequently thrown together, and I resented having a girl tagging along after me all the time. I didn’t want my friends thinking I’d rather play with a girl than with them and I remember being embarrassed that she was always following me around. Two years younger than me, Bevy was just an annoying little baby who couldn’t do anything for herself and I hated always being left in charge of her.
Make sure Beverly doesn’t go near the water.
Make sure Beverly doesn’t fall and hurt herself.
If I had a nickel for every time I heard one of those requests, I’d be a rich man.
I can still recall the exact moment Bevy became more than the irritating little brat who followed me around all the time, the day I began looking at her with a little more respect and found myself actually WANTING to hang around her.
Closing my eyes, I rest my head on the back of the couch and try to ignore how much worse the pain in my chest is getting. I think back to the spring of 1940, the year our lives began to change. I can still feel the wind in my hair as I raced down Main Street, my whole life before me and not a care in the world, and I think about Beverly. Sweet, little six-year-old Beverly, who put me in my place and never ceased to amaze me.
Chapter 3
April 1940
“Well, what do you think, son? JEFFERSON!”
My father’s booming voice makes me jump and I turn away from the window that looks out on Main Street, trying
not to look guilty.
“Um, it’s a building,” I reply in a bored voice, my eyes darting back to the window when I hear my friends run by, whooping and hollering as they chase each other.
“This isn’t just any building, Jefferson, this is Fisher’s Bank and Trust. It’s your future and your legacy. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to make this happen for you?” he lectures.
I try not to sigh, but it’s the first nice day of spring and I want to be outside with my friends, not in some dumb building filled with desks and ledgers and not enough sunlight. I see my friend Billy stop in front of the big window next to the door and watch as he presses his mouth to the glass and blows until his cheeks are as big as baseballs. I laugh loudly and my father grumbles under his breath, walking around me until he’s blocking my view before squatting down in front of me and giving me a stern look.
“I know you’d rather be outside, son, but this is important. The bank will be open in just a few weeks and it’s going to be a very important business on this island. It’s exciting and it will change our entire lives,” he explains.
I don’t know why he’s making such a big deal about this. I like our life just the way it is. Well, I liked it before my father spent all his time here in this stupid bank, back when he was home for supper and played catch with me down by the beach. When my father was still a fisherman, I got to ride on the boat with him all the time. It was quiet and peaceful and we spent all of our time talking about Joe DiMaggio, our favorite baseball player, instead of money and loans and other boring things I don’t care about. DiMaggio is the greatest baseball player in the world, but Dad doesn’t have time to talk about him anymore. He’s down at this bank all the time and when I try to talk to him, he always shushes me because he’s busy counting something or other.
The bell above the front door chimes and we turn our heads to see Mr. O’Byrne and Beverly walk through the door. I grumble under my breath because I really thought I’d get to play with my friends today without being stuck with HER.