Searching For Sarah (The Sarah Series Book 1) Read online

  Searching For Sarah

  Copyright © 2017 Julieann Dove

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons –living or dead –or places, events, or locales is purely accidental. The characters are reproductions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

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  For W. Jackson

  Because you are counted twice among my many blessings

  Reason number forty-three why I could possibly still be single at the age of thirty-one: Sharing a wardrobe with Mable Watkins. She was four foot nine and seventy-eight years old, and for my entire middle school career, I got all her hand-me-downs. What can I say? I was raised by a single dad who had zero fashion sense, and a keen eye for a bargain. Cable-knit sweaters, solid-colored turtle necks, and slacks—all in the color scheme of browns and grays.

  Reason number ninety-five why I remain single at age thirty-one: Belonging to the knitting club that meets the first and third Thursdays of every month. Although I was sort of tricked into joining, I really like going. Carol, the sort of nerdy little girl who ate by herself at the diner twice a week, asked me to go to a club with her. At first, I was dumbfounded that she even spoke to me. I’d waited on her table for the past three months straight, and the most she ever said was “hold the pickle, and extra ice, please.” Although there was that time that she said my hair bun was nice, and asked me where I shopped for my fingernail polish. I digress… When she finally made eye contact that Wednesday lunch hour and asked whether I’d considered going with her, I said, “Uh, sure. I’ve been meaning to get out more.” I mean, technically, I’d just moved here a few months ago, my loser boyfriend had stolen all my belongings and I was living in someone’s downstairs…what could be worse than going with Carol to a club? Yeah, not the club I imagined. Then again, I could’ve connected the dots. Practically every time I saw her she was wearing knitted garments. The bracelets, chokers, and hats took the hobby to a whole other level.

  Rob Kasen, the guy I’ve been dating for the past two months, knows nothing of my fashion relapse as a teen, or that I knit. I’m guessing the fact that he’s twenty-five, drives a red convertible, and has a set of gorgeous blue eyes should signify he might not understand the obsession of creating something out of a very long piece of string. Not that I’m good at it, but giving him a clear line comparing me to his grandmother isn’t what I’m going for.

  “Babe, I’ll call you tomorrow after my civil law class.” I sped to get the last open spot on the street, not far from the yarn shop, my cell phone wedged between my shoulder and ear.

  “And what is it that you’re doing tonight? You know I wanted to see you.” I could hear the pout in Rob’s voice.

  “I know, but I’m sort of helping a friend tonight. I promised.” I shoved my gearshift to park and grabbed for my bag on the backseat.

  “Okay, but know how much I’m going to miss you.”

  Ah, the early-in-the-relationship talk. How I loved hearing it. All the ooey-gooey missing me and adoring me kind of stuff. I can just imagine his baby blues now and I could swear I felt my heart palpitate—see little hearts dance around my head like cartoon caricatures.

  “I’m going to miss you, too. Now let me get off so I can go do what I should. I’ll text goodnight a little later.” I caught myself smiling when I said it.

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  Oh my gosh, he wants me to be careful. I think the hair on my arm just raised. “You, too.”

  I pushed open the door to the little shop off Constitution Street and inhaled the smell of craftiness in the air. Sort of like office supplies, but with a bit more fiber. Skeins of every color yarn you could possibly imagine—sitting in baskets or cubbies along the wall that reached from floor to ceiling. Tiny little outfits for girls, with matching hats on displays. Gloves, scarves, tea cozies—you name it, Marta had made it. She was the owner of the shop. Along with being the kindest woman I’ve met since moving to Charleston, she was the most patient. Did I mention that although I loved everything in the shop, and trying to knit it, I was lousy at the craft? It’d been almost five months and the sweater I started making for my dad was still wonky, missing stitches, and working its way to more of a king-size blanket with a crazy arm hole.

  “Hey, Sarah,” said Marta.

  “Hi there. I’m sorry I’m running late. My lovely professor doesn’t wear a watch, and obviously didn’t catch the hint of everyone packing up.” I purposely averted looking at all the sets of eyes watching me as I flung my bag on the table and prayed my needles would turn up somewhere in the mess. I kept my project in a plastic bag, stuffed in the back of my car. With second semester law classes just beginning a few weeks ago, little time has gone into the one-armed poncho I had hoped to give my dad for Christmas. It was now August—I could only hope by then it might resemble a gift he could possibly tent the house for termites, should the need arise.

  “Not much progress, I see,” Gennifer with a G said.

  Gennifer was an overworked mother, president of the PTA, and the go-to person for all hospitable charities. Never did I see her that her brows weren’t perfectly sculpted and her stomach something you couldn’t bounce quarters from. I always found it to be a mystery why she belonged to the group—that was, until Marta mentioned her husband was the school principal where Gennifer’s kids went. Brownie points were one of Gennifer’s most prized possessions.

  I looked around at the other women, watching them curl yarn around their sticks, talking about how jeggings are coming back in style—some of the older ones not knowing what jeggings were—and reflected how at ease I felt coming here and carrying on conversations that would bear no impact on any world crisis. I suppose it had something to do with belonging. This crazy pack of ladies had inducted me into their hobby and into their circle. That was something I can honestly say I never felt in any aspect of my life.

  “I have a heavy workload this semester. Not a lot of free time for knitting, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s got two children and a homecoming to organize and still, look at hers. She’s halfway finished.” Robena pointed to Gennifer’s gorgeous afghan. The colors she selected were a rocking fuchsia and a cold winter gray. Very modern. Very reminiscent of her soul, too, maybe.

  Robena was the oldest lady of the group. I figure her doctor, along with cholesterol medication, has her on a regimen of five mean pills a day, and on knitting day she overdoses. She’s the plump, second-removed aunt who shows up to major holiday dinners whether she’s invited or not, and spends her time ragging on everyone. Contrary to her present-day disposition, there possibly was a time in her life she was pleasant. The Claddagh band that looks as though its melted into the flesh of her left finger tells me someone loved her at least once.

  “I know, but I’ve got this one class that’s giving me a hard time. I can’t seem to catch on to what the professor is talki
ng about. Sometimes I don’t know how I even got into that class. Or what I’m doing in school again.” I said the last part under my breath.

  “Maybe you need to get off that phone of yours and pay attention.”

  I took a deep breath and bit my tongue. God forbid I keep my phone out on the table while knitting. Bad habit number ninety-nine—can’t go anywhere without my phone being easily accessible. Not that anything usually goes down that needs my immediate attention, but it could. Have you ever searched for your phone to make a call about something you’re reading on it? Yeah, it’s that bad sometimes.

  “She’s busy with her own schedule, Robena,” Gennifer said in my defense. “My kids are in school now, and I have extra time.”

  “Don’t you have to take Bill to the therapist every day?” Josselyn asked, not once looking up from her knitting.

  Josselyn was the quiet one. Even more so than Carol. The one who probably has more time on her hands than monks in monasteries. She never divulged exactly what she does for a living, but I imagine very little. Every Thursday, she buys about ten skeins of yarn after group, and has her project finished by the next time we meet.

  Gennifer sighed and clanged her needles loudly together. I thought she was going to gouge one of her fingers. “Bill is now going only three days a week to therapy.”

  Bill was Gennifer’s husband. I entered the group right before he returned home from Afghanistan. His convoy hit a landmine and he lost his left leg. Gennifer seemed more on edge when she received word he was returning home than when she found out about the accident. I suppose once you live apart for as long as they have, having them return is an upheaval to one’s routine. Especially now that she’s the sole one responsible for taking him to all his appointments and whatnot. That’s what I’m labeling her new agitation, anyway. I’d hate to think Robena is wearing off on her. Up until a few months ago, Gennifer seemed to be a very happy woman.

  “Did you check into prosthetics?” Marta asked in a gentle tone, her voice low and her head tilted like a concerned mother.

  “Yes, but he has to wait until his leg heals enough to get fit. It’s still very tender.” She sucked her finger and cursed before she wrapped the yarn around her needle again.

  “That’s such a shame.” Robena shook her head and for a moment, I thought I saw her heart grow. Sort of like the Grinch.

  “Have you found a place to move, Sarah?” Gennifer asked me, trying to change the subject.

  “Nope.” I fumbled with my fingers, trying for the third time to purl. “I’ve looked at a few apartments, but one had no deadbolt, and the landlord never once raised his eyes from my blouse to answer my questions about safety. The other ones were rented by the time I made the appointment, and there was one cute house, but it’s not available for two months. I kind of need one right now.”

  The last group meeting, I fell onto the table, completely stressed out from my landlord sending me a letter stating that my lease would not be renewed for reason of him selling the house. Of course, he used a few choice words—like squatter and invalid lease—when he told me.

  After my ex-boyfriend, with whom I moved to Charleston from Virginia, stole all my belongings in the U-Haul trailer I pulled with my car, I met a very nice lady who said she had a furnished downstairs apartment for rent. Turns out it wasn’t actually hers. So when the owner came back, I was given notice to vacate. Seeing the confusion with everything, taking into account of my naiveté and the woman who illegally rented the place to me was now incarcerated, he’s given me two weeks to find a place. I was on the third week. Nothing was panning out.

  “I guess I can offer you a room in my place, but the hot water heater is original and you only get a few minutes of a warm shower. And then there’s my seven cats that take control of the entire house. Of course, your door can be shut, but make sure no kitty gets locked in there before you leave.”

  We all stopped knitting and looked at Robena. So it wasn’t a prescription of mean pills—it was cold showers and seven squirrely cats that made her angry at the world. Good to know.

  I must’ve had that look—you know, the one that signaled someone, anyone, to take pity and offer anything they could to get me out of whatever was taking me down to the pits of despair and a tiny room, next to the rusty water heater. That’s when Gennifer spoke up.

  “Sarah, I was actually going to tell you about a place I know.” She raised a cautious hand. The gloss from her French manicure caught my eye. “It’s only a room, but it’s right down from your college. And you can have it rent-free just for taking and picking up the owner of the house’s little girl from preschool.” She grabbed her needles and looked down, again. One of her sculpted brows arched. “Of course, it’s only for two months. He has a permanent nanny beginning the position in November.”

  “Free rent?”

  Not that it would take much more than three beatings a day not to have to live with sweet Robena and her small tribe of cats, but seriously—free rent? Who was this guy? Rockefeller? The only places down from my college looked as if they were a part of the college. Huge houses I walked by on my way to classes. Tall iron fences and intricate bricked private driveways separated them from the commoners.

  “I wouldn’t charge much, just three hundred a month. And I’ll let you eat with me on Sunday evenings.” Robena’s voice rose, almost as though she were at an auction, trying to rap out a better-sounding deal. Can I hear a three-hundred-dollar payment, catnip for dessert, and Robena for Sunday night dinner?

  “I really appreciate the offer, Robena, but one doesn’t get better than free rent.”

  “I don’t see why you don’t just live with what’s-his-name,” Carol piped in, her fingers quickly twisting the mocha-colored yarn.

  This must’ve been Carol’s chosen sentence for the night. Each meeting, she said only one. Nothing crucial, usually just an observation. Her thin, pale lips would break from the pinch they were normally wearing, and out would come something we all turned to hear.

  “Rob?” I continued to pluck away at the stretched yarn coming from my grocery bag. Every time I pulled, it crackled. “I just started dating him. And anyway, I hinted I was going to be homeless soon, and he stared off in the distance like he heard someone calling his name. Only we were at his place and the only thing that was on was the CD player. I took the not-so-subtle hint he was giving me about my delicate situation and dropped the subject. I figure if we’re still dating by Valentine’s, I’ll casually move in a few of my things.” Not many guys tend to look in the bottom drawer of their dresser, or the tall cabinet over the stove. Casey never did find out how I was wearing my own nightshirt and brushing with my own toothbrush when I stayed over at his house.

  “So then you’re serious about him? I mean, you want to be serious with him? You are definitely in a relationship?” Gennifer asked.

  “Let’s just put it like this: my cheeks ached from smiling at the phone, after talking two hours with him last night. I’m sitting in this apartment of mine, nothing on the walls because the real landlord has confiscated the pictures, probably thinking I’ll steal them because I love abstract paintings it looked like a fifth grader painted.” I sarcastically shook my head. “Anyway, I have only a couple suitcases and a box of journals staring at me, and suddenly being homeless is the last thing on my mind.” I palmed my chest. “I even giggle when I talk to the guy. And I’m thirty-one years old, for goodness’ sakes! I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it to tonight’s group. He sounded so yummy on the phone just now. Yummy—can you believe the adjectives I’m using? What am I, ten all of a sudden? Is he a pint of chocolate mint ice cream?” I licked my lips, knowing where I was going after class…the tiny mart on the corner of 5th and Fairfield to get some of that ice cream.

  Carol’s thin lips spread wide, and her pale-green eyes darted down when I caught her looking at me.

  “You couldn’t have kept me away with straps and an electric chair.” Gennifer said it underneath her br
eath, but everyone’s eyes looked up from their project and stared at her.

  “I’m really interested in the free room, if the guy isn’t a crazy. I mean, I don’t want to go there and find bunches of whips and horse harnesses stored in the back room. I’m not down with that sort of ‘free.’” I enunciated heavy on the word free, and looked up from my project, giving my “you-know-what-I mean” look. “And exactly how do you know about him?” I asked. “Please tell me he’s your brother or distant cousin, and you’d be aware if there were a criminal record.”

  She chuckled. “He’s actually the guy I’ve been doing a little volunteer work for. Remember, he brought in his little niece last month to the shop during one of our sessions? She wanted to bring me something she made and couldn’t wait until I saw her the next day.”

  Josselyn smiled, pushing up her cat-eye glasses, and noticeably licked her lips. “I remember. Is he still single? And that little girl was about the most precious thing you could get from procreation. What a package. I can’t imagine why he’d need help in getting someone to live with him. It’s a shame I’m not getting evicted.”

  “I know, right?” agreed Marta. “Talk about cheeks hurting from smiling. I had to massage mine after he left that one time. Now that was a gentleman. He even helped Mrs. Shible to the car with her bag. I’m sure she didn’t forget her visit here that evening, going home to that old stinker, Mr. Shible. I swear, the man paces the front sidewalk every time she comes to shop.” Marta pulled on her ball of yarn and studied her stitches at an arm’s length. “His daughter is quite adorable, too. What did you say happened to her mom?”

  “Sophie is actually his great-niece. Her mom was killed in a car accident. Brittany wasn’t married; in fact, I don’t think she knew who the dad was. And Sam’s sister passed on to cancer. Sam is the only family the little girl has. Other than his parents, and they are not exactly in the position to care for her. They’re older and live far away.”