Forever Home, page 1
Praise for the novels of Elysia Whisler
“Smart, sexy, and full of heart, Rescue You is one of those warm and fuzzy books you want to stay up reading all night. Elysia Whisler has crafted an unforgettable story of loss and love and the power of finding your own strength. If you love dogs and a great slow-burn romance, this one is for you!”
—USA TODAY bestselling author Sara Ackerman
“Sweet and raw, beautiful and gritty. A heartwarming romance about the power of healing, Rescue You was everything I wanted in a story. Elysia Whisler’s remarkable debut is sure to earn her many fans.”
—Sarah Morgenthaler, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Tourist Attraction
“Heartfelt... The beauty of this book is in the down-to-earth characters. Whisler’s intimate look at the bighearted women’s lives makes for a worthy, stirring tale.”
—Publishers Weekly on Rescue You
“A complicated story about tormented people finding and healing each other. The rescued dogs are almost an excuse for the human stories, except for Humphrey, the poor, abused beagle Rhett saves. Whisler is a licensed massage therapist, and her description of Constance’s massage practice is fascinating, almost spiritual. An unusual and wonderful story.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Rescue You
Also by Elysia Whisler
Rescue You
Look for Elysia Whisler’s next novel
available soon from MIRA.
ELYSIA WHISLER
forever home
Elysia Whisler was raised in Texas, Italy, Alaska, Mississippi, Nebraska, Hawaii and Virginia, in true military fashion. A mother, massage therapist and CrossFit trainer, Elysia is dedicated to portraying strong women, both in life and in her works. She lives in Virginia with her family, including her large brood of cat and dog rescues, who vastly outnumber the humans.
For Mike
Because every girl deserves a dad who shows her how to fly
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
one
Three Rebels Street.
Delaney should’ve known that this was where she’d end up. This was the kind of street a woman went down when all the big changes in her life were happening at once. You simply couldn’t hit a retirement ceremony, the road and a funeral all in one week and not end up on Three Rebels Street.
“Small is not the right word. I prefer quaint.” The real estate agent, Ronnie, gazed around the studio apartment situated on Three Rebels Street, and nodded her head in approval. “You said it was just for you, right? Which means it’s the perfect size.”
Stop trying to sell me on the apartment. Ronnie had described it as an “alcove studio”—not just a studio—because even though the living room and kitchen were all in one large space, the bedroom was situated in a little nook, with its own door. Delaney didn’t care. The living quarters didn’t really matter. Right now the place was dumpy. Dust everywhere, the ceiling fan hanging crooked with exposed wires, and debris in the corners, like the previous tenants hadn’t taken care of the place and then left in a hurry.
“We didn’t have a chance to get this cleaned before your showing,” Ronnie said, following Delaney’s gaze. “Remember, I suggested waiting until Friday.”
But Delaney hadn’t been able to wait.
Ronnie lowered her voice to a near whisper. “They were evicted. But this place cleans up nice, I promise.”
“Can we go back down to the shop?” Delaney ran her hands through her hair, rubbing the weariness from her scalp. Ronnie had whisked them through the front bay door and up the stairs, like the apartment was the prize inside the cereal box. And Delaney supposed it was—small, an add-on, not really the point. For Delaney, the shop downstairs was the entire point.
“Of course.” Ronnie’s voice was bright, forced, like she didn’t give two shits. This was probably her last showing of the day and she wanted to get home, into a hot bath with a glass of red as soon as possible. She clacked down the stairs in her high heels.
Delaney followed, the earthy clunk of her motorcycle boots the bass drum in the cacophony of their feet.
“The shop.” Ronnie swept out her arm. “Look how much space.” There was no enthusiasm in her voice. Ronnie, who probably did mostly living spaces, had no idea how to sell the garage.
Didn’t matter. Delaney sized up the shop herself: concrete floor, perfect for working on bikes. It was kind of dinged up, but that was okay, she was already envisioning painting it beige with nonslip floor paint. Modern fluorescent lighting. Large bay door, wide-open to the cool air, excellent for ventilation. A countertop with a register. Empty shelves on one side for parts and motor clothes. Showroom space for custom bikes, and enough room for at least two workspaces out front. The rest, Delaney would provide. Hydraulic lifts. Workbench. Parts tank. Tools. Parts. Bikes.
She wanted to pinch herself, but chose a poker face. Ronnie stood in the center of the floor, like she was trying to avoid touching anything, to avoid getting any grease or oil on her smart red suit. The shop was in better condition than the apartment, but it still looked like the last occupants had left quickly—or, if they’d truly been evicted, perhaps reluctantly was a better word. Nothing important remained, but the place hadn’t been swept or washed or readied for sale in any manner.
“I’ll consider this.” Delaney rubbed her chin as she strode through the shop. “It’s a little small.” It was actually larger than she’d expected. “Light’s good, but might get a little cold in the winter.” It was winter now, technically. Mid-March. Delaney loved this time of year, when winter and spring intersected, like lovers making up after a nasty fight, the weather edgy and unpredictable.
“There’s a lot of interest in this space.” Ronnie clutched her clipboard to her chest as she looked around. She could be looking at the inside of a spaceship and hold that same expression.
Motorcycle shops were going out of business, all over the place, including the one that had recently vacated. After suddenly finding herself on Three Rebels Street last week, in front of a shop-apartment combo for sale, Delaney had done her research. The previous tenants, who she now knew had been evicted, were brothers who ran a shop by day and lived upstairs by night. They sold mostly new bikes and motorcycle gear. Repairs and maintenance were basic. Their website was still up, despite the fact that Dude’s Bikes had closed. Dude’s appeared to focus mostly on male riders, leaving Delaney to wonder if Dude’s was just about dudes or if one of the owners was, indeed, named Dude.
“What’s the story on this place?”
Ronnie glanced at her clipboard. “The owner wants to sell. After the last renters’ lease ran out, they were given the option of buying or moving. I don’t think their shop was doing well, because they couldn’t afford to buy. They weren’t even paying their rent. And they weren’t quick about moving. The rest, as they say, is history.”
If the last motorcycle shop had failed, buying would be a gamble. But any business venture was a gamble.
Life was a gamble.
“There are a couple of people looking, after you.” Ronnie continued, “About five.”
Delaney could respect white lies in the sales biz but seriously? Five? Five or so people were waiting to check out the bike shop with an overhead apartment suitable for one small, low-maintenance tenant? She had no idea how two brothers had managed up there.
She strolled through the space, wanting a good feel. She needed to touch things, inhale the shop, draw its molecules into her lungs and taste its history before she could decide on the symbiosis of her dream space. Triple M Classics—short for Martin Monroe’s Motorcycles, named after her father—would own her as much as she would it, so this relationship was going to be deep and mutual. Through the front window, she could see the parkway that ran the length of the county. At just past eighteen-hundred hours, rush hour was a jam of red taillights in the waning daylight. No amount of time would erase Delaney’s memory of her last tour here, when she had to commute to work every day. Pure hell. It would be nice to go right upstairs to her cozy little apartment after closing, rather than having to sit in that mess.
Across the street was a row of shops, including a grocery story and an Italian restaurant. Food. Check.
On the south side, the shop butted up to the woods, which had a downward slope of grass and weeds that led to the trees. Privacy. Double check. Plus, Delaney figured if there was a tornado, that slope could
Delaney withdrew the listing, printed from the internet, from her back pocket, crammed together with a grocery receipt for extra firm tofu, Tater Tots and Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. “This is the price, right?” She handed over the paper. Money would be tight, but Delaney should be able to manage for a little while until things got going.
That is, if she was going to do this.
Was she really going to do this?
All her adult life Delaney had moved around, from station to station. Forts, camps, bases. Not shops. Not homes. She’d never put down roots. Never had anything permanent other than her childhood home with Dad. Never owned a thing she couldn’t cram into a duffel bag.
Ronnie looked at the paper. “No.” She sniffed. “There’s a newer listing.” She flipped through her clipboard, laid it on the counter and pointed. “Here we go.”
Delaney looked at the asking price, choked a little bit, almost thanked Ronnie for her time and left. That would be the smart thing to do. Sometimes childhood dreams just needed to stay dreams.
She strode around once more, mentally saying goodbye to everything that she’d never even made hers. Even though all of this had been a panster move, it felt like all the blood in her veins had been replaced with disappointment. She stopped by the far wall, where a ratty piece of paper hung by a sliver of tape. Delaney smoothed out the curled edges and read the flyer.
Fiftieth Annual Classic Motorcycle Show.
Dogwood County Fairgrounds.
The event was in July. There was a contest, including prizes. The grand prize for the winning classic cycle was five grand plus a feature article in Ride magazine.
The disappointment started to drain away. Five grand wouldn’t pay all the bills, but exposure in a major motorcycle magazine would be a boon for business. Plus, there was something about that poster, just hanging there like that.
It seemed like a sign.
“Oh!” Ronnie’s sharp exclamation came from behind. “Oh, what is that?”
Delaney turned just in time to see a large dog waltz through the open bay door. He halted at the sound of Ronnie’s voice, one paw raised, ears pinned. He looked like a pit bull, his colors white and chocolate brown. The chocolate dominated his right side and ran up around his right eye. The other side of his face, including his muzzle, was white, as well as his chest and most of his left flank, though he had chocolate splotches there, too. He reminded Delaney of Chunk, the pit bull Dad had found in the neighbor’s cornfield back when Delaney was about eight years old.
It had been one of those thick, windy Omaha summer nights, and Dad was sweaty, shirt stripped and stuffed in the back of his jeans, when Chunk had followed him home through the corn maze to the front porch, where he’d plopped down and refused to budge. Delaney had been watching Goonies on cable, and right when she saw Dad hit the porch she’d called out, “Sloth love Chunk!”—their favorite line. The dog had peeked inside, startled, and everyone had laughed. Chunk, even though he wasn’t Chunk yet, had been covered in blood-gorged ticks and Dad had spent the evening showing Delaney how to squeeze them in just the right place to snap them out of the dog’s skin. Gotta make sure you don’t leave the heads buried, Dad had said. Chunk had been their dog after that, fiercely loyal and a permanent fixture at the foot of Delaney’s bed at night up until the day he died in his sleep at an indeterminate ripe old age.
Only now did it occur to Delaney that she had no idea whatsoever what Dad had been doing in the neighbor’s cornfield. Though it would explain the abundance of fresh corn chowder all summer long.
Ronnie took a couple of steps backward, wobbly in her heels. “Stay very still,” she hissed. “This looks like a dangerous breed.”
The pittie sniffed the air. His eyes were wide. “Nah.” Delaney tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and waited to see what the dog would do. He’d come in here with such purpose. “He looks confused. Not dangerous.”
After a moment of stillness, the dog trotted over to the door behind the register. He sat down, his ears perked expectantly. He waited, but when nothing happened, he reached out with his paw and scratched the door.
“What is happening?” Ronnie whispered, hand on her chest. Nails and lips were a perfectly matched red. Rather than being pleasing, Delaney found the combo contrived. Ronnie screamed stop sign rather than alluring siren.
“Let’s find out.” Delaney went behind the counter, toward the door where the dog sat. She put her hand on the knob and the pittie rose, shaking out his legs, like he was readying to go inside. She turned the knob, but it was locked. “Do you have the key?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Ronnie’s gaze was on the dog.
“I need to see the room anyway.” Delaney offered her knuckles to the pit bull. He gave her a tiny bump with a cold, wet nose, and refocused on the door.
Ronnie dug through her pockets, then winged a key at Delaney from across the room. The key flew way to Delaney’s right.
She lunged and made a grab.
“Wow.” Ronnie forgot herself. “Good arm.”
The key slid easily into the knob and the door opened.
The dog rushed inside, a little whine escaping his throat as he pushed into the darkness. Delaney followed, fumbling against the wall. Just inside on the left, she flicked the switch and dim light flooded a large work space/storeroom. There were rows of metal shelves, empty, along with a larger open space that could be used to work on more bikes once Delaney had a staff of mechanics, or to store bikes and merchandise for sale. A second bay door—the back bay—covered half the rear wall. Off in the far corner of the concrete floor was a shaggy, worn dog bed, where the pit bull settled into a ball. His head rested between his paws, but his eyes were open. He huffed, not completely satisfied with what he’d found, even though the bed had been his destination.
Delaney’s heart suddenly felt too big for her chest. They’d cleaned out everything but the dog bed—and, apparently, the dog.
“I’ll call animal control.” Ronnie’s voice came from behind her shoulder. She was no longer whispering or on edge. Now that the dog was safely balled in the corner, Ronnie considered him with cold eyes.
He lifted his head and looked around, expectant.
Scared.
Lost.
His tail thumped against the bed, just as a child might wring his hands or fidget.
“Animal control?” Delaney wrinkled her nose. “As in, the pound? You want to send him to the pound?”
Ronnie shrugged. “Are you going to take him home?”
“I don’t have a home.” Delaney was staying at a hotel, ten minutes away. Now that she’d officially retired from the Marine Corps she’d jumped head first into civilian life. Up first was getting off Quantico Marine Base and into normal quarters. If you could call an apartment over a bike shop normal. “Besides.” Delaney gestured to the black Honda Rebel 500 parked out in front of the shop, just visible through the doorway that Ronnie had propped open. “Even if I had a home, I couldn’t put the dog on my bike.”
“Well, there you go.” Ronnie shrugged. She slipped her cell phone from the front pocket of her suit.
“Wait.” Delaney held up a hand. She crouched down and walked toward the bed. “He’s wearing a collar.” Delaney extended the same hand the pit bull had bumped with his nose earlier. He crawled forward, using his paws to inch closer, like he was stretching, and sniffed around Delaney’s knuckles. She brushed them back, against his muzzle and then down to his neck, where she felt around for an ID tag. Her fingers closed over smooth, flat metal. Delaney peered at the tag. “Sinbad,” she read. Meh. Maybe. He did have an eye patch. “There’s a phone number.”
Ronnie sighed.
“I’ll call.” Delaney slipped her phone from the back of her jeans and tapped in the number. “Do you think I’m just going to reach the guys who rented this shop?” She mused aloud. “Do you think they really meant to leave him here?” She suddenly remembered seeing a dog that looked like this one in a picture on the Dude’s Bikes website.
