The Bottom Line

Book 1: The Ladies Who Lunch

by Sandy James

Genres: Humor & Satire; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When life gets tough and love is hard to find, four friends take their troubles to lunch. Surviving a failed marriage and an illness that almost takes her life, high school teacher Mallory Hamilton needs the Ladies Who Lunch more than ever . . . After a year of upheaval, Mallory has had her fill of change-with one exception. Her house is a disaster, and she wants it fixed. Hiring a contractor to finish the projects her ex-husband started will help her banish the past so she can return to the life she had before everything went awry. But her contractor is sexy, sweet, and single, which threatens the peaceful, solitary life Mallory has planned for herself. Ben Carpenter has had a hard time raising his daughter without his ex-wife's help. His new client's projects will give him the extra income he needs, not to mention afternoons alone with a gorgeous woman. Though their attraction is undeniable, Ben sees the fear and pain hiding in Mallory's beautiful eyes. But how can he help her if she won't let him in? Ben can fix just about anything-but can he fix Mallory's broken heart? Word count: 75,000-85,000

Release date: May 6, 2014

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 338

Sample

One more change.

After a year of unrelenting upheaval, Mallory Hamilton was ready to get her life back. She only needed one more change.

Giving her short hair another quick tweak, she set the gel aside. Rascal, her tabby cat, jumped up on the vanity counter, where he knew he didn’t belong. But Mallory had learned from experience, some silly rules were made to be broken.

She ran her hand down his back as he arched up to get more of her touch. The cat’s fur was soft and warm, and she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and let Rascal snuggle against her side like a living heating pad.

“Did you finish your breakfast?” she asked her pet.

Rascal’s reply was more purring.

Mallory took one last look in the mirror, smiled, and walked out of the bathroom. Her cat padded beside her, twitching his tail in the air.

The summer had been hot and very dry, matching her mood quite well. Everyone patted her on the shoulder and told her they admired her strength. Truth was she wasn’t strong. She was numb. Her life had taken a one-eighty turn so fast, she hadn’t had the chance to catch her breath. There simply hadn’t been time to cry. Now that the ordeal had ended, she saw no reason to indulge herself in an emotional breakdown. Crying wouldn’t change a damned thing.

She’d lost things she couldn’t get back, and that was that.

The doorbell rang as she finished buttoning her shirt.

Rascal hopped on the bed, stretching out on the rumpled quilt and kneading his claws against the cloth. Before she headed downstairs, Mallory jerked the shade up so that the sunlight hit his striped brown fur.

“Have a nice nap. I need to talk to the contractor about fixing up this dump.”

And her home really was a dump.

The doorbell rang again.

“Coming!”

She had to push the front door with her hip to hold it tight while she flipped open the dead bolt. The squeak when she opened the door grated on her nerves. She promised herself she would go to the hardware store and get some oil after the contractor left.

Dressed in a sky-blue polo and jeans, a thirtysomething guy with short dark hair glanced up from the iPad he held in his hand. His sexy smile took her by surprise.

“Are you Mallory?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m Mallory Hamilton. You’re Ben? The contractor Robert Ashford sent?”

“Yes, ma’am. He said you wanted some work done on your place.” He fished in his shirt pocket and produced a white business card, which he handed to her. “If you show me which projects you’d like done, I can give you an estimate. Then we can talk about a timetable.”

She blinked twice when she read the name, but she didn’t laugh. She hadn’t truly felt like laughing in a very long time.

“Your last name’s Carpenter? Seriously? You’re a carpenter named Carpenter?”

“I’m a contractor named Carpenter.” His words were clipped.

She opened the door wider, sorry that she might have offended him. No doubt he’d grown tired of dealing with rude comments about his name. “Please come in. I’ll show you around.”

His brown eyes wandered the foyer. “DIY?”

“Pardon?”

Ben nodded at the coat closet with no door then at the floor. “Do-it-yourself. The laminate flooring isn’t tight enough. I assume the door’s in the garage because it was too long to close after you put the floor in.”

She nodded. “Along with the trim. The chair rail for the dining room. The sink for the half bath. And—”

He held up a hand. “How about you take me room to room and show me what you’d like done?”

“Gladly.”

The downstairs wasn’t too bad, except for the great room. The fireplace mantel was only partly stained, and the gas logs had never been installed. That’s what the contractor was for.

He followed her up the stairs into the master bedroom. “And in here?”

“Doesn’t it speak for itself?”

When he smiled, he had laugh lines that framed his eyes. “It does, but I want to know what you think needs to be done.”

She pointed at the exposed beam at the apex of the cathedral ceiling. “It’s fake, and the corners have split away from the drywall. I like the way it looks in general, so I’d like to see if you can save it.”

He nodded and entered more information on his tablet.

“The window needs… something. I can hear the wind whistle when storms blow through.”

“Any water when it rains?”

“No.”

Ben pulled the drape back. “They’re newer windows. When did you have them put in?”

“Not sure. Maybe three years ago?”

“They’re in good shape, but they weren’t caulked properly. Next?”

Mallory led him into the bathroom and froze, utterly mortified. So accustomed to being alone now, she never bothered hiding anything she used on a daily basis. She swept her arm across the counter, scooping up all her stuff and dropping it into the deep vanity drawer.

Without missing a beat, Ben flipped the switch to the exhaust fan, which did nothing in response. “You’ll need a new fan. Do you want to keep these light fixtures? They’re a bit… dated.”

His calm acceptance eased her embarrassment. “They suck.”

He chuckled. “Light fixtures are easy to switch out. I’ll bet you’re tired of six big, naked bulbs staring you in the eye first thing in the morning.”

Nothing else naked stared at her, but the lightbulbs still had to go. “Yeah… you’re right. I’ll need new ones for all three baths.”

More taps on his iPad that were probably adding up to a pretty penny.

Didn’t matter. She couldn’t take her house anymore. Not the way it was.

She needed it to be her home now.

The rest of the tour took a good hour. Every disaster she showed him raised her anxiety, especially when his response was to draw his lips into a grim line and nod curtly. Dollar signs flashed in her head. She didn’t even want to know what he found in the crawl space or the attic.

They ended up right where they began, and for some reason, the foyer looked worse this time than it had when she’d invited him inside. Her stomach was tied into nervous knots, and she was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. But she was going to do this.

She had to do this.

“So what do you think? Can all this be fixed?” Her voice quivered.

Ben kept working on his tablet.

“I know this house is… old and a big mess, but—”

He finally glanced up. “Relax. There’s nothing really wrong with the place.”

Mallory snorted. “Everything’s wrong with this place. But it’s all I’ve got and I sure can’t afford to move.”

In all honesty, she probably could afford to move—she simply didn’t want to. The commute was less than ten minutes, and she was close to everything she needed. The library. The pharmacy. Her friends. A SuperTarget.

His gaze wandered the foyer. “The way I see it, this place has a few scars. That’s all. Just scars.”

“Scars?” She hated that word more than anyone would ever know.

“Yeah. Cosmetic stuff mostly, but the bones are good. Just give it time—give me time.”

His words pounded through her brain, a steady rhythm that made her insides somersault and her head ache.

A few scars.

Cosmetic stuff mostly.

Give it time.

“What’s the bottom line?” she asked, holding a tight lid on her emotions.

“Bottom line is I’ll fix things for you, Mrs. Hamilton. I promise.”

Those few simple words worked magic by easing her anxiety. Perhaps it was his sincerity. Perhaps it was his smile. Perhaps it was the funny coincidence of his name. “I believe you.”

“I need to check some prices, see if I can call in some favors, and get you a price. You realize it’s an estimate, right? That when I get to work, I might find more problems hiding underneath the skin?”

She nodded. What was below the surface always caused her the most trouble. With her luck lately, Ben Carpenter would find everything from termite infestation to dry rot.

* * *

Ben Carpenter’s temper rose to a boil the moment he saw Amber sitting on the front porch of his rented town house. Since it was the last week before she started eighth grade, she was supposed to be spending time with her mother. Then she’d come back home Sunday before classes began.

Damn you, Theresa.

His daughter’s elbows were propped on her knees, and her chin rested on her hands. She’d gathered her long dark hair into a ponytail, and she wore her usual jeans and T-shirt. A pink backpack lay at her feet.

Throwing the truck into park, he sighed. Not at having his daughter home where she belonged, but because his bitch of an ex-wife had abandoned their kid. Again.

“Hey, ladybug,” he said, resisting the urge to gather her into his arms. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me you were coming back early?”

Ever since she’d become a teenager, Amber had started keeping her distance. He just hadn’t figured out whether it was a teenage thing or if she didn’t want to hug her father anymore. She never hugged Theresa, but then again if Theresa were his mother, he’d not only be reluctant to hug her, he’d run away to join the circus.

At least Amber always knew she was safe with her father. He tried to make a stable home, even if they could only afford a rental. She’d decorated her bedroom herself and made it reflect her eclectic personality. Posters of anything from androgynous singers to muscular athletes lined the walls. Since he remembered how important his own privacy had been at that age, he didn’t hover.

Amber looked up at him with brown eyes that held enough red to show she’d been crying. “Her phone got turned off ’cause she didn’t pay for it.” Each word dripped with disdain he was accustomed to hearing whenever Amber spoke of Theresa. “She took mine. Said I was too young to have my own phone.”

Of course she took Amber’s phone—he paid for it.

“What happened this time?” Ben asked.

“Some of her stupid friends were going to Vegas.” She stood and picked up her backpack, slinging the strap over her shoulder. “She didn’t say when she was coming back. Just dropped me off, telling me she didn’t want to see you. Do you know how many of my friends’ texts I’ve missed?”

He gave her ponytail a playful tug. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”

“I couldn’t remember the new code.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t had to change—”

“It’s not your fault, Dad. It’s hers. She was the one who let herself in and took your checkbook.”

Once she followed him into the house, Amber dropped her pack inside the door, flopped on the couch, and grabbed the remote. Then she flipped through channels.

“Well, at least you’re home now, ladybug.”

What kind of mother does something like this?

“Pizza or Chinese?” he asked, picking up the phone. “If I’d known you were coming back so soon, I could’ve shopped.”

“You never know when I’m coming home.”

“Touché.”

Amber’s gaze shifted from the flat-screen to him. “You know, I hear people say that all the time, but I don’t know what it means.”

He found a smile. His daughter was, above all other things, the most curious creature on the face of the planet. From the time she could speak, her favorite word was “why,” usually followed by a question that revealed an intelligence beyond her years. Most kids outgrew that curiosity. Not Amber. If anything, it grew exponentially with each passing year.

“I think it’s a fencing term or something. Flip open the laptop and Google it.”

She turned back to whatever show she’d been watching. “I don’t want to know that bad. And get Chinese. Sweet-and-sour pork. I had pizza delivered last night when Theresa didn’t come home ’til ten.”

“Theresa?”

“I stopped calling her Mom.”

“Why?”

“ ’Cause she doesn’t act like a mom.”

She had him there.

After calling for supper delivery, Ben sat down in his recliner with his iPad and scrolled through the list of things he’d need to do to make Mallory Hamilton’s house decent.

Her house reeked of “hubby just moved out.” Half the master closet was empty, and she’d barely begun to spread her things into the vacated space. Only one toothbrush in the holder, but there was toothpaste spatter on the backsplash over the second sink. She still had a light line on the third finger of her left hand where her ring had blocked the sun.

What kind of idiot would leave such a nice woman? Pretty, too, although she wore her light brown hair awfully short. At least it suited her round face and drew attention to her best feature—her big, brown doe eyes.

The least Ben could do was fix her home. Her husband—or was it ex-husband?—obviously had no idea how to finish any of the numerous projects he’d begun. Most of what he’d done would have to be started over, but Ben hadn’t lied to her when he’d said the house had good bones.

It was a sturdy, roomy home built in the days when houses were supposed to last. No cheap vinyl siding or slab foundation. The crawl space was dry, the floor joists sturdy and well put together. The attic needed more insulation, but it was also clean and dry and the roof had plenty of life left. Once he finished working on repairs, she could stay in that house and make new memories or sell the place for a nice profit. Either option would give her a fresh start, which she surely needed.

Back to that estimate…

After fiddling with the costs, he came to a final figure when the doorbell rang.

Amber popped up and came to stand at his side, holding out her hand and grinning. “Cough it up, Dad.”

He pulled out his wallet and handed her some cash. As she went to the door, he frowned at the nearly empty wallet, which matched his nearly empty bank account.

Ever since the economy turned sour, finding jobs hadn’t been easy. Ben was grateful to friends and customers who recommended him to potentials, but work was still sketchy at best.

He hadn’t told Mallory Hamilton how much he needed this job. If she knew how desperate he was getting she might not hire him.

While Amber took the food to the kitchen island and started setting out containers, he e-mailed his estimate to Mallory, sending it off with a wish and a prayer.

“The first day back is always the worst.” Mallory set down her lunch and then dropped into the chair. How in the hell was she going to make it through a full day let alone an entire school year?

After the bell rang, the bustling noise of Stephen Douglas High School’s passing period faded to the running steps of a few late students.

Her voice was already hoarse, and her neck and shoulders hurt. The left side of her chest ached, probably because she was using those muscles for the first time in a long time. Once she took her shoes off when she got home, her feet would swell. She needed to retrain her bladder to follow the bell schedule.

And she was almost too tired to move.

Danielle Bradshaw put her lunch bag next to Mallory’s then flipped her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were filled with anger. “I’d like to know who I pissed off in the guidance office to end up with nothing but freshmen. Seriously, isn’t there a law or something?”

“Doesn’t the eighth amendment prohibit cruel and unusual punishment?”

“That’s exactly what having six classes of freshmen is—cruel and unusual punishment.”

Juliana Kelley was the next to come into the small upstairs room where they’d gathered each weekday to eat lunch for the last five years. From the dark circles under her green eyes and the way she kept shaking her head, she was too shell-shocked to speak. But she would. Jules was too much of an extrovert not to.

As usual, Bethany Rogers came in last. She jerked her plastic supermarket bag out of the refrigerator and tossed it on the table before practically falling into her seat. “I made it through three whole periods before I had to send someone to the office.”

“A new record,” Danielle said, raising her Diet Coke in a mock toast. “What happened?”

“David Mason told me to go fuck myself when I told him to put his phone away and quit texting.”

Juliana breathed a disgusted huff and shook her head again.

“He’s a senior, right?” Danielle asked.

“Yep. Another overprivileged, the-world-belongs-to me senior,” Beth replied.

“Maybe I’m not so bad with freshmen after all.” Danielle sipped her drink.

Mallory let her gaze settle on her friends—the Ladies Who Lunch, as they’d dubbed themselves the first year they’d all been assigned the same lunch period. For five years, they’d made sure the principal always scheduled them together, calling in favors when they had to so they could have this time. They shared their meals while they shared their lives—both in and out of school. These women were her life support, especially Juliana.

Tears stung her eyes. “I never had the chance to thank all of you.” She hated to cry in front of anyone.

“No thanks necessary. You’d do the same for us.” Juliana patted Mallory’s hand. At least she wasn’t scowling now.

“You have done the same for us,” Danielle added. “When I had my appendix out, I didn’t have to cook for two weeks because of all of you.”

“ ‘That’s what friends are for,’ ” Bethany chimed in, her big, brown eyes sparkling as she sang the words from the old song. The woman could be cheerful in the face of a global apocalypse.

Giving help was easy. Accepting it was the real trick.

“I may not have to say it, but I want to say it.” Mallory sighed, sniffing hard to hold back the emotions she’d learned to keep tightly caged. “You got me through the worst. When Jay left—”

“We know.” Juliana gave her a lopsided smile, her green eyes full of empathy that said I know rather than We know.

She was the only other one in the group who was divorced. She’d married in college, realized after several discouraging years she’d made a huge mistake, and had been solo ever since. Jules loved dating and hated commitments.

When Jay left, she’d told Mallory she was happy that she was getting her life back. Since Mallory tended to agree with that sentiment, she’d understood. The only difference was that Juliana’s ex-husband was also a teacher at Douglas High, and she had to see him any time she went near the gymnasium, which she made sure wasn’t often. At least Mallory never had to see Jay Hamilton. And her life was better for that blessing.

Perhaps she and Jules saw eye to eye because they were close in age—Mallory was thirty-three to Juliana’s thirty-four. Danielle and Bethany were both twenty-nine and still single.

Mallory pulled out her yogurt, salad, and banana, then turned the bag upside down to let the plastic spoon and fork slide out. She’d started eating healthier, seizing control of the one thing in her life that truly needed repair. She’d gotten too thin—at least that was what most people said when they saw her after the months away for summer vacation.

Danielle drowned her salad in ranch dressing and stabbed a hunk of lettuce with her fork. Instead of eating it, she pointed the fork to emphasize her words, making drops of the dressing drip on her salad. “I have a minimum of thirty kids in every class. How is that fair to them or to me?”

“We all have thirty-plus kids per class,” Mallory replied. “Funding was cut. Again.”

“Screw the legislature.” Bethany scooped some hummus on a cracker and shoved it in her mouth. Her hair was short, although not as short as Mallory’s. It also was a mass of curls that most people envied but Beth hated.

“I refuse to spend this whole lunch hour bitching about the unfairness in education.” Juliana had evidently overcome her shell-shock. She leveled a smile at Mallory that screamed she was up to something. Again. “We’re still having a mixer at my church every Saturday and—”

Mallory waved her off. “No way, Jules. I’m not dating.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Are you serious?”

“Mal… it’s time to put all this behind you.”

“I have. I just don’t think a date is what I need right now. I’ve got a house to fix, students to teach, and peace and quiet to enjoy.”

“Look, it’s just a mixer,” Jules coaxed. “You haven’t been out in ages. Not since—”

“I had two dates this month. Remember?”

“You had two disasters. Just come with me. Please?”

While she’d rather have a root canal, Mallory finally gave her friend a curt nod. It was probably time to come out of her cave once and for all.

She needed to learn to live again.

“What about the house?” Danielle asked. “Did you talk to Robert?”

One of the industrial tech teachers, Robert Ashford, built custom homes as a second job. Whenever a teacher needed work done, anything from painting to adding a room, Robert would handle it or recommend good and trustworthy people to hire. Mallory had reached out to him, and he’d sent Ben Carpenter, the carpenter.

“Yeah. I had a contractor look at it yesterday. He e-mailed me an estimate last night, but I’m utterly terrified to look at it.”

“I’m sure Jay will pay for part of it,” Bethany said.

Sometimes her optimism bordered on naïveté. If Bethany actually believed Mallory’s ex would give her a single dollar, she’d crossed the border.

“Are you kidding?” Mallory screeched.

“No… I mean… don’t you get alimony or something?”

“There’s no alimony in Illinois,” Jules replied.

“He gave me the house—”

“And the mortgage,” Danielle chimed in.

Mallory had to smile at that. “The house was all I wanted, and it’s got tons of equity. I don’t want another penny from him anyway.” She’d promised herself not to dwell on her skunk of an ex, so she segued to a new topic. “I’ll work up some guts and check that estimate when I get home. Maybe I can find enough money to get my house finished.”

* * *

The estimate hadn’t caused a coronary. Yes, it was high, but it was also pleasantly lower than she’d anticipated. She stared at the business card, dredging up the courage to call the number and commit. With a sigh, she dialed.

“Ben Carpenter.”

“Mr. Carpenter? It’s Mallory Hamilton.”

“Hi, Mrs. Hamilton. Glad to hear from you. I assume you received the estimate.”

Although it was the second time he’d called her that, she didn’t correct him. After all, a simple name shouldn’t make her heart hurt. Even the kids at school still called her Mrs. Hamilton. Perhaps she would eventually go back to being Mallory Oldham… but not yet. “Call me Mallory. Please.”

“Fine. Mallory. So what do you think?”

“I think my house is a flippin’ mess.”

He chuckled. “A flippin’ mess, yes. But a fixable flippin’ mess.”

Just what she wanted to hear. “How soon can you start?”

“I’ve got a couple of other projects right now…”

Damn. “I was hoping you could get started right away. I’m sick of this place looking like… like… this.”

Silence reigned for a few long moments. “If you don’t mind me being there in the evenings for the first two weeks, I guess I could start work tomorrow. In a couple of weeks, I can give you more time during the day.”

She felt like an ogre. What she was asking was akin to someone wanting her to teach night school after teaching all day. The guy probably had a family he cared about. A wife. A kid or two.

She wouldn’t abuse what she’d judged as his good natur. . .