Weathering the Storm

Book 3: Open Window

by Morgan Q O'Reilly

Genres: Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

On the road to recovery, sometimes it helps to circle back to where it all began. Azzette Bettencourt spilled brain cells and broke bones, but three years later she's confident she'll return to her life in the lab to create space-age laser gadgets. Unfortunately, her parents don't agree. They compromise and she returns to her roots in Alaska to spend the summer at her cousin's bed and breakfast. They're expecting her to relax, live an organic lifestyle and discover her boundaries. She's expecting to build a revolutionary weather sensor, her ticket back to an independent life. Builder Aiden Shaughnessy's looking for time away from raising the last of his six siblings. Bonus? Some good old Alaskan adventure. If a fifties kind of woman wants to take care of him, life will be damn near perfect. The one he finds can cook, but she's trickier than a double-blind dovetail joint. Other than the fact she likes her diamonds inside a laser, she's as much a handful as the siblings when they were younger. Except she's made a gizmo that contributes to his brother's successful ascent of Mt. McKinley after the year's biggest storm. Is he ready for a life with a woman as brilliant as Einstein, but with the curiosity and attention span of a toddler? Warning: Carpenters, climbers, chickens and bears. . . Oh my! 65,000 Words

Release date: September 1, 2012

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 170

Sample

 

Prologue

 

“I have to go.” Trying to explain my need to escape to the two people who loved me more than anyone else in the universe was as difficult as re-learning how to walk and do basic things people took for granted every day. Things like pulling on socks or cutting a steak. “I have to do something with my life.”

“Azzette Chantel Bettencourt,” my mother said, then stopped and sighed. “You think you’re ready? Is this really because I turned off your doohickey yesterday?”

“No. Yes. Sort of.” I huffed in frustration So what if five hours of work had been flushed when she’d peeked into my home workshop and flipped the switch on the diagnostics I had been running?

“I’m sorry, honey, but you know…” She shrugged and lifted her coffee mug.

I understood her hesitancy and her reservations. I felt all that myself. But it had been three years. I was twenty eight, and in three years I’d gone from a broken body lying at the base of a rock wall, with less than an infant’s ability to care for myself, to the best physical condition of my entire life. However, it wasn’t my body everyone worried about.

It was my brain.

I had flown through school, entered CU Boulder a year ahead of my peers, earned a double BS and an MS degree in five years, all on full ride scholarships and generous grants. Inside my skull my gray matter retained many past memories, but somehow couldn’t remember what I’d watched on TV ten minutes ago, or whether I’d turned off the shower just hours before. Had I lived alone, my brain would maybe remember a load of laundry three days later after I’d started it. Not a horrible situation when the washer or dryer were the appliances in consideration, but things got dicey when the stove or faucets were involved. Hence, the reason Mom and Dad were reluctant to let me walk to the store two blocks away. Forget about driving–I wasn’t cleared to drive again–much less climb on a plane and fly to Alaska for the summer. It was also the reason my work kept getting interrupted, because they saw an electric switch on and thought I’d forgotten to turn it off. Probably because they were afraid something would overheat and burn down the house.

“Mom, Dad, I have to move forward. Step out on my own sometime. I can’t ever thank you enough–” At this they both snorted. “Or pay you back–” They gasped in horror that I’d ever feel indebted. “But, theoretically, I’m a grown woman now.”

Leaning on my arms folded on the table in front of me, I pushed on, overriding their attempts to speak. “You’ve done more than your parental contracts ever called for. Twice now, you’ve spent years changing my diapers and teaching me how to function as a normal, physically able, human being. Twice you’ve taught me to walk, eat, bathe and do the chores required to take care of myself. You’ve been with me step by step through rehab. I say you’ve earned your retirement. Someday I even hope to give you grandchildren.”

They smiled, genuine delight on their faces. Faces that had grown lined as the gray gathered in their hair these past few years. Signs of stress I’d unintentionally caused.

“So that’s why I want to spend the summer in Alaska. I can get a direct flight, no need to worry about me changing planes. Karl will meet me in Anchorage, and I can stay at the B and B with him. Even help out.”

“You’ve talked to Karl?” Dad asked.

“We’ve been emailing and texting.” I could handle those tasks at least.

The typing skills had come back fast once my arms were out of the casts. I’d broken both of them, among other body parts, when I’d fallen thirty feet. I had reason to be grateful to the surgeons who’d put all my broken pieces back together, from ankles to cranium. I especially adored my neurosurgeon, who’d stuffed my brains back into place and left me with very little scarring to show for it. It wasn’t his fault I now had a streak of white growing over the site of the injury near my left ear. Had I been blonde, it wouldn’t have been much of an issue, but since my hair was dark brown, well, it tended to stand out when I left my hair unbound. I adjusted the loose woven scarf I used as a turban to hide the streak. It sure beat the helmet my parents had made me wear when learning to mobilize again.

“I can show you the emails,” I said because they were both frowning thoughtfully.

“No, no, we trust you,” Dad said. “It’s just…” He held up both hands in a gesture of helplessness.

Mom patted his shoulder, while sharing a wry smile with him. “It’s sort of like watching you climb on the bus for your first day of kindergarten all over again. We can’t help it. Yes, we know it has to happen sometime. Doesn’t mean we have to like it.”

Dad started to protest only to stop, mouth open, when Mom overrode him. “Marc, she’s right. And she’ll be with Karl. Not like she’s heading off to a college dorm full of partying kids.”

Blowing out a gust of air, Dad relented and took Mom’s hand in his. “You’re right, Deni.”

Well. That had gone easier than I’d expected. Strange that it had been me to force the weaning this time. At the beginning of this ordeal they’d had to poke and prod me to move on to each next step in my recovery. Back then I hadn’t really cared. But things had changed in the past six months. They said I was coming back to being myself. According to stories I’d heard over and over again these past three years, I’d always strained against the boundaries, pushing and stretching them while my parents fought back just enough to make me stronger in my convictions. Okay. So once more I was pushing against the restraints.

Just shy of three years since I’d been on my own, I kept my worries to myself. The proposition was as scary as it was exciting. Visiting my cousin for the summer was only a step away from the protective arms of my parents. Sort of like moving from crutches to a cane. He was still a support system, but more like support-lite. And he’d be busy enough running the B and B he’d inherited from his parents three months before my disastrous fall that he wouldn’t be dogging my every step, yet would be close enough to make sure the stove and faucets were turned off. If he didn’t see me for a day, he’d look in to see if I was still breathing, but he wouldn’t demand I file a daily “flight” plan as my dad–almost-teasingly–called it.

Old pilots never give up their habits. Dad’s was to make me email him and Mom a plan of where I expected to go and what I planned to do each day. It was the only way I could get out of the house for a few hours, whether to go swim laps or visit the library. I also had to carry my new smart phone everywhere I went, as well as ID, house keys, and enough money should I find myself confused and in need of a cab to find my way back. I even had the number of a specific cab company programmed into my phone. They knew that if I called, their job was to get me home. To this end, I wore a belt with a small pouch attached. I called it my tool belt. It was better than the GPS tracking unit Dad had wanted to strap to my ankle like a felon, but not by much. As it was, he had access to the one in my phone.

Besides, my going away for the summer would allow them time to get on with their lives. Dad worked with volunteer Search and Rescue teams, and taught survival safety for outdoor recreationalists. Mom volunteered at the hospital helping other families deal with the results of brain injuries. They’d put their plans for early retirement on hold and had spent a good portion of their savings to bring me back from a damn near vegetative state. I needed to break away and let them refocus on themselves. I’d more than used up my credits in that account.

Of course they’d never voiced, or even hinted at, thoughts along those lines. But I’d seen the investment statements. What they’d worked so hard, scrimped, sacrificed, and saved for had been greatly diminished over the last three years, and not entirely due to poor market conditions. According to my calculations based on modest investment gains, they’d have to both work another fifteen years to recoup what my accident had eaten up in three.

I could change all that. All I needed was a chance to get out on my own, stretch my boundaries, and teach my brain new ways to build short-term memory. I also needed to reconnect with work and prove I could build the instrument I’d been working on at the time I’d fallen. Sure, the company would own the patent and the intellectual property if it worked, but I’d be back at work, earning the ridiculous salary that I’d been getting for playing in the lab. In a few years I could replace most of Mom and Dad’s lost investments and put them back on track. It was a good plan, but I needed to stretch my wings and prove I could do it.

Spending the summer with a relative was the only way they’d let me go, so Alaska it was. My first step to real independence.

“Besides,” Dad added with a grin, “it’s not like we don’t know half the town. She’ll have plenty of guardians. All I have to do is tell Bill.”

Oh yeah. Just what I needed. A whole village to watch over me instead of two protective parents. Great. Was there any place in this world I could get some work done in peace? Yeah, my lab. But I had a long road to go to get there again.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

As promised, Karl met me at the airport. Walking through the security partition, I spotted him immediately. He stood half a head over most of the people milling about checking the directions to baggage claim or hooking up with tour company representatives.

The logoed chamois shirt he wore over a t-shirt and ball cap with the logo of The Smashed Boulder Inn from Talkeetna, Alaska sitting on top of his black curls helped me locate him.

The drive from the Anchorage airport north to Talkeetna took two hours, and I spent the time deflecting his questions while I noted the changes that had taken place since I’d last been back. Anchorage was growing up, polishing the old image, expanding as best it could in the limited space between mountains to the east and water on the two remaining sides. The trees were just beginning to bud out with brand new, bright green leaves, and grass poked up through the matted remains of winter’s ravages. I felt a sense of rebirth.

“Yeah, so, Zettie,” Karl said, using the nickname he’d given me so long ago. “We need to talk about this organic stuff.”

“Dad mentioned that, did he?”

“Yeah. Now, I’m as health conscious as the next guy, but really, is it necessary to go all organic? Has it made a difference? Other than costing more?”

I shrugged. “I know I’m in the best physical shape I’ve ever been in. Probably because I spend at least half my time working out or working in the garden. We grow most of our own vegetables or trade with other gardeners who also shy away from chemical pesticides. The doctors are concerned about what effect those pesticides will have on my brain while it’s still healing.” By the time we reached the B and B, I had him agreeing to start out with a few more organic items, such as flour and condiments. He’d consider more based on feedback of the customers. If the cost didn’t get out of control.

“You can have your own stash if you like,” Karl said. “I can’t go all organic, but you can do what you want for yourself.”

Not a bad compromise. “All we can do is try,” I said. “Besides, I’ve learned a thing or two about cooking the past couple years. The food will be so good, people will gladly pay extra.”

Karl snorted. “I thought you were here to rest and recuperate?”

“I have plenty I want to do. Is my room big enough to set up a worktable? My boss is sending me a couple boxes of parts so I can try and get back up to speed on the project I was working on.”

“You’re not going to burn down my house, are you? Aunt Deni warned me about your experiments.” He shot me a glare from across the truck.

“No, I won’t burn down the house. I promise. I’m here to get back on track with my life. I’ll earn my keep by helping in the kitchen.”

“When did you learn to cook? Seriously, last time I saw you in the kitchen you burned water.”

I ignored that. “Cooking is no more than chemistry. Only edible. Simple enough. And to defray the cost of organic food, I’ll even put in a vegetable garden and take care of it for you.”

Karl groaned. “I know what that means. Who’s paying for the plants and all the equipment?”

“You are,” I told him cheerfully. “But I’ll make it work. You’ll love it.” And the chickens I planned on setting up, too.

The tour of the inn was quick, and we tossed my bags into my room for the summer.

“Rest, change, cleanup, unpack–whatever,” Karl said. “One hour and we’re heading over to the season kick-off street party. It’s BYOM, but Bill’s promised to save us some moose burgers. Can’t get more organic than that.”

Because I hate the smell of commercial airplane antiseptic, I quickly unpacked and found the shower. I was ready, and comfortable, by the time an hour was up.

Karl took in my casual look and shook his head. “What’s with the hippie look?”

“It’s comfortable.”

A long, loose cotton skirt in a swirl of colors over yoga pants covered my lower half for warmth. I wore warm socks and my favorite Birks. On top I wore a tank top covered by a zippered hoodie that partially hid my ever-present belt. A fresh gauzy scarf was wrapped around my head. I hoped I’d be warm enough, and had considered a sweater between the tank top and the hoodie.

“You look like something the sixties spit out and regurgitated in the present.”

Maddie, Karl’s girlfriend I’d heard about but had only just met, was dressed in jeans and a logoed polo shirt that matched Karl’s. She handed him a casserole dish, took my arm and led me out the door. “Ignore him. You look great. Did you get these clothes in Boulder?”

The conversation lasted us the entire stroll across town. All four blocks. I’d never, ever in my life, discussed clothing of any kind with anyone other than my mother. It was odd, but fun too.

Since my accident, whatever was comfortable worked. Yoga pants and tees for working out. India silk or cotton skirts worked best during hot weather, but could be layered for cooler temps. Slip-on shoes, or barefoot whenever possible. Buttons and zippers hadn’t worked well during rehab, and so far I’d accepted the pull-on style for as much of my wardrobe as possible. Why mess with easy?

The sounds of music and laughter grew louder the closer we walked. Talkeetna remained fairly untouched since I’d last been there, but Karl pointed out the changes. A few of the businesses had spiffed up their exteriors, but the Fairview and the Roadhouse remained frozen in time. Living history.

The street party wasn’t far from Bill’s B and B. Since Bill was a long-time family friend, I always made it a point to spend time with him when I was back in town. I looked for him, but the one block section of street was filled with locals, summer temp hires and a . . .