she went to high school. Not her group of girlfriends, not her favorite teachers, not even...
“Jasper Dumont,” she said aloud, and then sighed.
Her fingers itched to open the yearbook and search for his picture. She knew what she would see. His blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. That handsome face and devastating grin. They’d known each other most of their lives but for one spectacular year, they’d dated. Their relationship had been amazing and fun and passionate and...she’d gone and ruined it.
Carissa put the yearbook down. “That was a long time ago,” she whispered. Ten years. A whole decade. She hadn’t communicated with him since, but she did hope his life was going better than hers. She’d broken up with him and headed straight for college. Then she’d married Preston right after graduation and they’d made their life in Chicago.
We made his life, she thought with another glance around the room.
Even so, she did need to move somewhere. Chicago was far too expensive. As she’d quickly learned after they announced their separation, most of “their” friends turned out to really be “his” friends.
Carissa wasn’t much of a crier, nor was she someone who gave in to sulking or whining. But after everything that had happened over the last year, she needed a moment. Just one moment to grieve the loss of her marriage and her life.
Maybe the problem had been marrying so young. She’d only been twenty-two when they got engaged and twenty-three when she walked down the aisle. But in her defense, she’d dated Preston all through college at Northwestern. His family had been nice and welcoming to her, and Preston graduated with an offer to work at his father’s media company. That made him steady, reliable and stable.
Three traits missing from her own father, who’d barely worked a day in his life, choosing to live off her mother’s inheritance instead. Well, trust funds dry up, and so did all of the promises people make to each other when they stand at the altar.
She’d worked in the beginning. Nothing fancy and not directly tied to her business degree. But she’d put in a couple years at an event-planning firm. While Carissa thought she’d done a pretty good job, her heart hadn’t been in it completely. When Preston suggested she quit so she could help him entertain colleagues and clients, she’d jumped at his suggestion. She’d wanted to make him happy, and besides, she’d always loved planning meals, searching different grocery and specialty stores, puttering away in the kitchen. Watching a handful of ingredients turn into scrumptious meals with amazing aromas made her happy.
In fact, she’d enjoyed planning and hosting dinner parties so much that she’d taken countless cooking classes. Moroccan dinners, making pies from scratch, holiday baking, Italian basics...any time she got wind of any type of lesson involving food, she made sure to be the first one in line.
From Preston to his parents to all of the clients and friends they entertained, everyone raved about her cooking. Soon, she found herself enjoying the kitchen of their luxury condo much more than any other room. Including the bedroom.
Especially the bedroom.
Of course, Preston continued to adore that room. Why wouldn’t he, when he was bringing so many different women there to receive a very personal tour?
Carissa sighed and kicked one of the boxes, cringing when she heard the indelible sound of breaking glass. She checked the label and winced. Figures she’d picked one of the few boxes that held her stuff instead of the mountains of Preston’s belongings.
She’d signed a prenup, which entitled her to a tiny bit of money. Apparently, the fact that Preston broke their marriage vows did nothing in the way of changing the terms. Oh well. She wouldn’t want someone else’s money anyway. Carissa knew she needed to move on. Now she had to figure out how, why and where.
She’d already decided that there was only one job she was qualified for. Caterer. Only, that seemed crazy. Who was she to start her own business? Sure, she’d cooked for two to fifty people multiple times a week over the last couple of years. And she did have her business degree. But she didn’t have any practical experience. Not to mention references. It wasn’t like she could go to Preston’s clients or family and ask for their testimonials.
She also didn’t have a home. She had to be out of the condo by the end of the week. It was going to be tough to cook for anyone when she didn’t even have a kitchen to use.
She took another glance around the beautiful space and let out another sigh. Preston had surprised her by buying this place. At the time, she’d thought it was romantic, that Preston was taking care of her. Now those idyllic shades from her early twenties had been lifted. Her husband’s buying a condo without so much as consulting with her on any aspect was controlling. Her opinion on the neighborhood had never been sought. Her name had never been added to the mortgage. The moment she’d taken the spare key from Preston’s hand had been the moment she’d lost the first part of her independence.
She heard a little chirp. Her cell phone. Someone must have left a message. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the phone ring.
Digging her phone out from under a mass of Bubble Wrap, packing tape and newspapers, she saw her aunt Val’s name and number on the display. Carissa quickly held the phone to her ear to listen to the familiar and comforting sound of her favorite aunt’s raspy voice.
Hey, gorgeous. You better not be moping in that monstrosity you call a condo. Never did like that place. Who puts marble in their bathrooms? And why do two people need four bathrooms? Anyhoo, I’m taking a little trip over the next couple of months. So if you need a place to stay, my cottage will be free.
Carissa always thought she got her strength and her levelheadedness from Aunt Val. She wasn’t one for mushy scenes or histrionics and neither was her aunt. So she was surprised to hear her aunt’s voice soften.
I know you have your reasons for staying away from Bayside all these years. Hell, I even understand some of them. But honey, sometimes when life kicks you in the hoo-ha, there’s no place to go but home.
Carissa didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Since she wasn’t a crier and she didn’t feel like laughing at the moment, she put on her thinking cap.
Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined herself returning to Bayside. Back in high school, she’d told everyone who could listen that she was meant for bigger and better things. And those things did not include the tiny Mayberry-esque town situated on the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia. To return now, divorced, humiliated, broke, lost...well, that wasn’t exactly appealing.
She crossed the room and entered the kitchen. After pouring a rather large glass of wine, she leaned back against the quartz counter she’d always loved and considered the kitchen tools she still needed to pack.
At almost twenty-nine years old, she’d been both married and divorced. She’d heeded her husband’s bad advice and stopped working. She may have a college diploma, but she had no professional experience or useful contacts.
She eyed her beloved KitchenAid mixer. Cooking was the one thing she was good at. But starting a catering company in Chicago was damn near impossible on a financial level.
Bayside, on the other hand, could be doable. Many people considered Bayside to be the Hamptons of the South. The town boasted both a healthy working class and an old-school elite who lived in sprawling mansions with immaculate lawns. And the latter group loved throwing parties.
And people at those parties liked to eat.
She’d grown up as part of that upper class. The money ran out just as she reached the end of high school thanks to her deadbeat and financially challenged dad. Thank God she’d been able to keep that little secret. Small towns always seemed to have the longest memories when it came to scandals. And Bayside was a town that loved its gossip.
Carissa’s heart began beating faster. She had a free place to stay, which meant she could put what little money she had into her business. If she did well, she could acquire some much-needed references. Then,