Waiting for the Storm

By Marie Landry

After the death of her mother, the last thing seventeen-year-old Charlotte O'Dell wants to do is spend the summer on Angel Island with her family. Her younger sister hates her, and her dad is lost in his own little world. It's a recipe for a disastrous summer on the island...until Ezra Rhodes walks into her life.

The boy next door helps Charlotte forget her almost paralyzing fear of really living her life. After taking care of her mother in her last months, Charlotte is drowning, numb to everything but her own grief and anger. With Ezra, she feels something again, and as he repairs her family's summer home, she dares to think he might actually be fixing her, too. Ezra challenges Charlotte to leave her comfort zone, and as their friendship slowly blossoms into more, Charlotte begins to come alive again.

But Ezra has secrets...secrets he isn't sharing with Charlotte. Between that and the growing tension with her family, Charlotte can't help but feel there's a storm on the horizon. And she isn't sure if they can weather it unscathed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marie Landry
• Release date: Apr 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9780987939531

Marie Landry

Marie Landry’s life revolves around books; when she’s not writing them, she’s reading them, taking pictures of them for bookstagram, or blogging about them. An avid reader from a young age, she loves getting lost in characters’ worlds, whether they’re of her own making or someone else’s. She particularly loves stories with as much of an emphasis on self-discovery and friendship as on romance...but don’t leave out the romance!She lives in a cozy apartment in Ontario, Canada with the best roommate ever, and can be found working in a room surrounded by Funko Pops and—you guessed it—books. When not doing bookish things, you can often find her cooking, exploring areas both familiar and new, watching TV, or taking photos. Her fangirl heart perks up at the mention of Star Wars, Sherlock, and Doctor Who, and you’ll often find nerdy references woven into her books.For more on Marie and her books please visit http://www.ramblingsofadaydreamer.com. You can also find her on Instagram at @sweetmarie_83 and Twitter at @sweetmarie83.

Book preview

WAITING FOR THE STORM

by Marie Landry

Copyright 2013 Marie Landry

All rights reserved

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an addition copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to the retailer of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Also by Marie Landry

Author’s Note on Canadian-isms

Dedication

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

A Note About Anxiety and Depression

Letter to Readers

Acknowledgments

About the Author

After the Storm Sneak Peek

ALSO BY MARIE LANDRY

Blue Sky Days

The Game Changer

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

After the Storm (Angel Island #2)

Take Them by Storm (Angel Island #3)

Something in the Air

Christmas in the Air

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON CANADIAN-ISMS

For those of you who know me or have read my previous books, you’ll likely know I’m Canadian, and I use Canadian spelling (colour, grey, travelling, neighbour, centre, etc.). I just wanted to throw that out there in case the spelling confuses anyone. ;-)

DEDICATION

To my mum, who taught me what it means to love and be loved. Thank you, Mum.

CHAPTER ONE

It doesn’t seem right for the sun to shine on a day like today. The sky should be black, full of angry clouds heavy with the threat of rain. Wind should whip and howl through the trees, accompanied by thunder so loud it could drown out my thoughts.

Instead, fluffy marshmallow clouds cling to a vivid, forget-me-not blue sky. Warmth from the brightly shining sun seeps into my shoulders. Birds chatter and sing carefree songs while a fat-cheeked chipmunk zig-zags up a nearby tree trunk. Everything and everyone carry on as if my whole world hasn’t just come to an abrupt halt.

I shield my eyes from the sun and take in the funeral home, a towering red brick Victorian mansion. My gaze shies away from the hearse sitting near the back door, focusing instead on the upper floors where the funeral director and his wife live. Maybe it’s fairly common for people to live in old, family-run funeral homes, but it gives me the heebies. I could barely stand to be inside the building for an hour.

An unbidden image of my mother in her silk-lined casket enters my mind. I’d begged Dad to have a closed casket, but he had refused, saying being able to see the body helped people gain closure. That might be true for some, but the sight of my once-beautiful mother, now ravaged by her lengthy illness, would haunt me for the rest of my life. The mortician had got it all wrong despite the picture Dad gave him. Mom never teased her hair up like that, and she always wore red lipstick, not pink.

Not that it really matters since she was almost unrecognizable anyway.

I turn my back on the funeral home. I have to go back in, have to pretend I’m not completely numb so I can shake hands, accept condolences, and thank people for coming. The only other funeral I’ve ever been to was my grandmother’s, and Mom had been by my side the entire time, her arm firmly around my waist, comforting me and keeping me grounded. Now it’s Mom lying in a casket, and even though Dad and my sister Ella are inside, it’s not the same.

Casting my gaze across the wide parking lot, I watch cars drive by on the street. The funeral home sits at the bottom of a hill, tucked back from the street and shaded by huge maple trees. We drive by here all the time; I often glance in from the top of the hill and feel a pang of sympathy whenever I see a crowd of black-clad mourners spilling from the front doors. Now I’m one of those people.

When we were younger, Ella and I thought that hill would make the perfect tobogganing run if it hadn’t been a street. It’s exactly the right angle for shooting down on a sled at break-neck speed. We always said someday when we were older we’d sneak out in the middle of the night with our toboggans and fly down that hill. It was one of those crazy, stupid things sisters say to each other when they’re young and still the best of friends—one of the many things we shared, like clothes and toys, promises and secrets.

But we never did it, and now we never will. Ella—or Gabriella, as she prefers to be called these days—would rather sled headlong into traffic than spend five minutes alone with me.

Voices drift across the lot. A group of people I don’t recognize stand in a cluster by the front doors. Hopefully the reception is winding down and we can get this whole day over with. I wonder if anyone inside has noticed I’m missing. Probably not.

I tug at the collar of my black dress. My grandmother gave it to me several years ago, before she died. It was immediately banished to the back of my closet, forgotten until yesterday when I realized none of my clothes were appropriate for a funeral and I didn’t have time to go shopping. It’s a high-necked monstrosity, made of some stiff, itchy material that makes me want to squirm like a little girl in her best Sunday dress.

The sun beats down on me, and a trickle of sweat snakes its way down my spine, making me shiver despite the heat. With one final yank at the collar, I trudge toward the funeral home, my low heels clacking on the pavement. I brace myself as I approach the doors, wishing I could avoid looking at peoples’ faces and seeing their grief. The visitation, funeral, and reception have been a sea of down-turned mouths, pinched lips, and red eyes.

Normally I’m an empathetic person, but today just dealing with my own grief is almost more than I can handle. Strangers and familiar faces alike have come to me with soft, murmured words, telling me things I already know and don’t want to hear, like what an amazing woman my mother was or how much I look like her or how wonderful it was I’d been by her side for the last year while she was so sick. I know they’re trying to comfort me—and themselves—but for some reason, their words make me feel worse.

Two of my old friends step outside, lowering sunglasses over their eyes. When they see me, they raise their shades in unison; they’re so perfectly in sync, the sight would be comical any other time. They share a quick glance before descending the stairs and joining me.

Bianca studies me like she’s afraid a strong wind will knock me over and shatter me into a million pieces. I want to ask how you’re doing, but I know that’s probably the stupidest question ever, she says, drawing me into a hug.

We just want you to know we’re here for you, Alexis chimes in, rubbing my arm. Whatever you need.

Despite her sincerity, her words make me want to laugh bitterly. The three of us used to be best friends—inseparable since childhood, the three musketeers of Susannah Montgomery Elementary School, and then Centennial Secondary School. Alexis, Bianca, and Charlotte—ABC.

But then Mom got sick at the beginning of senior year. I started going to school less and less before finally deciding to take courses at home so I could be with Mom as much as possible. We all knew it was only a matter of time before she died—the doctors had diagnosed her with an inoperable brain tumor, which was basically a death sentence. I expected my two best friends to be there for me, support me, and come around to visit since Mom had been like a second mother to both of them. Instead, they had abandoned me.

It was like out of sight, out of mind—I wasn’t around, so they forgot about me. I knew they hadn’t done it to be malicious, and they were uncomfortable seeing Mom sick, but they were supposed to be my friends. My best friends. We’d always promised to be there for each other no matter what, yet when I needed them most they were nowhere to be found.

When I remain silent, staring at them as if they’re strangers, they glance at each other and shuffle their feet.

We’re really sorry, Bianca says in a rush, her green eyes filling with tears. "We feel horrible for…for everything. We should have been there for you. There’s no excuse for it, but we want to be here for you now. We hope you can start hanging out again and things can go back to normal."

Back to normal. As if I’ve been away at summer camp instead of standing vigil by my mother’s sickbed for the last year. Back to normal, I echo in a hollow voice.

Bianca blanches. Tears well in her eyes and spill over, rolling down her cheeks in big, fat drops. Oh god. She gnaws on her lip, her gaze darting away from mine. That sounded so horrible. You have to know I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

Part of me wants to lash out—scream at them for not being there for me, make them feel even a fraction of the pain I’m feeling. But it would take too much effort. I’m drained physically, mentally, and emotionally, and calling them out would take what little energy I have left. Of course.

Well… Alexis fiddles with the shiny belt on her dress. For as long as I can remember, she’s always played with her clothes or hair when she’s nervous or uncomfortable. I guess we’ll get going. Unless you want us to stay, she adds quickly.

Do I want them to stay? There was a time I would have clung to them like a lifeline, but they’re practically strangers now. I don’t know these girls anymore—the ones who were once closer to me than my own sister—and they certainly don’t know me. Sometimes I wonder if I even know who I am anymore.

You guys go ahead. I need to get back inside. I gesture vaguely toward the front door.

Okay. Call us if you need anything or you want to hang out, Alexis says. We’re planning a beach day for next week. I know it’s kinda soon, but if you want to come…

I shake my head, snapping out of my half-numb state. We’re going away.

Away? Bianca’s brows draw together in a deep V. She’s always had the most expressive face of anyone I’ve ever known. Since freshman year, Alexis and I had been telling her she should be a model or an actress. Now high school is over and I don’t even know what either of them is doing next year.

When Mom was in high school she spent summers on an island near Kingston, I explain. My grandparents had a cottage there, and it was my mom’s favourite place. She did some research, found out the place has been vacant for awhile, and she wanted to go there before she died, but… I trail off, not wanting to think of all the things Mom didn’t get a chance to do because she was too sick. She told my dad she wanted him to take us there this summer, so we’re going.

Wow, Bianca say, eyes wide. Well, you know, it might be good to get away. I’m sure everything around here will remind you of your mom, you know? Not that you won’t think of her there, but it’ll be something new and different. Time and space might be good.

That’s what I kept telling Dad when he tried to back out of going. That, and a bit of a guilt trip when I mentioned how disappointed Mom would be if he didn’t take us.

When do you leave? Maybe we could hang out before you go? Alexis asks hopefully.

We’re leaving in the next couple days. Even if it weren’t so soon, what good would it do to spend a day together? To pretend the last year didn’t happen, like they hadn’t deserted Mom and me when our lives were falling apart. I thought we would be friends forever, but now I can’t wait for them to leave so I don’t have to pretend everything is okay.

Wow, Bianca says again. So soon. And in the fall?

I shrug. I don’t know. I missed the deadline for college applications, so I’ll probably have to get a job and apply for winter courses. I’m not really sure.

They nod in unison. Keep in touch, okay? Bianca says, looking intensely uncomfortable now. Maybe Lex and I can plan a road trip to come visit you.

Her hopeful tone makes me soften slightly. I’ll talk to you guys soon and we’ll plan something. I’m not sure if I mean it. Judging by their expressions, I don’t think they’re too certain either, but they simply smile, hug me tightly, and head for Bianca’s car.

They’re halfway across the parking lot when someone steps out a side door of the funeral home and the girls detour in that direction. I squint against the sun to see who it is, and my stomach tenses when I realize it’s my sister. Wearing a black dress just short enough to be completely inappropriate for a funeral—for our mother’s funeral—Ella waves to Bianca and Alexis as she peels off the short-sleeved waist-length jacket Mom’s friend made her put on over the dress. Now baring her arms, shoulders, and a ton of cleavage, she fans herself with her hand and smiles as my former best friends approach her.

Their voices float across the parking lot, but I can’t make out their words. Something in me turns sour as I watch them. Ella is a year younger than us and until this past year she was pretty much a nobody at school. She and I were close until I started high school, when Ella suddenly became withdrawn and preferred to spend time alone. I tried to introduce her to people, and I even invited her to hang out with me and my friends, but she always turned me down.

When our mother took sick, I realized it wasn’t so much that Ella preferred to be alone, it was that she wanted to be the centre of attention. With me doing courses at home, Ella decided to fill my role, suddenly becoming friends with my friends, going to parties I’d once attended, taking trips to the mall and the beach, and doing all the other things I had done on a regular basis before Mom got sick.

I hadn’t exactly been Miss Popular or anything, but I had a close-knit group of friends, and most people at our school knew who we were. Ella would make cracks about how it had been easy for me and I’d never had to work for it. According to her, I was popular without even trying because I was pretty and smart and everyone loved me, yet she had to work at it.

I guess she worked hard enough because it didn’t take her long to essentially replace me. The difference between us was that I had never been anyone but myself. Ella changed completely—the way she looked, the way she dressed, the way she acted and spoke were all different. She assumed a persona and became what she thought people wanted. She was Gabriella now—a name our mother was never fond of, but had agreed to because it was the name of Dad’s beloved grandmother. We all called her Ella from the time she was born, but this past year she started insisting we call her Gabriella because it sounded more sophisticated.

A loud laugh brings me back to the present. I narrow my eyes toward the trio by the side door. Ella is standing in the shade of one of the maples with a lit cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She’s didn’t bring a purse today, so I can’t imagine where she kept a pack of smokes and a lighter in that tiny dress.

She waves the cigarette around, talking animatedly. As if our mother hadn’t just died. As if she weren’t inside right now lying in a casket. As if we weren’t about to go to the cemetery and lower her into the ground for the rest of eternity.

Ella glances in my direction and the smile fades slowly from her face. She says something to Bianca and Alexis, who peer over at me. Even from this distance, I see their faces turn red. They say a hurried goodbye to Ella, hug her, and head once again for Bianca’s car.

My sister remains where she is, lounging against the tree as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. She takes one last long drag from her cigarette before flicking it onto the dry grass. With a look of challenge on her face, she gives me a sassy little finger wave and steps through the side door.

I wait a few seconds to make sure she doesn’t come back out, then hurry across the lot and stomp on the cigarette, grinding it into the dirt until I’m sure it’s completely out. With the drought-like conditions we’ve been having, the authorities have been warning people to be extra careful with any sort of flame near grassy areas. Ella knows that as well as I do, she just doesn’t care.

I shake my head, feeling suddenly deflated and exhausted. My mother is dead. My sister hates me. My dad is basically falling apart. My friends…well, I don’t have any friends, not really. Not anymore. Summer has always been my favourite time of year, but this year I’m dreading it with every fibre of my being.

CHAPTER TWO

"Ugh! I can’t believe we have to spend the whole summer on some stupid little island in the middle of nowhere," Ella gripes as she drags her suitcases to the car.

I stare at the enormous bags that appear to hold everything my sister owns. I’m so sorry our mother’s dying wish is inconveniencing your summer plans. Normally I’d keep my mouth shut to avoid a word war with her, but it’s only eight o’clock in the morning and I’ve already been listening to her complain for over an hour.

Ella glares at me, but if she has a comeback—which she usually does—she keeps it to herself. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by that fact.

Tossing her long, dyed-black hair over her shoulders, she hefts one suitcase into the trunk, then the other. I’m glad I already put my bag in there since her two behemoths take up over half the space. Even though we’re going for two months, I packed light, figuring I could buy anything I need when we got to Angel Island.

I call shotgun, Ella announces, pulling an iPod from her purse and untangling the ear buds.

You’re welcome to it, I mutter, opening the back door of Dad’s car. When we were little, Ella and I used to love road trips. Our parents said we were a dream to travel with because we entertained each other with games, music, and chatter. Now I figure I’ll be lucky—or more aptly, unlucky—if Ella speaks two words to me the entire three-and-a-half-hour drive from Toronto to the island.

Dad stumbles out of the house, dragging a suitcase in one hand and carrying a travel mug in the other. He looks awful. He hasn’t shaved in several days; his thick, dark hair sticks out everywhere; his white t-shirt has a coffee stain down the front already; and his shorts are so wrinkled they make me wonder if he slept in them. Dad has always been fastidious about his appearance, but in the last few weeks—ever since the doctors told us Mom would die sooner than later—he’s completely let himself go.

Then there’s the fact he’s all but checked out mentally. He’s hardly spoken to either Ella or me since Mom died, and he went through the funeral and burial on autopilot. I was actually kind of nervous about him driving, but since I don’t drive and Ella only has her learner’s permit, we’re stuck with Zombie Dad behind the wheel.

I slide into the backseat and pull out my own iPod. I’m hoping if I blast U2 loud enough, it’ll drown out my thoughts and I’ll get some peace for the first time in ages. My mind has been working overtime for the last year worrying about Mom, taking care of her, and ensuring the last months and weeks of her life were as good as possible.

Since her death, I’ve been going over everything she told me, every moment we spent together, every secret and joke we ever shared. I haven’t slept properly in months, and I’ve barely slept at all since her death last week. Her voice is on a constant loop in my mind, telling me she loves me, making me promise to take care of Dad and Ella, and assuring me I’d be strong enough to handle life without her.

The trunk slams and a second later Dad opens the driver’s side door and practically falls into the car. He sits behind the wheel for a long time, breathing heavily and staring up at the house. I wonder if he’s going to back out and refuse to go. I’m not sure if I’d be upset or relieved.

Finally, Dad lets out a long, slow breath and peers over at Ella, who ignores him, then meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. His green eyes are bloodshot and heavy lidded. I think this will be good for all of us, he says, his voice rough from lack of use. Get away for awhile, go somewhere your mom loved… He trails off, his eyes glazing over slightly. When his gaze returns to mine in the mirror, he nods resolutely and slips his sunglasses on. I think this will be good for us, he repeats, starting the engine and backing out of our driveway.

I say a silent goodbye to the house. It was the last place I saw my mother alive. The two of us were cooped up together for the past year, shut away from the rest of the