Lost and Found

By Ellie Davis

What have you lost?

In Lost and Found on Burano Island, Kay finds Locke and Locke finds what he's been missing since he's been away from fame and fans.

In Burning Breakfast, Jake finds the control Brooke's been keeping from him.

In Modern Art, Sam finds his favorite things with Persy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellie Davis
• Release date: Sep 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301192984

Ellie Davis

Ellie Davis has been writing since she could spell and taking it seriously since shortly thereafter. She lives in Connecticut in a sunny little apartment with her children and her cat.

Book preview

What have you lost?

In Lost and Found on Burano Island, Kay finds Locke and Locke finds what he's been missing since he's been away from fame and fans.

In Burning Breakfast, Jake finds the control Brooke's been keeping from him.

In Modern Art, Sam finds his favorite things with Persy.

Lost and Found

Ellie Davis

Lost and Found

Ellie Davis

Copyright 2013 Ellie Davis

All Rights Reserved

Cover Photo Copyright Maxim Shmeljov

Cover Design by Ellie Davis

Smashwords Edition September 2013

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, trademarked products, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Summary

Lost and Found on Burano Island

Burning Breakfast

Modern Art

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Ellie Davis

LOST AND FOUND ON BURANO ISLAND

Orange blossoms. The smell of citrus groves along the freeway and warm summer afternoons in the backyard. Her perfume hits him like a wave he isn't prepared for. It makes him miss home. It makes him wonder why he thought running off to Italy was what he needed. A lonely ache yawns inside him, unsatisfied by the sun, the history, the women. He doesn't belong here. Head bowed, unseeing gaze on the Belgian block between his sneakers, he strums a battered guitar. He plays meaningless nonsense, feeling the bite of strings and hearing the song over the splash of water in the canal behind him. The scent of orange blossoms grows stronger. He inhales deeply, greedy for it, for the memories.

When he looks, she's lingering at the edge of the courtyard. Dark hair hangs loose and straight around a heart-shaped face. The neat button-down and classic skirt make him think of nuns and schoolgirls. But the black patent fuck-me pumps make him think of other women, wanton women. His eyes sweep up to hers. He catches a flash of surprise before she ducks around the corner of the church.

He scowls. He lays a hand flat on the body of the guitar. If she's going to intrude, she'd better do it right.

Got a request?

She edges back into view and then, slowly, closer. As he makes out details--her hair moving in the breeze, the way the shirt clings to her breasts, the dip of her waist into the flare of her hips--his anger begins to dissipate. Maybe he never had to enter the church to have his prayers heard. She tucks her hair behind an ear and the last rays of the setting sun reflect off a diamond. A big one. On a finger that means something. He scowls again.

Sulking over this piece of information almost makes him miss when she asks him to play a song he wrote over twenty years ago, a song he hasn't played for an audience in at least a decade. His irritation melts into curious wonder. She's a fan. And she found him. He stares at her.

I'm sorry, she mutters, starting to back away. I'm so sorry. That was rude. I'll go.

No. He moves fingers to the strings, already remembering the old melody. Stay.

He plays. This sanctified ground and peaceful atmosphere don't need the brunt of his adolescent anger, so he slows the music, sings the words in a gravelly whisper. The song still brings back memories of his youth, of dirty garages and hazy clubs and reckless experimentation, of best friends and girls he didn't have names for, of righteous indignation and impetuous determination to change the world. She creeps forward until she can sink onto the bench beside him. She sits with her ankles crossed and her knees pressed together, but she grips the edge of the seat and watches him. She's a captive audience of one.

His heart swells. His head