My Father's Husband: A Novel

By Elloise Bennett

This is the story of love, family, marriage, forgiveness and growing up even when you are all grown up.

This is the story of Celia Booker – successful, strong, confident, career-woman who has all her ducks lined up just right. Work – Love – Marriage – Apartment with a view – It’s all there. Adulthood. Celia finally feels like she has ‘conquered’ the past of being a child of divorce, the child of a father who went from loving her mom... to loving men.

But life is about to shift beneath Celia. She is about to learn hard lessons about love, and she will have to re-learn what family means. Because when the strong, capable Celia needs a shoulder to cry on, she discovers that a woman is never too grown up to need fatherly advice. As she builds a relationship with a father she has had no contact with in a decade, she struggles to save her own relationship. As she faces lessons on love and marriage, she also is also faced with the new family member in her world and an unlikely source of guidance: Her father’s husband.

Based on the real-life experiences of the author.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elloise Bennett
• Release date: Oct 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301883837

Elloise Bennett

Elloise Bennett is a writer, traveler and teacher.Born in South Africa, Elloise has lived an expat existence in San Diego, London, and Amsterdam. She currently is based in a small village in the south of France where she runs a B&B out of an old moulin in partnership with 'The Dad's Squared'. She splits her time between her guests, work and exploring airports around the world.She grew up in the hotel and restaurant industry, and that is part of where 'Celia' also comes from - Elloise has a dream to one day own her very own B&B.A graduate from University of San Diego and Royal Holloway, University of London, with degrees in European History and Art History, Elloise has taught and served as a school administrator.Always ready for a challenge, Elloise also runs an online educational service business, teaches pedagogy and educational leadership through the University of San Diego, Professional and Continuing Education division (thank goodness for online classes!!) and writes a travel blog.She likes to cook, drink wine, sip coffee, read, write, travel, laugh, spend time with friends, work, and take long walks along the river with her dog.On sunny afternoons she can be found with her laptop, working on the next book.

Book preview

My Father's Husband

A Novel

Elloise Bennett

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Elloise Bennett

Cover Art & Design: Daniel Van Tonder

Discover more at http://myfathershusband.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional 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 return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 9781301883837

Contents

Title/Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Author's Note

About the Author

For Mom.

Your unique perspective on life continues to open doors for me.

We kids miss you. Every day.

Non, Rien de rien

Non, Je ne regrette rien

No, nothing of nothing

No, I regret nothing

- As sung by Edith Piaf

1

Life has a way of delivering moments that engender change, moments of clarity and definition. Moments that define our lives, our relationships, ourselves.

Those moments have a way of stealing up on us, slapping us sideways, and sometimes leaving us wondering if they even really happened because they came and went so fast.

And when you think you have ‘it all,’ when you think that you don’t need anyone or any thing other than the life you have built for yourself – that is when those moments can really have a brutal impact. They expose our inner reserves, our strengths, and our weak points. They teach us about the truths of ourselves and of others.

It was in a moment like this, when I thought I had all of life and all of my shit figured out, that I learned that a woman, no mater how old, established or successful, can desperately need a father-figure. Or two.

2

Celia, this is reception. Do you copy? Celia?

This is Celia, I’m on my way. ETA two minutes, I replied into the radio earpiece hidden in my hair. It was my constant companion, my electronic leash.

I was hurrying through the service area of the restaurant kitchen, spiky black high-heels clicking on the tile as I wove in and out of the throng of sous-chefs and servers in the midst of preparations for the dinner rush. In a hotel of almost one hundred rooms located steps from the beach in a small suburb of San Diego, the dinner rush could be a time of chaos and madness as tired tourists returned from the beaches and searched for refreshment, relaxing ambience, and excellent food. The restaurant staff was going through the nightly regimen of preparation – tables being covered in crisp white linen, wine glasses being checked for spots, silver polished to a shine – trying, as always, to anticipate the needs of guests who were paying a hefty sum and expected a return on their investment. Guests who stayed with our hotel tended to have the means to select they best. They could be particular, but the staff was experienced. A good team.

A slight smile played on my lips as I waved to the head chef and swept through the main doors into the restaurant, careful not to get even a spattering of the cranberry and red wine sauce being prepared for the beef roast on my black pencil-skirt suit. It would not be good to appear anything less than professional, today of all days. But I couldn’t help dancing a little mental jig of joy. Today this team was not only a good team, it was my team.

After five years of sixteen-hour days spent working as a receptionist, restaurant supervisor, shift manager, front desk supervisor, and countless other unofficial roles filled as needs arose, I was exactly where I wanted to be. Not just shift supervisor or manager, but General Manager of the prestigious, four-star Inn on the Sea. Days of aching feet, a tired body and a frazzled mind, countless holidays worked, studying to earn a degree in hospitality, and a year’s experience at a hotel in London, miles away from family and friends, all led to this moment. Minutes before, in the plush Executive Suite, the Board had offered me the promotion, making me, at twenty-eight years old, one of the youngest General Managers in the business. They would be announcing my promotion to the entire staff within a few hours.

The hotel industry was unlike any other in the world. The hours were non-stop, the demands terrifying. You were always ‘open for business,’ and you were always available to meet the needs of your guests, even when they demanded a room where they could see the sunrise on a West Coast beach. At Inn on the Sea, we made the impossible happen.

Which was partly why this hotel was so perfect for me. My philosophy was always to deal with any guest, in any situation, with a smile, with a clear focus on service, and with attention to detail. Whether the detail entailed fresh calla lilies in a crystal vase in the hotel entrance, or exceptional food presented with an artistic flair, or the most luscious bedding one could imagine carefully pulled back each evening and topped with a handmade chocolate on the pillow, it was all part of the job of providing my guests with the best possible experience.

Yes, there were days when I wished with all my heart that I had a job like most people where I could walk out at five o’clock, or that I could spend Saturday mornings cuddled in bed with my boyfriend, Jason, or that I could have Valentine’s Day off to enjoy my own romantic dinner. But most days, as I walked across the marble tiles and lush Turkish carpets, I could not help but feel a sense of intense pride, joy and ownership over this little world.

Part of it was in the blood – hotelier’s genes. My grandfather had owned a hotel and a small resort on a lake in Colorado, and my parents had owned and operated boutique hotels in San Francisco when I was a kid. But hotel life in a city like San Francisco never ever had slow-periods and it was a tough way to be as a family. We moved to San Diego when I started high school so that they could find work that was not as demanding on their time, family or marriage. It had been too late. They divorced within months of the move.

With a quick shake of my shoulder-length blonde hair, I tried to focus and crossed the hotel lobby, making a mental note to call my mother later. My mom and I had a sometimes complex and often beleaguered relationship. We had little in common other than the shared experience in the hotel industry. My mom had the body of a ballerina and a beauty that could turn heads, while I could use my tall build and a cache of cosmetics to stand my own ground. She was confident and outgoing and lively, and I had to work at those things. She loved to shop and do high-tea with her girlfriends, I worked and tried to squeeze in an hour at the gym. She loved Ikea, I liked antique fairs. We didn’t have much to talk about and since I felt that as a successful adult I needed to handle things on my own, we spoke rarely. So it would be nice to enjoy an opportunity where I could make a phone call that wasn’t just about duty to ‘check in.’

As I stepped through another doorway and into reception, all thoughts of phone calls or excitement about the promotion disappeared. Staff members were running back and forth from the main counter to support desks in the back, phones were ringing, and electricity was in the air, with most of the energy seeming to come from one particular guest on the other side of the reception counter, waving his arms, face slightly red.

Thank God, Celia! said Dorothy, my head receptionist, under her breath as she pulled me close. We were about to crawl under our desks and hide from him. This is the third time that Mr. Danielli’s come down to complain. I can’t handle him!

With a chuckle I patted my hand on her arm. Mr. Danielli was one of our regular guests, and despite Dorothy’s skills and experience, he presented a challenge for our entire staff during the week that he stayed every May. His outrageous demands and cantankerous expectations kept us on our toes.

I’ll handle him.

I knew you would! She paused and lowered her voice further, And how was the meeting in Exec?

Later, was all I said with a quick wink in her direction. Dorothy and I had not only worked side by side for almost all of my time at Inn on the Sea, we’d also become close friends. I hadn’t been able to keep from her my excitement at the possibilities of promotion and she had even helped me fine tune my formal application. Let me deal with this.

I stepped forward and with a smile addressed Mr. Danielli in his native Italian, forgetting everything except this guest and his needs.

******

It was after ten o’clock when I finally made it home, exhausted. The thirty-minute drive to the apartment I shared with Jason in downtown San Diego always gave me time to reflect on the day and begin mentally shutting down. Our two-bedroom space with a view of the bay sometimes felt too big for us, but it also felt like a haven from the chaos of the world.

As I pushed the front door shut behind me, my shoes came off almost automatically, joining a random assortment of other black heels varying from flashy and sexy to basic and comfortable already under the console table in the entry. I liked heels and enjoyed the way they often gave me a height advantage over a temperamental chef or raging guest. But stilettos were not something you could wear daily when you were on your feet for ten hours or more.

Hello! I’m home!

Hey-ya! I heard from the kitchen just as Jason stepped into the hallway, glass of red wine in hand.

My hero, I said as I grabbed the wine, took a sip, and then stepped close to kiss him softly.

Why do I get second place to the wine? he asked as he pulled me in tight, wrapping both arms around my waist and nuzzling my neck.I chuckled and just let myself be for a moment. I’d traveled to many places in the world, but my favorite spot was surrounded by the scent of him like this, my head resting on his shoulder.

I’m going to go change into something more comfortable, I said as I finally stepped back. You busy?

As I turned to head down the hallway to the bedroom he gave me a little slap on the behind and said, Just checking out some stuff online. Come tell me about your day when you are done.

I flicked on the lamp in the bedroom, breathing a small sigh of thankfulness for the day to be over and to be able to come home to Jason. We’ve been together now for five years and I still felt grateful on a daily basis that this perfect guy would choose a girl like me.

We had known each other since high school – introduced through a common group of friends. I was four years his junior and new to San Diego, unsure of myself, aware that I had breasts that jutted out an entire zip code in front of me and that I still had my teenage ‘puppy-fat.’ I met him and instantly was struck with a crush that left me love sick and dreamy over this guy way out of my reach.

But instead of dating, we became friends, bonded by a shared sense of humor and my willingness to do anything I could to be in his company. Other than that, we had little in common. Jason was handsome, popular and he had a horde of girlfriends and female friends surrounding him all the time. I never felt as confident and as gorgeously Southern Californian as some of those angular, skinny, wildly popular gals. But my crush didn’t leave me and I remained certain that Jason would soon lose interest in the Barbies – as I dubbed them – and finally notice the lovesick stare in my eyes.

It took all through high school and through university for the shift to take place. It wasn’t until I left San Diego to spend a year in London slogging in a hotel as a receptionist to build international experience, that I started to feel like Jason may be putting some double meaning behind his naturally flirty demeanor.

While I was in London, Jason took time off form his own work as a furniture designer and came to visit me for a couple of weeks. We ate, laughed, and drank our way through Paris, Avignon, Nice, Rome, and Venice. Finally in Venice, after a dinner in a painfully romantic setting, several bottles of delicious wine, and a waltz across the Piazza San Marco, one thing led to another and... Jason always jokingly thanked the romance in the Venetian air for at last making him see the light.

He returned home and I held my breath for months, wondering if I’d made a mistake and had lost a friend, or whether we had shifted into something more than friendship. When I returned to San Diego at the end of my London year, Jason was waiting at the airport for me and swept me up with kisses that were definitely more than just friendly.

A week later, I started at Inn on the Sea. And at a football game when a work acquaintance asked Jason Is this your girlfriend? he said Yes. I thought life could not get more perfect. Both the dream place to work and the dream guy had actually, unbelievably, chosen me.

In the five years that we’ve been together we’ve loved, laughed, and worked hard side by side. Jason had started his own furniture design business a few years ago and it was going strong despite the economic crisis hitting San Diego hard. He was committed to his work and understood that I was committed to mine. We had moved in together two years ago partly because otherwise we hardly ever saw each other! Now with my promotion and it’s added income, perhaps we’d also be able to afford and carve out the time to take that trip back to Europe that we dream about often.

Stripping quickly out of my simple but carefully tailored black jacket and skirt, I donned a pair of yoga paints and left my white collared shirt hanging loosely over them. I knew Jason appreciated the way the pants hugged my curvy hips and emphasized my small waist, while the white button-down shirt’s large collar and fitted cut clung to my breasts. My 38-DD cups were not my favorite physical feature—purchasing clothes was a hassle—but Jason sure appreciated the Jessica Rabbit look they helped to create.

By the time I walked into the living room Jason was just logging off the computer and swiveling around in his chair. Behind his simple and modern white desk and black chair was a backdrop of the green, yellow and red lights of downtown San Diego. I walked over to the couch and sat down, curling my legs lotus-style beneath me.

Did you eat?

I grabbed a quick bite right after the main dinner rush. What about you?

Leftovers. He raised an expectant eyebrow and said, So…tell me all about it.

The promotion wasn’t completely unexpected. The previous General Manager had left several months earlier, a sudden departure most likely tied to a sudden desire to live with his mistress in Mexico rather than his wife in San Diego. The investment firm that owned the hotel had spent the last two months interviewing several in-house and outside candidates. I’d entered my application with barely suppressed hope that they would recognize my hard work over the years, but not really expecting that they would pick me from the pool of experienced candidates that a city like San Diego, which not only has great weather but a large and bustling hotel industry, draws from across the country. I sat through three painful interviews, watching every word to balance what the hospitality worker’s union representative, the executive board members, and the other managers would possibly want to hear. It had been an exhausting exercise.

They sent a memo out via email just before six. It kinda sucked since that was just as the Yamamoto group returned from their day of sight-seeing and were invading the bar, every hand needed on deck. So only a few people saw it and came up to say anything. Most of the day-folks will see it tomorrow and the night crew will usually check email at the end of the shift. So tomorrow will be a crazy day. I was excited that the promotion had been announced, but was at the same time disappointed there wasn’t more fanfare. I mean, after all , this was THE career moment for me. And although I don’t like to draw attention to myself, it would have been nice to feel like it was a special day.

Wanna go celebrate tomorrow night?

Perfect. You pick the place. I got up and crossed to Jason, pushing him back in his chair and settling on his lap, his arms slipping around me to hold me close.

No special request?

You know what I like. Somewhere with candlelight and good champagne, I tilted my head up and kissed him softly on the neck, then laid my head on his chest, slowly running my hand up and down his arm.

Just as I was melting into him and a nice half-sleepy state of happiness, the phone on Jason’s desk rang. With a groan he swiveled the chair back to the desk and picked up the unit, checking the caller ID.

It’s your sister. He knew that taking calls at the end of a long day of non-stop people and interaction was one of my pet peeves and he was good at screening calls for me.

It’s OK. I called my mom on the way home; she probably spoke to Pam, I took the phone and pulled myself out of Jason’s lap. Walking toward the rear of the apartment and heading to the kitchen, I answered Hey, you.

I heard congratulations are in order! My sister, Pamela, was four years younger than me. At one point we had been close enough to be best of