Once A Lover...

By Anthony Berrios

Elizabeth Sutton is beginning a new life. Yet, she still feels the pain of losing his love. Finding the courage to face him, she fears that her love for him will lead to her destruction.

Troy Harrison faces the greatest challenge of his life. Lose Beth Sutton, again, or risk everything to be with her. He knows what he must do, as danger and deception threaten their love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Berrios
• Release date: Mar 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452400105

Anthony Berrios

Anthony Berrios was born in Brooklyn, New York in 1968. He grew up in Seminole County, Florida, and now resides in Greenville, South Carolina. During his law enforcement career, Anthony served as a Lieutenant in Criminal Investigations. An alumnus of the University of Central Florida, Anthony earned a M.S. degree in Criminal Justice. Today, he actively teaches and consults on various law enforcement issues. Anthony devotes his free time to writing fiction, and recently published "Once A Lover...", a suspense-filled, romantic thriller. He is currently writing "Jaded", featuring Special Agent Thomas Barton. Barton appears briefly in "Once A Lover...", and has emerged as the central character in a series of upcoming suspense thrillers.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tonight he was thinking about her, wishing she were here. Yet, he knew it was better for them both that she was not. He didn’t really want to paint, he wanted to touch her, make love to her, to know that she was his. But she wasn’t his, and hadn’t been for a long time. She wasn’t here, and he would never ask her to come. What he would do was paint her, commit all his frustrations to canvas, to purge his regrets. In all the years since his parting, Troy never forgot Elizabeth. In the few hours before dawn, what he needed was to paint her, to feel close to her again in any way possible.

He moved the brush watching as the paint blazed onto the canvas. The intensity of the red waned as he traced the brush across the broad expanse of white. Troy gazed at the paint and the brush stroke amused him greatly. Painting was so much like life, the colors lacked focus or purpose, and they held little meaning at first. However, once developed and crafted by the skill of the artist, the paint resonated with meaning.

Trading hands with his first brush, he reached for another and waved it hesitantly over his palette. He pressed the brush tips against the palette unable to select a paint color. Disappointed with himself for allowing such melancholy thoughts and indecision, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and then refocused his attention to the canvas. It was alarmingly stark, a vast field of white, with the lone streak of red running nearly its entire length. He stared at the canvas for a long while, and then abruptly thrust aside his brush and palette. Damn it! he swore, smearing off paint from the palette. What is wrong with me?

He wiped both hands on a spare piece of cloth, then ran a hand across his face, feeling two days of growth on his cheeks. Maybe a shower would help, he thought glancing at the clock on the wall. Four a.m., and again he cursed himself for struggling to find his way with this painting. Granted, he feverishly worked these past few hours trying to produce a new painting, something that would assuage his anger and pain. It was the creative process of a mad genius, and a tortured soul. For Troy, it was the way he vented his secret fears and misgivings, and emerged with confidence and resolve. He loved to paint, to feed the canvas, and to smell the turpentine. It made him feel like a creator, and no longer the destroyer. He often produced his best works from that sense of loneliness and isolation that were his truest companions during the past eight years.

Staring out his balcony into the deep Jacksonville night, he could only see a shroud of black drenched in a salty, familiar breeze. Somewhere below he could hear the sound of the waves groping the shoreline and then receding. Relentless, the waves kept coming as if desperately searching for something lost, a treasure, an idea, a moment. He turned back to the red streaked canvas. Who was he kidding? She was already there, in that great slash of vibrant red against the stark white of the canvas. He picked up the clean, wet paintbrush and filled it boldly with black paint. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Reaching back for a distant memory, from when they first fell in love, and of her lying naked in his bed, the sheets rumpled, and her light brown hair fanning out over his pillows. Then he touched his brush to the canvas, and with the knowledge and wonder of a lost lover rediscovered, he added the black. He started by pulling the black paint across so that the two colors merged, overlapped, entwined, yet each remained individual and vibrant. He paused momentarily, admiring the complement of the contrasting colors, the soulful mingling of two distinct bodies and he smiled. Abstract art is like an inside joke, he thought, and not for the first time. Only the people in on the joke truly understand the painting. He paused another moment, studying the canvas closely, but not really seeing it. Black and red he decided, with a faraway look in his eyes, captured his emotions best. In a half whisper Troy sighed, Once a lover…

* * * * *

Chapter 2

The music played loudly over the stereo. There was some upbeat music, some hard rock, a few standards, and now a song by Peter Gabriel. It was one of Beth’s favorite songs. The bittersweet melody and the haunting lyrics always brought Troy to mind. She sang with all her best effort and she smiled as the song ended. Beth Sutton was a journalist, definitely not a singer. Her voice was something that appealed to TV viewers, but her singing voice could make dogs howl for blocks. That was at least how Troy described it when they rode in a car together so many years ago. The smile faded and she realized that thoughts of him were becoming more common as she approached the Florida-Alabama State line. Troy, always Troy. She tried to shut out the thoughts of him, as she recalled how her journey to Florida began. Two days into her drive home, Beth traveled east with only a few CD’s and a new road map for company. Crossing into Florida, she began to feel right, except for the persistent thoughts about him. Troy would have to wait, though. It had been a long time since she felt this good, eight long years, but things were going right in her life, and Beth was too happy with the future to worry about her past.

It was just a few weeks ago, that she received the call. Congratulations, Ms. Sutton, you’re hired. Beth couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. This was it, the beginning of her new life. All she had to do was accept.

Thank you, Mr. Bohannon, she said, her voice shaky with excitement. I look forward to working for you. With those simple words said, the young woman smiled to herself, thrilled with opportunity. Her brown eyes sparkled, and she had trouble sitting still long enough to work out a starting date. When the conversation finally ended, though it took no more than a few minutes, Beth could barely contain the thrilling news. I’m going home, she whispered to herself, and then louder, I’m going home!

Beth resigned from her work at KDES-TV in Des Moines, Iowa, packed her few belongings in a moving van and headed to Jacksonville, Florida. She’d waited for this moment for months. She was more than ready to leave the town in which she’d spent the last three years. Beth’s news director, Tom Kaufman, was instrumental in helping her secure the new position in Jacksonville. He wrote a strong letter of support. When his newest protégé broke her good news, he was not surprised. He knew from the moment he hired her that she would not stay. Des Moines was a small market by industry standards; good reporters stayed only long enough to gain proper seasoning, and then they moved onward and upward to a mid-sized market, like Jacksonville. Moreover, Tom was good at his job. He liked mentoring new talent, he developed an eye for substance and a reputation for solid training in television news gathering and reporting. A word in the right ear at the right time, and station managers in larger markets were willing to take a chance on a cub reporter they might otherwise have overlooked. It’s not every day that a person leaves their everyday for something extraordinary. It’s always hardest to begin living your future, he’d said when she’d told him her good news, just one more of the offbeat sayings Tom was famous for around the station. He was as proud of her new job at WJAX-TV as Beth.

Immediately following the late Friday broadcast, Tom shut down the news division for a farewell party. Now don’t forget that you got your start in Iowa when you become a famous Florida newscaster, Tom said, giving her a quick hug. I won’t, she whispered back, returning his hug, and then it was time to leave.

In a few days, she would start work with one of the fastest-growing TV stations in the Southeast. As an investigative reporter at WJAX, Beth was in the perfect position for advancement. It would not be long, she thought, before she would be anchoring weekend news. Then weekday anchoring would be just an illness, vacation or injury away.

Watch out JAX. One day I'm gonna own this station, she said, laughing aloud and bearing down on the gas pedal.

Now, after a few solitary days of driving, Beth arrived in the wealthy coastal community of Seaside. Nestled along Florida’s northwestern shore of the Gulf of Mexico, Seaside was a quaint artisan village with pastel cottages and cobblestone streets. Beth’s parents owned a small bed and breakfast there named Traveler’s Rest, which sat on a double lot just across the street from the ocean. The B&B was four stories and built more up than out to take advantage of the ocean views. Marguerite Sutton, whose ancestors were some of northwest Florida’s wealthiest settlers in the 1880s, and her husband, Mitchell, went to great expense to ensure their small business was a success. Her parents purchased the adjoining lot to provide guests with a small pool and garden area where they could enjoy the rich aroma of mimosa and the sweet fragrance of gardenia while lounging by the pool on a warm spring day. There was even a tiny courtyard area surrounded by tea roses, wisteria, crepe myrtles and camellias. The inn had only four guest suites, but each reflected a different nautical theme. The rooms hinted of the ocean, tastefully reflecting the Gulf Coast’s greatest treasure. The rooms were each an oasis, works of art in Beth’s opinion, draped in fabrics and dipped in colors so far removed from everyday life that guests felt as if they were characters in a fairy tale rather than weary vacationers seeking respite from work and bills.

Seaside itself was a small community, with only about 1,000 year-round residents. There was a grocery that sold gourmet foods, exotic vegetables and dried herbs; two cafes, an outdoor shopping market in tents by the ocean, an amphitheatre and more artists in residence than some of the townspeople considered healthy.

Seaside was a beautiful place to visit, sort of a designer resort on the beach, and Beth was glad to see the clear turquoise water and sugary white beaches again after so many years in the plains of Iowa. If her parents were not so involved in the community, she might have considered moving here. However, as it was, the community was much more concerned with appearances than reality, a trait Beth despised. Once there was a dispute over the naming of one of the streets. Several prominent villagers thought Main Street was too common and lobbied for Village-By-The-Sea Lane instead. Marguerite and Mitchell supported the latter group. Beth thought the whole thing ludicrous. For her opinion, Marguerite scolded Beth for discounting appearances.

The best part of Seaside was the beach, a blinding white against the beautiful blue-green of the sea. Beth never tired of the view. No matter where she lived or how long she was gone, Beth did not feel truly at peace until she returned to the sea. While she loved visiting Seaside, it was not home. Her parents moved here ten years ago, just after she completed her first year at The University of North Florida. Beth always considered Jacksonville her home, and now she was going back.

Sighing tiredly as she pulled into the tiny drive beside the bed and breakfast, Beth stopped to enjoy the tall scrub oaks and squatty palmettos swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. Iowa offered its good points, but they did not include greenery, she thought, smiling. While Seaside was indeed a picture-perfect town, it lacked the hustle and excitement of Jacksonville, a city with more than one million residents. Beth parked her car off to the side, tugged her overnight bag out of the car and headed toward the back door.

Mitchell Sutton hugged his baby girl tight and swung her in a little circle, his face animated at her arrival. Beth laughed freely at his antics, not at all surprised by the strength still left in his aging body. Her father, a former Naval Officer, remained fastidious about his appearance, but no matter how chubby Beth was in her childhood, her father always called her beautiful. Marguerite was different. Not a day went by in Beth’s 18 years at home that her mother did not worry over what she thought was her daughter’s uninspiring appearance. Marguerite, herself a former homecoming queen from her college days in Charleston, was still slim and petite at 55 and nothing like her daughter in looks. Marguerite’s raven black hair, bright green eyes and tiny, refined appearance gave the false impression she was fragile.

At 5 feet 8 inches, Beth was tall like her father, and in her early 30’s, she was not unattractive with her healthy All-American look. Still, Marguerite thought her daughter was too tall and robust in appearance to be attractive.

Too curvy to be ladylike, her mother echoed repeatedly during her teenage years. A southern lady should be willowy, graceful, and thin like a reed. For years, Beth despaired over her looks, cursing the fates that gave her dark blonde hair, a non-color, to quote her mother, and plain brown eyes. That was, until she met Troy. She was a college sophomore who fell desperately in love with the tall, dark-haired senior. He was a political science major with a minor in art. A painting politician, he called himself. That first conversation with Troy at a mutual friend’s party resulted in a request to model for him – free, of course – as he was still a starving student. He boasted that some day he would be the President, but Beth only recalled that his ocean colored eyes made her melt that first night.

Beth smiled at the memory, picturing all the hours she spent lounging on pillows or standing by the beach. Then Beth’s smile faded as she remembered the darker times in their stormy relationship, and her mother was quick to say, Don’t frown Elizabeth; It gives a woman wrinkles. Years ago, they reached an uneasy understanding about commenting on Beth's appearance, but old habits die-hard for Marguerite. Beth just smiled at her mother and changed the subject by asking about her brother, Michael, and his kids.

Beth spent the next 48 hours in her parent’s company, helping them with guests and secretly looking forward to her departure.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

The middle-aged man with gray hair and pale blue eyes said, …And this is the news room, in a way that set Beth’s nerves on edge. Did this man not understand that women were able to keep two thoughts in their head at the same time? Beth took a deep breath, willing herself to stay calm, and smiled stiffly. It was probably his ego talking more than anything else, and now was not the time to let her feminist sensibilities get the better of her. Neil Davis was the weekend anchor at WJAX and she needed his support, even if she couldn’t stand him. The other reporters would take his lead on how to treat her, so Beth kept her irritation to herself and only smiled graciously when he showed her the editing bays. If his attitude persisted after the first couple of weeks, then they would have a private conversation about mutual respect. For now, she'd just bite her tongue and keep smiling.

After only an hour in Neil's company, Beth thought she was going to scream from the absurdity of it all. Did all big stations treat their