Homewrecker: Foster's Creek, #1

By Jill Westwood

Despite Andie's own terrible track record with romance, even she knows that her father's sudden move to his girlfriend's goat farm in North Carolina is a rash, unwise decision. She races south of the Mason Dixon to coax him home, but runs into a man-shaped obstacle in the form of burly paramedic Seth, the adopted son of her father's lady love.
 

Farm life is as unpalatable as Andie suspected—stinky goats, malicious chickens and millions of bloodthirsty mosquitos. Her father wants to give up a rent-controlled apartment, lifelong friendships and a satisfying teaching career for this? She's got to get him to come to his senses before Seth figures out her homewrecking intentions. It's a difficult position to be in, especially when the positions she'd like to be in involve fantasies about sexy, infuriating Seth.

As she runs from man trouble in New York and heads toward bigger trouble in North Carolina, Andie will have to decide whether she can support her father's leap of faith and maybe even take one of her own.

 

*This full-length novel can be read as a standalone story.

 

Jill Westwood's books will appeal to readers who enjoy Lucy Score, Claire Kingsley, B.K. Borison, Mariana Zapata, and Meghan Quinn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: First Impressions
• Release date: Sep 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781948516020

Jill Westwood

Jill Westwood is the author of romantic comedies featuring strong women and the sexy men who fall head-over-heels in love with them. She likes her books steamy, smart, and a little bit wacky. Her goal is always to make readers laugh and swoon. Jill has swum in a cenote in Mexico, summited a mountain in Nepal, and touched one of the standing stones in Wales. She now lives in North Carolina with her husband, two children, and the sweetest rescue dog in the world. A true Anglophile, she’s a Jane Austen devotee, tea drinker, and a fan of Tottenham Hotspurs.

Book preview

ONE

The repercussions of a drunken hook-up last way longer than the hangover. As I shuttle down a North Carolina highway, images of my bad behavior two nights ago flash through my mind. My chest pressed up against Dan's in the poorly lit hallway of a downtown bar. His stale beer breath, rapid breathing and muttered words of lust. He kept pulling me closer with his married-man hands, his tongue exploring my mouth like he was counting my fillings. How could someone so good at flirting be that bad at kissing? It was like going through a carwash with those flapping pieces of rubber and jets spraying water. Wet, flappy kisses.

I'm an asshole for thinking about his kissing technique when I should be contemplating how I became someone who would hook up with a married co-worker. Something I thought I would never do, even after four gin and tonics and a shot called a Purple Hooter Shooter. With a name like that, I should have known the evening would end with trouble and regret.

I also should have eaten more for dinner than a few handfuls of tortilla chips and M&Ms. Several drinks into the evening, I was regaling my co-workers with a hilarious story about my ex-boyfriend who answered his phone during sex. That alone was inappropriate, and then I took it one step further and let Dan grope me in a dark hallway. I might have been drunk, but my thinking sharpened right up when one of our co-workers rounded the corner and spotted us.

The memories of that night combined with the stench of the vanilla air fresher in my rental car threatens to make me vomit. I open my window to let the midday air rush in, and I can almost hear my hair gasp in response to the change in humidity levels. By the time I arrive at the farm, my platinum blond bob will resemble a dandelion gone to seed, but that can't be helped. I am resolved to arrive at the goat farm looking as wild as I feel.

This is what I get for drinking enough to forget that my father has abandoned his life in New York and, in effect, me, as well. He was only supposed to be gone for the summer to visit his new girlfriend on her goat farm. Two days ago, he called to inform me that his plans had changed, and he was now a permanent resident of Joyful Goat Farm in Foster's Creek, North Carolina. He had already called the human resources department of the New York City Public School System to tell them that after thirty-three years as a math teacher, he was retiring. When he delivered this news to me, the only words I could get out of my mouth were, You told the school system before you told me?

As I draw closer to my destination, the watery coffee I purchased at a gas station in Virginia isn't the only thing getting cold. The anger raging inside me when I rented this car in Brooklyn is starting to dim now that I have 350 miles of road behind me. Somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike I began questioning my decision, but it seemed too late to turn around. I would have ended up lost somewhere in Jersey, and there's no worse fate for a New Yorker than that.

My father will be shocked to see me, if he's even there when I arrive. He might be off herding goats or whatever it is you do on a goat farm. What if Renata is the only one there? Arriving on their doorstep at sixteen years old might be acceptable, but at twenty-eight it’s borderline hot mess behavior.

My phone rings for the second time since crossing the border from Virginia into North Carolina, and I glance down to check the caller, even though I know who it is. My best friend Hugh. Again. It must be killing him that I'm not answering when there is so much for him to harass me about. He lectured me yesterday when I told him about hooking up with Dan. I ignore his call and turn on the radio, hoping to find some inspirational music that will cement my resolve, but the only two stations I can tune in are playing Bon Jovi's You Give Love a Bad Name and Dolly Parton's Jolene. Even the DJs are throwing shade. I snap it off and grip the wheel tighter. Only twenty minutes before my arrival at Joyful Goat Farm, and yes, the irony of that name is not lost on me.

Of course, I want Dad to be happy. Married-man-make-out session aside, I'm not a monster. But there's a solid amount of evidence suggesting Dad's recent behavior has not been well considered.

1. He only reconnected with his old flame Renata six months ago, and for most of that time, they were dating long distance.

2. He loved his job, and when I say love, I mean that he actually treasured the mugs that students gave him for Christmas, yet he walked away without even a goodbye party at the school where he'd taught for the last thirty-three years.

3. Dad is white and Renata is black, and I just passed a pick-up truck flying a Confederate flag the size of a twin bedsheet. Why the hell wouldn't they choose New York City as a place to unite as an interracial couple?

I swing onto an undulating country road flanked by green pastures. There's no going back now. At the very least, I'm in for an awkward evening, and I can always hit the road in the morning. Maybe Dad will be glad I came. I am his only offspring, after all, and he usually thinks everything I do is pretty freaking awesome. If I'm lucky, he already realizes the insanity of his decision to move here and will be grateful for the rescue. I stop short of hoping that Renata has already grown tired of farm life and would be up for living in New York. It would be much easier to get him back to the city if she agreed to come with him.

My phone rings yet again, and this time I'm prepared to answer it and yell at Hugh to stop calling me, but the name that flashes up isn't his. It's a New York number, one that doesn't trigger a name in my contact list, so I send the call to voicemail then play it back.

Hey Andie, it's me, Dan. We need to talk...about the other night. About what happened. Call me okay? But don't leave a message if I don't pick up. Just call me. Soon. Like tonight if you can. Okay? We need to talk. Okay. Bye.

I unconsciously lean harder on the gas pedal, accelerating down this highway to hell. Now that would be an appropriate song. Dan's regular number is definitely in my phone so where is he calling me from? He probably bought a burner so his wife won't find out he's been contacting me. One illicit kiss and suddenly he's Omar from The Wire.

Dan and I taught the first session of summer school together, and the only thing to be grateful for is that I didn't sign up to teach the next two sessions with him. This weekend was supposed to be the start of my summer break chill-out time. Based on the signs I'm passing, I'm trading the David Bowie film series for a Shriner's fish fry.

As I enter the town limits, I cruise by a dilapidated trailer. Alongside it are several cars on blocks, and a sign that says Thank you, Jesus in bright colors and comic sans font. Screw the pastoral vibe and the gentle cows. I need more of this poverty and decay to get me in the mood to destroy a burgeoning relationship.

At the start of the long dirt driveway, a white sign announces my arrival at Joyful Goat Farm. My rental car, a two-door Hyundai, keeps bottoming out as it bumps along the ruts in the road, rattling both my teeth and my nerves. Finally, I see the farmhouse ahead. It's a two-story Greek Revival style house with a wraparound porch situated next to the grandest oak tree I've ever seen. It's the kind of tree you find on the pages of old-fashioned children's books. The oak's knobbed trunk is impossibly wide, and its branches provide a canopy for days, perfect for sitting with a book or napping on a blanket. With the sun setting behind the house, I have to admit that this place is loaded with charm.

From all the summers I spent working for my friend LaTonya's catering outfit, I can spot the perfect location for special events. Set up some chairs under that oak tree and a tent nearby, host cocktail hour on the porch at sunset, and you've got the ideal wedding venue. I'm already picturing dining tables with mason jars full of wildflowers and a rustic trellis made of saplings for the ceremony. If Renata plans to use this farm for weddings and other events, Dad hasn't said anything about it. All I've heard about is making goat's milk into cheese, which sounds tasty but not very lucrative.

Four cars are parked in the unpaved, dusty lot: a four-door gray Ford pickup truck, a smaller red pickup with Joyful Goat stenciled on the tailgate, a sleek black Lexus SUV, and Dad's tiny white Honda Fit. I pull in next to the looming gray pickup and notice the U.S. Marines decal on the back window. My father, the man who attended anti-war marches in Washington and wouldn't even allow me to own a Nerf gun as a child, is living in a house with military personnel. No wonder I feel like my world is upside down. I leave my bag in the trunk for now to avoid being classified as a long-term freeloader.

The warble of birds is the only sound in the air, and I have to admit, they do sound joyful. This is a lovely place to live, if you enjoy humidity as thick as a sweat sock and the whiff of what is presumably goat excrement in the air. The minute they hit the ground, my sandals kick up a small cloud of dust that will settle onto my toes. Note to self, lace-up sandals might not be farm footwear. My agricultural experience is limited to a fifth grade field trip to a berry farm on Long Island where I discovered I have an allergy to raspberries.

The porch's gray floorboards need a paint job, but the white rocking chairs are admittedly quaint and welcoming. I gently knock on the screen door and wait. When no one responds, I rap on the door again, louder this time. The sound of pounding feet across hardwood floor grows in volume until a little girl appears on the other side of the door.

She's here! she hollers over her shoulder, then swings the door toward her. Her dark hair is braided tightly against her head and finished in purple and white beads that clack together when she moves.

Hey, I'm Andie, I say, wondering why she seems to be expecting me.

I wouldn't put it past Hugh to send my father a warning text that I was on my way. No one has answered her from inside the house, and we both stand there, listening to the silence. Renata has a six-year-old granddaughter, and I'm guessing this is her. She's pretty adorable, but I'm not great with little kids. Fortunately, she's more socially confident with adults than I am with small children.

I forgot, they're in the barn. She waves me into the house. I'll take you there.

Are you Harmony?

Uh huh.

When I don't move fast enough for her liking, she grabs my hand and pulls me along with her. We careen through a sitting room, into a spacious kitchen and outside again into another porch on the back of the house, this one screened. She's small but mighty, this child, and before I know it, she's pulled me out the door leading to the backyard and we're sprinting down the steps.

We nearly collide with what can best be described as a wall of manliness coming up the steps toward us. He moves aside at the last second, and we glide safely past him.

Watch out, Uncle Seth! Harmony shouts, as if he's the one moving too quickly for his own good.

From my brief glimpse, I can tell he's a tall white guy, around my age and solidly built. Maybe I'm accustomed to scrawny Brooklyn hipster boys because he seemed grizzly bear-sized. I turn and glance over my shoulder as we scurry along through the grass. Yep. My impression was correct, but not in the I do CrossFit and eat strictly Paleo kind of way. He looks like he works outside and builds things with his hands, maybe tosses a ladder over one shoulder and a goat over the other as he goes about his day. Plus, he has a pair of seriously intense brown eyes. I know this because he's turned to get another look at me. Or us. He could be checking me out in an admiring way or making sure the loony woman with dandelion hair isn't kidnapping his niece. His expression is impossible to read.

I try to remember who Seth is in Renata's family. She has two sons, Michael and Trey. Seth is a family friend that she and her husband James adopted at some point, but I can't remember the exact situation. There's no time to consider it now. If I continue looking back at him, I'll take a dive on a stone or gopher hole and bust my ass.

Barn is this way, she says. You can meet my baby goat. I named her Tiana, like the princess. When she was born, she wasn't pretty, but then she got hair, and she's much cuter now.

She's preternaturally strong for someone her size and quite the chatterbox. I'm not sure who she thinks I am, but she's on her goat monologue now, and it seems rude to stop her. I learn about Tiana's eating habits, daily routine and family of origin. If I ever need to raise a goat, I'll probably be able to do it based on the education I've received from this kid.

The barn needs work, its red paint faded and peeled away from years of weather. The large front doors are open wide, which feels like a welcome, or it would if anyone knew I was coming. My stomach tightens—what Dad will say when he sees me? It was foolish not to call him and say that I was on my way here. What did I hope to accomplish with a surprise attack?

Right up front, I need to say that Renata is a fine person, and under different circumstances, I would have no problem with her dating my father. She's actually the kind of woman I'd want him to meet: a former nurse, intelligent and kind, who had a good marriage to her first husband (now deceased). And let's be real, he's not going to attract a gold digger with his teacher pension. What I do have a problem with is him jettisoning his whole life to be with her down here in middle-of-nowhere North Cackalacky. If she'd relocated to New York, I still would have been concerned about the fast pace of their romance, but I could have embraced it.

Hay crunches softly under our feet as we enter the barn, and my eyes adjust to the change from bright sunshine to dim overhead lights. The ripe scent of goats is so strong now that I can almost taste it. I wish I could say it isn't an unpleasant smell, but it is. Very. I don't think I've ever used the word fetid before, but this situation calls it to mind. Stalls made of metal line one side of the barn, and Dad and Renata are inside one of them, crouched down next to a goat.

Grandma, the cheese lady is here! Harmony calls out.

Although I love cheese and consider it a food group, I'm not thrilled about this new identity. Cheese is too closely associated with stink and cellulite to feel like cheese lady is a compliment.

Dad and Renata both look over at us and gape when they see who's actually walking toward them. My heart lurches, and I don't know if it's because I haven't seen Dad in a month or if I'm seeing him in the context of his new life for the first time. Shit is getting real.

Hey, hey! he calls out to me, rising to his feet. What are you doing here?

He walks out of the stall and pulls me into a giant hug, while Harmony looks on in confusion, wondering why Cheese Lady is getting such a warm welcome. I let him hold me for a long minute, his bushy mustache tickling my cheek as he pulls away.

Apparently, I'm here to make cheese, I say.

Renata approaches, and I can tell she's wondering if I'm open to a hug from her. A handshake feels weirdly formal, but I'm only a hugger with people I know really well, so I give her a quick squeeze with a back pat and leave it at that. She's got a fit body for a woman her age and skin that practically glows even though she doesn't wear any makeup that I can detect. She's the opposite of my mother who's always trying desperately to look younger by plumping herself up with fillers and Botox.

After our initial greetings, everyone looks at me expectantly, waiting to hear why I'm here, which makes sense. No one travels 350 miles just to enjoy a glass of iced tea on the porch. I've already practiced what I'm going to say, which is why it comes out sounding robotic and rehearsed.

I had some free time after summer school ended, and I thought it would be fun to surprise you.

Wow, Dad says, looking over at Renata, then back at me. Well, we're thrilled you did.

Renata and Dad explain who I am to Harmony, and I give her my best kid-friendly smile. She insists on introducing me to the goats, whose bleating I interpret as an enthusiastic welcome. Tiana, a fawn colored alpine goat, is cute, as promised. Harmony gives me some pellets to feed her by hand, and although I'm a little wary that Tiana might bite me, it turns out goats don't have upper front teeth. Her ears are like velvet, and she wants to cuddle on my lap, which I allow, until Harmony wants her back. She asks Renata for a brush and begins to groom her pet with a tenderness that seems surprising for someone her age.

Did you drive down here? Renata asks when I'm finished meeting the herd.

Yes, I did. My back crackles when I stretch my arms in the air. It took about ten hours, but I stopped a few times.

We've got to hang out here in the barn until Lois gets here, Dad says, referring to the actual cheese lady.

And Moana has an infection. Renata gestures to the goat they were tending to when I arrived. We need to give her a hoof bath.

My city brain conjures up an image of a goat in a manicurist's chair, hooves soaking in water while she reads a magazine and sips Prosecco. Probably not accurate.

Not a problem. I'm kind of tired anyway.

Renata looks down at Harmony. Can you show Andie to the blue room, sweetie.

We'll get you when it's time for dinner, Dad says. Harmony, and Renata's sons Michael and Seth are joining us tonight so it's perfect that you're here.

We. The word is a knife. He means his new family, a group that doesn't include me. Dad and I have been a two-person unit since I was in middle school. Now I've suddenly been replaced by a new cast of characters, and Dad's teaching career has been exchanged for infected goat hooves and cheesemaking.

When we get back to the house, I grab my bag from the car and Harmony leads me to the blue bedroom. I expect everything inside the room to be blue, like some weird Alice in Wonderland meets Avatar design. I'm almost disappointed to find out that the walls are painted a soft white, and the color blue is mostly relegated to accessories, like toile curtains, blue and white ginger jars and seascape paintings. The four-poster bed has a white quilt that looks handmade and is high enough off the floor that there's a step stool with a needlepoint cover sitting next to it. From the window there's a bucolic view of the back field with the goat barn in the distance. It's the kind of room you'd get at a bed and breakfast, another business they could easily start here.

I'm grateful when Harmony goes back downstairs because I've been up since five this morning and crammed into a compact car all day long. The beginning of a headache is creeping up my neck, and the bed is calling me for a nap, but I can't seem to close my eyes without seeing images of my hook-up with Dan. Huge mistake. My biggest ever. And there's nothing I can do that will truly make it right.

In hindsight, we were on a collision course for the better part of a school year. He was already a member of the Howard Worley English department when I started working there six years ago, and I always thought he was funny and good looking, in a sleep-deprived young father kind of way. This past fall, he moved into the classroom next to mine, and we started eating lunch together during our shared planning period. At the time, I didn't think our behavior was inappropriate because I never considered screwing him, but looking back on it, I wouldn't be happy if my husband got a beer with his female colleague every Friday at four o'clock. What seemed harmless at the time now felt thoughtless and shameful because it led to that fateful moment at the bar.

Ronnie had to be the one who caught us. The others might have woken up in a puddle of drool the next morning, wearing their pajamas inside out, and doubted what they'd seen, but not Ronnie. He was fairly sober and, according to his pinched expression, completely disgusted with us. Hell, I was disgusted with us, too. I motored out of that bar like my reputation was on fire. The cab ride home was a blur of nausea and humiliation as the cabbie navigated through stop-and-go traffic. I kept hoping I was having a nightmare, but no, I wasn't that lucky.

My phone chimes to signal an incoming text, and I dig through my purse to find it. Shit. My department chair Barb.

Dear Andie, How are you? Please call me when you are free. I need to discuss some work matters with you. Thank you, Barb.

Barb is sixty-two and composes text messages like she's writing them with a quill pen. My stomach cramps when I think about what work matters Barb wants to discuss. I doubt it's the new curriculum. Ronnie probably blabbed and word got ‘round to Barb that two of her underlings were screwing around. Is hooking up with a married co-worker a fireable offense or would they just strongly suggest one of us transfer to another school?

There's no way we can work next door to each other anymore. If one of us gets moved to a windowless room in the school's dank basement, it will definitely be me. Our principal strictly enforces the dress code on female students because, in his words, It's unfair to expect male teachers to remain professional when they're looking at girls in revealing clothing. As if grown men have no control over what their dicks might do. I'll be crucified for kissing a married man, and I hate Dan for it.

I need to talk to someone about the Barb situation, and obviously I can't call Dan. That leaves Hugh to pick up the pieces of my shattered psyche. Again.

Hey, homewrecker, Hugh says.

I'm not sure if he's referring to the fact that I kissed Dan or that I'm planning to break up my dad's relationship. It's damning that there are multiple ways to interpret my new nickname.

I'm here, I'm alive, I say, pretending I'm calling for my daily check-in.

When Hugh moved out of our apartment a year ago, I made him promise that we would still talk every day. Considering we're best friends who have lived together since we graduated from Columbia, it felt like a divorce when he moved in with his partner Raymond. He even took our cat with him. Honestly, I didn't want to keep Norman, who had a habit of upchucking nasty furballs in places like my shoes, but I made Hugh feel a little guilty about it anyway.

How's the farm? Hugh asks.

The sound of running water and clanging pots in the background means he's fixing dinner while we talk. Before Hugh moved in with Raymond, he was a five-night-a-week Thai take-out addict. Now he whips up things like marinated pork tenderloin and salmon baked in foil and sends me food porn pics of his plated meals, which seems cruel and unnecessary.

It's positively pastoral here, I say sarcastically. It's all so surreal, seeing my dad living on a farm. What are you cooking?

I bet. His spoon clinks against a pot. I'm making chicken noodle soup. Raymond has a vicious cold, and I'm nursing him back to health like the saint that I am. How is Herb?

Attending to an infected goat hoof, I think.

Well, that sounds...rank. But, hey, if Herb is happy, I'm happy.

That's a dig at me. He thinks I should be happy for Dad, too. His own father is a titan of industry, the kind who snorted coke off of models' asses in the eighties, before he settled down and married Hugh's mother. When Hugh came out in college, his dad took it as an indictment of his own masculinity, and their already strained relationship ended with a bang: the sound of a door slamming in Hugh's astonished face. The following summer, Dad invited Hugh to live in our apartment, and that's when Hugh found his surrogate dad, one who truly loved him just the way he is.

I can't imagine he'd be happy here long term. There's nothing to do. We're in the middle of nowhere.

He's doing Renata, Hugh says.

Stop. That's my father you're talking about, and I'm going to puke.

If it's possible to sigh in a patronizing tone, that's what Hugh does.

When you finally find the person you want to spend your life with, you're willing to make some compromises. That's how love works.

Hugh, you complained bitterly when Raymond wanted to cancel HBO to save money.

"That was during Big Little Lies! And that argument nearly broke us."

I can only imagine.

Have you talked to Dan yet?

I'm proud of him for waiting so long to ask this question and more than ready to unload my feelings on the topic.

He left me a voicemail, but I didn't call him back. And I got a text from Barb, my department chair.

I appreciate that Hugh gasps at this news. Wow. What did she say? You think she knows about Dan already?

She said she wanted to talk about work matters, I say, imitating Barb's Upper West Side tone. I'm terrified she knows, and I can't handle talking to Barb about what happened. She's buttoned-up so tightly, I'm pretty sure she gets dressed in the closet so even her husband won't see her naked.

You know what they say. It's always the quiet, conservative ones who have the wild sex lives. Barb probably has a red room. Hugh laughs at his own joke before getting parental on me again. I always warned you about workplace romances. Never shit where you eat.

Dan doesn't qualify as a romance. He was a friendly co-worker who became an error in judgment when I was at a low point.

Hold on a sec. I have to put the veggies in.

I wish I were in Hugh's apartment, cuddled up on his couch eating chicken soup and watching The Great Cupcake Competition on TV. He always has quality dark chocolate on hand, and I really need some right now.

I'm back, he says. And I'm putting you on speaker so I can stretch and fold my dough. Did I mention I'm making my own sourdough bread?

Dammit, Hugh, what are you, Amish now?

I'll mail you a loaf. There's a pause while he sets down the phone and presumably grabs his dough. You have to call Barb and find out what she knows. Maybe she really was calling about book lists or something.

I know, you're right.

This was the problem with avoiding the unknown. You couldn't be sure if something truly terrible

Reviews for Homewrecker

[judy griffin · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Writer is not for me. Even the cover of book is bad.