Better Beginnings

By Cyprus Hart

Leighton Welch is determined to cleanse her system of all the toxicity in Los Angeles, including her very recent boyfriend. She packs up what she can and moves as far away as possible, to a small town in Maine by the name of Bleaker's Point. A brief encounter with a rude cabin-dweller starts her off on the wrong foot.
Ulysses Sherman lives all by himself in a self-made cabin outside of town, doing odd jobs for the residents and keeping to himself. When Leigh shows up asking for directions, he gets her on her way and out of his life. Or so he thinks.
Leigh, not liking how Ulysses seems to disapprove of her, is tenacious in her pursuit of answers. When she discovers the secret of why he's living in the middle of nowhere, alone and crabby, will it be too much for even her to overcome?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cyprus Hart
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201210465

Cyprus Hart

Cyprus Hart is an author of romance in all flavors, as long as the flavor includes spice. His newest novel, Darkness Exposed, is book two in the paranormal romance series Light Divided. Cyprus has written since childhood, often crafting entire worlds as an excuse to get two people together.  He loves finding ways to weave themes of love into all sorts of genres, be it contemporary, fantasy, or science-fiction. If there’s even the slightest opportunity to get some kissing in somewhere, he’ll find a way. He currently cohabitates with an old Chihuahua and a young Border Collie, and doesn’t like coffee or tea. What a weirdo...

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t need your shit , I don’t need your pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you, is the second to last thing I shout at my dumbass soon-to-be ex, Jacob.

Leighton, he says, using my full name, which only my parents or people who are trying to condescend me do. As If I’m a child needing reminding of her name. I’m sure we can work this out.

I don’t want to work it out! I’m done working it out! I throw something handy from the coffee table. It might be a book. I don’t often throw things, or lose my temper, but in recent months every little thing set me off. I’m tired and stressed and unhappy and doubting myself. I don’t like doubting myself. Only Jacob, with his wavy hair and sneaky way of talking, makes me unsure of what I want.

Don’t be unreasonable, he says, hands spread wide as if fending off my emotions.

If there’d been any chance of reconciliation, it’s in the grave now. I’ve been nothing but reasonable the last couple of months as he slowly tried to chip away at the respectability of my job. Ever since he’d gotten the art show off the back of some review in a dinky indie art magazine I can’t be bothered to remember the name of, he’s been trying to imply that maybe I should search for another way to generate income. As if I wasn’t the one supporting him.

I slam the door behind me on the way out, and as soon as I also slam the door of my car, I text him he’d better get a hotel for a week or I’ll be bringing all my sketchy friends to his next show and we’ll all hang around and tarnish his fucking reputation or whatever he thinks would happen.

Kelsey greets me as soon as I knock on her door, lets me cry on her shoulder and sleep on her couch, and then the next day we go back to my place. Jacob is gone, lucky for him. An idea is already forming in my mind of what I want to do, but it’s so crazy I don’t want to tell Kelsey.

Are you sure you’re going to be okay? she asks.

Totally. I’m just going to get a temporary place to live, move my stuff, and it’ll all work out, I say, which is technically the truth.

As soon as she leaves, I find the smallest town in Maine with a house for sale, a place called Bleaker’s Point, and buy the house sight unseen. Straight cash, with twenty percent advanced to prove I’ve got the money.

Over the next week, I sell off everything I can’t fit in my car, leave the key to be our shared apartment on the mat, and start my cross-country journey. In my imagination someone breaks in and steals everything left.

I’ll probably end up moving right back to LA in six months, when I figure out that Bleaker’s Point is cold and far away from everyone I know and there probably isn’t a Whole Foods or anywhere to charge my car. Plus whatever other shortcomings I’ve yet to discover.

Yeah, I might not have thought this through, but I’m tired of having my decisions second guessed. This is my choice, and I’m doing it, and no one is going to stop me.

By the time I get over the Rocky Mountains, I’m convinced it was a terrible idea. I call my mom to either reinforce my decision to leave, or to convince me to come back, I’m not sure which.

Oh, Leighton, she sighs when I call her from Denver. Be safe, okay? The world isn’t ending you know.

Then it will continue to not end in Maine, I retort, deciding right then not to admit this might be crazy. She has the decency not to push me. I always got the sense she’s a bit jealous of my life. If she’d been born fifty years later, perhaps her own life would have been different.

When can we come visit?

I don’t know. I have to go check out.

Okay. Have fun!

Bye.

The border of Maine reverses my faith when I’m faced with snow and the cold, but I’ve come too far to turn back now. Stubbornness wins out.

I’ve passed the last vestiges of civilization an hour again, and now I’m lost. The map on my phone doesn’t match up with reality, and I don’t have a signal to figure out why. All the roads look the same. Two lanes. Trees on both sides. Lots and lots of snow, because it’s the 1st of January and I guess snow doesn’t melt in Maine until sometime in August. I should have brought more than one coat. I’m going to end up parked on the side of the road all night, which started like an hour ago at 4pm for shit’s sake.

Tooling along at less than the speed limit in case I miss a sign, grateful the road is almost cleared, I again ponder the fate of my car that hasn’t been charged lately. With nothing so convenient as a gas station, it’s not going to get charged, either. Which means I can’t leave it on. Which means no heat, which means I guess I’ll freeze to death tonight. Jacob’ll be really sorry then.

A gap in the trees on my side of the road opens up, and while it’s a change in the scenery, it’s also not plowed. What might be a cabin is hidden by the screen of pine trees. Maybe they know where this Bleaker’s Point is, or maybe they’ll let me sleep there. Maybe they won’t kill me.

Not willing to leave my car on the side of the road with all my earthly possessions in it, I trundle up the drifty path on tires not meant for ice. How I’m going to get out is a problem for future me.

I park as close to the front porch as I dare. It’s not so bad a house, really. It’s a cabin because it’s made of logs, but it’s not some primitive one room affair. There must be at least four whole rooms.

Another thing I should’ve brought was gloves, but I’d need to own a pair first. Clamping my hands between my arms and body, I pick my way through the almost knee deep snow, up the stairs, and onto the porch. I knock before I can consider all the horrible ways this could go wrong.

Nothing happens.

Hello? I ask to the cold air and wooden planks. Is someone home? I can see lights on. I’m sorry, but I’m totally lost. And cold. And I’ll need to charge my car soon but I guess you probably don’t have a car charging station. Just an outlet and a long extension cord would be okay. I mean, it would take like all night because it’s house power, but that’s okay. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch. Hello?

I try knocking again. Maybe they didn’t hear me. This time a quiet scraping noise comes from inside.

If I had a choice I wouldn’t bother you, sorry. I’m trying to get to Bleaker’s Point but I have no idea where it is and Google doesn’t know where it is, either, and like I said I’m kind of cold and actually pretty hungry. If you could at least tell me how to get there, I’ll leave. Sorry. Hello?

The door opens a crack. A striking blue eye, a whole foot higher than my own, peers down at me. There appears to be a brown beard, as well as flannel, attached to the person who I assume is a man, but I’m not going to assume.

Bleaker’s Point? the beard asks.

Yes. I just bought a house there. I’m lost.

The blue eye stares at me a while longer. It doesn’t appear to be happy with me. Turn right, go four miles, turn left, you’ll see the sign. The door shuts, and quiet footsteps go away.

Okay. Thanks.

The door doesn’t respond. I go back to my car and begin the process of backing along the unpaved and uneven track/road hybrid, only nearly fishtailing into a tree twice. Thank goodness there isn’t a speck of traffic, because getting back onto the road itself requires a lot of rocking back the car back and forth to get over the hump between gravel and pavement. How people drive in these conditions is beyond me.

I make a U-turn because I backed the wrong way, and follow the curt yet accurate directions. Hopefully not everyone is as grumpy. I’m used to rude people, I mean LA isn’t a bastion of politeness, but all the stereotypes would lead me to believe everyone up here is polite. Maine might as well be Canada, and everyone knows how polite Canadians are. Maybe I interrupted his yoga time.

As soon as I hit the sign proclaiming Bleaker’s Point, Pop. 542 I get the barest of signals on my phone. Juggling it around to call the number of the person I bought the house from to let her know I’ve arrived, I spare a moment to wonder if she sold it to move to somewhere with civilization. Seems smart. I can’t believe I did this. I was really angry.

She meets me at the house, which is much better looking than I hoped for. Days of driving have left me plenty of time to imagine it as barely standing, inhabited by cats and rats who’d made an uneasy alliance, with no roof and no toilet.

Instead, it’s a fairly plain but tasteful one-story affair, with a postcard yard in the front contained by a short wooden fence and no sign of rat or cat habitation. They’re probably hibernating.

A few polite words, a shake of hands, even though I can’t feel my fingers, and I’ve got the key. I unlock and open the door. It came partially furnished with a skeleton crew of a table, some chairs, a couch, and in the bedroom a plain and bare bedframe and mattress combo. Pretty much everything is going to need to be changed out if I plan to really stay here.

I’d told my followers I’d be on a short hiatus for a week, so that’ll give me time to get things decorated. Until then, I’ve got a backlog and some out-takes to keep people engaged. It might make me kind of opportunistic that halfway through the drive I’d planned several ways to twist my situation into a content advantage. Plus, maybe I need some sympathy and nice words.

I’m tempted to leave all my stuff in my car and crash, because I’m super exhausted, but until I figure out what this town is about, I don’t want to risk someone stealing things. I might be close to Canada, but I’ve also heard tales of hill people, and that blue-eyed, beared, flannel cabin-creature has caused me to wonder. I mean, who lives in a cabin all by themselves? No one without things to hide.

So I spend the next hour hauling my possessions inside and dumping them in a cluttered heap next to the door. By the time I’m done, I almost wish I hadn’t flipped the heat on. I flop onto the cool tile of the kitchen, coat discarded and shirt hiked up to really get the maximum impact, and call my best friend.

Leigh? Where’ve you been?

Hey Kels. I moved to Maine.

The pause is significant. Have you been taking drugs? It’s okay, you can tell me.

No, I haven’t been taking drugs. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

Remember the time you dropped that tab?

Yes. I mean, I remember you telling me about that time. I’m not taking drugs. I dumped Jacob.

Okay. She pauses again. I fail to see how these two things are connected.

I needed a change. Also, he’s a jackass and I didn’t want to be in the same city as him anymore. The tiles are getting warm again, so I roll over all the way to find a new patch of cool, and bump into the plain off-white cabinets. The kitchen couldn’t be called spacious.

Kind of drastic, but hey, you gotta do you.

Make sure he’s not spreading a bunch of lies. I left him, not the other way around. Also, tell everyone his dick is small. Like, super tiny.

I’m making a note, I promise. What are you going to do in Maine?

Same thing I always do, but now free of drama, surrounded by the calming solitude of nature and maple syrup and people who are real people.

Real people? What does that mean? I’m a real people.

I get up, having exhausted all the cold in the beige tile. I didn’t mean that, but c’mon. You know what I mean. LA is full of like, fake people. Everyone’s had plastic surgery, they all pretend to like each other, it’s all about the clout.

This time the pause is filled with stifled laughter. You’re literally a content creator, Leigh. You only care about clout. You’ve had plastic surgery!

Just a little nose touch up! And the boobs don’t count, everyone does them.

Okay, well, you’re clearly still in shock and denial.

Ugh! If you’re going to be mean to me, I’m hanging up.

Are you coming back? There’s a casual lilt to her words, but the emotion hiding underneath is clear. I feel it, too. I’m a long, long way