No Regrets

By Courtenay O'Bryan

In the last year, Briony Gossage's life has been turned upside down by a nasty divorce, the loss of her parents, and a nightmarish new boss. To top it all off, she's now an empty nester, feels unloved, is lonely, depressed, and totally stressed about turning fifty. She desperately wants to reinvent herself but doesn't know how until a letter from a lawyer changes the course of her life forever. A total stranger has died and left the bulk of her estate to Briony. The estate not only includes a hefty sum of money but a quirky cottage called Three Hens on a small island in Maine, a flock of free-range chickens, and a cairn terrier.

Briony moves to Three Hens, hoping to learn about her mysterious benefactor. But along the way, she learns that fifty is the new thirty, her empty nest maybe isn't as empty as she had imagined, and life is teeming with possibilities...especially when it comes to love. Spend a summer on the island with Briony as she reinvents herself and commits to leading a life of no regrets.

Please also put as many of these reviews as possible:

Praise for No Regrets:

It's hard to resist a story that takes place on an island. A great read to while away the hours, especially if you're shipwrecked. - Gilligan

I love it when there's even just a hint of a friendly ghost in a tale. - Casper

A perfect mystery to savor on a chilly day in front of a crackling fire with a pot of Earl Grey tea and a currant scone. - Miss Marple

Forget the tea and crumpets, honey. I read it on a blazing hot day in a cabana with a pitcher of martinis and some caviar. An utterly divine story! Hiccup. And that Briony has some spunk. You go, girl! - Mae West

Frankly, I don't give a damn what Scarlett says. She's delusional. Always has been. Briony is nothing like Scarlett, thank god. Briony is everything a woman should be: unselfish, compassionate, smart, and witty. I wish I'd met her first. - Rhett Butler

Any story with a cairn terrier is bound to become a bestseller. I give it ten woofs. - Toto

To be continued...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886546163

Book preview

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No Regrets

Courtenay O'Bryan

Copyright © 2023 Courtenay O’Bryan

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-608-8 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-616-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

To my husband, Paul, who is honest and faithful and true.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

About the Author

To my husband, Paul, who is honest and faithful and true.

Chapter 1

Anniversary Surprise

The entire drive home from work that Friday afternoon, I couldn't get it out of my mind: tomorrow, I would be a half-century old. Turning thirty, even forty, hadn't bothered me. But fifty, that was a different matter altogether, and one that was unsettling, to put it mildly.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Outwardly, I didn't look any different, but inwardly, I no longer recognized myself. I used to be carefree and happy, and now it seemed I was perpetually in a bad mood. The old me—adoring wife, caring daughter, successful and fulfilled business executive—had checked out.

Where had she gone?

For starters, on my twenty-third—and, as it turns out, final—wedding anniversary, I decided to surprise my husband, Kyle, and it had worked spectacularly—for both of us. I had hoped for fireworks but never expected the sheer magnitude of the blast.

You see, I had wanted to recreate our first date, an idyllic picnic under a weeping willow tree overlooking a tranquil pond. Young love is truly magical.

We met when I was getting my MBA, and Kyle was one of my professors. There wasn't a female student, or staff member for that matter, who didn't fawn at the sight of him. You know the type—young Robert Redford-ish, shaggy, blond hair with long bangs, endearing crooked smile, dreamy blue eyes and a wink that made you feel special. He always wore faded jeans and a wide leather belt, its large pewter buckle shaped like a peace sign. Very, very cool. Incongruously, he liked crisp oxford shirts with the sleeves rolled up and top three buttons undone, showing off his strong arms, tight pecs, and hairy chest.

When I realized he was interested in me, a freckled, pug-nosed redhead, I could hardly believe my luck. It started with that lopsided smile, his eyes lingering on me a few seconds longer than necessary, and then a slight wink before he looked away. A wink gets me every time. It forges a bond, like you're sharing a secret. Sparks had flickered in our classes, but ignition didn't occur until graduation day at a reception following the ceremony.

It's frowned upon for a prof to date a student, he whispered so close to my ear I could feel his warm breath, but you're not a student anymore. Then he gave me a full-fledged wink. Yowza.

Goosebumps erupted, and my heart started fluttering madly like a hummingbird chasing nectar. The next thing I knew, the fluttering beelined it south to areas that had lain dormant for longer than I liked to admit. It had been a long, dry spell for me, and it looked like things were finally picking up. God, he was hot.

I agreed to meet him for lunch the following day and found him down by the pond under a weeping willow tree, its branches sashaying in the wind. He was lying on a plaid wool blanket, hands cupping his head, elbows in the air. A picnic basket held a crisp, chilled sauvignon blanc, chunks of honeydew melon wrapped in prosciutto, French bread, a wedge of Brie, and strawberries for dessert. Crosby, Stills, and Nash's Wooden Ships played softly from a boom box, and a gentle breeze caressed us like whispered sweet nothings. It was so romantic I nearly, well…swooned. He had thought of everything. Okay, maybe not the breeze, but I was so infatuated at that point I thought he could do anything, even control the weather. The pièce de résistance was dessert, a kiss that tasted of strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, sinfully delicious and addicting. That picnic was the start of us, and twenty-three years later, we were still married when most of our friends were divorced.

So I came up with the idea of another picnic, just like our first date, as an anniversary surprise. Who knows, maybe it would reignite the flickering flame of our marriage? Before Kyle left for work that morning, I asked him what his schedule was for the day, knowing full well that he had a long lunch break.

Same old, same old. Class at eight thirty, student conference at ten. Next class isn't until two, then another meeting. I'll be home around six-ish. Whaddya say we go out for dinner?

Perfect, I said, feeling confident he'd remembered our anniversary. We rarely ate out anymore as he said he preferred my cooking. Plus, he always seemed to have a tutoring session or a committee meeting in the evening.

Going anywhere for lunch? I asked casually.

Nope. He patted his backpack. Took last night's leftovers. He dashed off without so much as a token peck on the cheek before I had a chance to protest.

Call me weird, but I'm not a cereal or bagel type of breakfast eater. I love leftovers and especially, to my son Cameron's revulsion, wilted salads. Cam once discovered me at 6:30 a.m. tucking into a slimy, day-old Caesar salad absolutely heaping with anchovies.

I can't watch you eat that, he said, shaking his head in utter disgust. "That is just so wrong on so many levels."

So I was more than a little peeved that Kyle had snagged not only the leftover cashew chicken stir fry but also the mandarin spinach salad for his lunch. The salad was especially yummy, with a tangy Asian vinaigrette dressing of rice wine vinegar, sesame oil, tamari, garlic, and grated ginger. I had been thinking about those leftovers ever since the night before when I had stashed them in the back of the refrigerator where I thought they would be safe until breakfast rolled around. And now, damn it, my breakfast had been snatched right from under my nose and would probably go to waste since I had other plans for Kyle's lunch.

I had arranged to take the day off from work so that I could assemble an identical picnic to the one Kyle had served on our first date. I downloaded Wooden Ships on my iPhone. The previous day, I had purchased new makeup and some sexy underwear: a lacy black thong and matching push-up bra. I squeezed myself into skinny black jeans that hugged my ever-so-slightly sagging butt and donned a low-cut, clingy blue top that revealed more than a little of my ample cleavage. Then I spritzed myself with a sexy new perfume, Ma Cherie Amour. I surveyed myself from all angles in the full-length mirror and smiled in satisfaction. Hell, I looked so good I almost whistled at myself. Once Kyle laid eyes on me in this getup, he'd forget all about lunch and lead me straight back home to le boudoir. Ooh-la-la! It would be an anniversary to remember.

At noon, I arrived at the university. Kyle's office was situated at the end of a long wing, but he also had a private entrance off a courtyard. A parking lot was adjacent to the courtyard so that private entrance was what Kyle normally used. I parked next to his car and walked toward his door. High-pitched giggling and Kyle's deep laughter wafted out of an open skylight. I rapped on the door, an old-fashioned type, glass on the top half, covered by a translucent curtain. The laughter stopped with my knock, and there was silence. But Kyle didn't answer the door. I placed the plaid blanket and picnic basket on the landing as I tried to peer through the curtain, but I only saw a shadow moving around inside. I knocked again and heard Kyle say gruffly, Hold on a sec.

When a lot more than a second elapsed, I walked around the corner to try to peek in the window. Just then, I heard the door open and my husband say, What the hell?

I dashed around the corner, smiling at him as he stood there, pondering the picnic basket. Surprise! Happy twenty-third anniversary, lover boy! I threw my arms around him, pressed my pushed-up, now-perky boobs against his chest, and kissed him passionately. My tongue caught a taste of that yummy Asian vinaigrette.

But as I was going in for another tasty kiss, Kyle took a step backward and looked at me in total shock. There was no endearing, lopsided smile. It was more like a crooked grimace, with the emphasis on crooked, as in deceitful, and grimace, as in pain. No laughing eyes. No wink. No words. In other words, a flat line.

I initially attributed my husband's sudden onset of catatonia to his having forgotten our anniversary. He was embarrassed. Poor baby.

Then I noticed his shirt. Yes, as usual, the top three buttons were undone. But the fourth button was in the fifth buttonhole, and his shirt was askew and uncharacteristically wrinkled. The term unmade bed came to mind, which in turn got me thinking about the futon in his office…

Suddenly, I understood. I suspected what I would find inside. Kyle tried to block me from going in, but I pushed past him and confirmed my suspicion. The giggler was young—graduate student age—and sexy and beautiful. Her skinny jeans made mine look fat, and it was abundantly, and I stress the word abundantly, clear that she did not need the assistance of a push-up bra. Holy cow!

Above all, though, she was cocky. Hands on her hips, she gave me the once-over, knowing full well who I was. All she said was, Oops, and flashed me a toothy smile that said, "I win, you old bag." What really got my attention, though, was the piece of spinach plastered against her two front teeth. On Kyle's desk sat two cheap paper plates, with remnants of my cashew chicken stir fry and mandarin spinach salad.

It's one thing to catch your husband cheating, but another matter altogether to discover him and his squeeze cozying up to the meal you slaved over the night before—the very same meal I had coveted for my breakfast.

The bitch had eaten my leftovers. That alone was grounds for divorce.

After that, the picnic was over.

Try as I might, I couldn't forgive the transgressions. Less than a year later, Kyle and I separated and shortly thereafter got divorced. I was done with Kyle and men in general. Who needs them?

Around the time of the separation and divorce, several other things happened that had a profound effect on my life.

My beloved mother dropped dead from a heart attack.

My father's dementia progressed, and I was forced to put him in a nursing home until he, too, passed away.

My mentor/boss retired and was replaced by an asshole.

Only one vestige of the old me survived: I remained a loving mother, but my only child was in law school out of state.

I was lonely, depressed, and on the cusp of turning fifty. I needed to reinvent myself but didn't know how. It turned out I didn't have to do anything. A mysterious benefactor had already taken care of it.

Chapter 2

The Lawyer's Letter

My evolution began when I got home from work that Friday. I sneaked out of the office while my boss Jared was on a conference call, bypassing any possible last-minute assignments that would ruin my birthday celebration the next day with my best friend, something I looked forward to every year.

I pulled into the driveway, and no sooner had I entered the house when my cell phone rang. I fished it out of my purse and glanced at the screen: Jared. Asshole. I let the call go to voice mail and poured myself a generous glass of pinot noir, sank into the only comfy chair in the living room, kicked off my heels, and propped up my aching feet on the ottoman.

I thumbed through the mail and smiled as I recognized the left-handed hen-scratching of my son, Cameron. He always remembered my birthday.

I noted that he had addressed the envelope to Mrs. Briony Ward. Had he forgotten that I had reclaimed my maiden name? Or was the use of my former married surname intentional? He had not taken the divorce well, despite being twenty-one years old at the time, and I sometimes suspected that he wished his parents would reunite. But that would never happen. After what Kyle had done to me, I had no interest in even dating.

My father had lived by the rule: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I didn't need to be fooled twice to know that the sexy grad student, whose name was Chastity if you can believe it, hadn't been the first. When I looked back on my marriage, I realized things had started to change when Cam went away to college. I had gotten a promotion that required a substantial amount of business travel. When I was home, however, Kyle was often distant. He had numerous evening meetings and an inordinate number of cell phone calls that had to be taken in another room (Business, of course). Sex wasn't as frequent, but hey, we were getting older. After all, he was exhausted from those evening meetings. I had chosen to ignore rather than confront, a tactic I had learned from my mother.

I held off filing for divorce until the summer Cam graduated from college, not wanting to spoil my son's senior year. As miserable as I was, I wasn't willing to sacrifice Cam's happiness for my own. He was always a sensitive child. So I safeguarded my leftovers and stayed with my cheating son-of-a-bitch husband until Cam's graduation. The last year of unholy matrimony had been a living hell.

The coup de grâce occurred on Bastille Day, which coincidentally was Kyle's birthday. I paid the process server to dress like a waiter and deliver the divorce complaint in a picnic basket adorned with festive blue and white balloons and a big red bow. I even had the guy use a phony French accent. Bonjour, monsieur. Bon anniversaire et bon appétit!

I could just imagine Kyle's face when he opened that basket hoping to find champagne, pâté de foie gras, and truffles from his latest paramour. Au revoir, asshole. Bite me. The whole affair had awakened latent personality traits in me. I had become what I call creatively vengeful, and it was extremely satisfying.

The feeling of liberation that came with the divorce surprised me. I never realized how unhappy I had become with Kyle and how afraid I was to question things or speak my mind. I never knew I had become my mother.

My relief at being divorced made me reflect on my parents' marriage. I felt remorse that my mother had put up with my father all those years. I wished she had had the courage to throw in the towel. Dad had started his career as an Army surgeon, but after he left the service and went into private practice, he continued running his operating room like a regiment. And he brought it home with him. He barked commands at his family the way he did at the hospital staff. He never cheated on Mom, but he also rarely treated her with the respect she deserved. He had destroyed any confidence my mother had ever had and had made her fragile. Perpetual anger simmered inside him, causing us always to be on edge, waiting for the boilover.

Only one person was ever capable of softening my father's tough exterior, and that was my son. From the time Cam was a toddler, he had been drawn to my father and had somehow managed to crack that hard shell, exposing a soft, kind creature I never knew existed. But sadly, that creature only revealed himself to my son.

My cell phone rang again, and I glanced at the screen. Jared again. Damn him! I ignored the call and picked up Cam's card and slit it open.

Hey, Zin, Happy 50th! IOU a b-day dinner. See ya in 2 weekends.

XXXOOO,

Your favorite son,

Cam

I laughed at my only child's note.

I kissed the birthday card, stood it upright on the end table, and continued sorting through the mail. My cell phone rang, and I checked the display. Jared again. Shithead. I took a slug of wine and let the call go to voice mail.

An envelope caught my attention, this one addressed to Ms. Briony Zinnia Gossage, my given name. My mother insisted it was the drugs they gave her during and after childbirth that had possessed her to name me after her favorite flower. As a young child, Cameron thought my middle name was the most hilarious he had ever heard, and from that point on, he had started calling me Zinnia, which eventually got shortened to Zin, replacing Mom altogether. Even Cam's friends called me Zin. My mother thought that was a disrespectful name; personally, I loved it. Why would I want to be a plain-Jane Mom, Mommy, Mother, or even worse, Mrs. Ward when I could be Zin?

I looked at the return address. A law firm in town, right here in Portland, Maine. I'd never heard of it, but then again, there were probably hundreds of law firms in this city. The very second I slit open the envelope, the front door blew open and scared the hell out of me. It was like a genie or a spirit had flown out of the envelope, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Creepy. I got up and closed the door, then returned to my chair to read the lawyer's letter:

Dear Ms. Gossage:

It is with regret that I inform you of the recent death of Charlotte Rose Gossage. Kindly contact me at your earliest convenience.

With my deepest sympathies,

Joseph J. Walters, Esq.

I stared at the letter in shock. Charlotte Rose. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up again.

Chapter 3

Charlotte Rose

In the year after my mother's death, my father's dementia had progressed to the point where I'd had to institutionalize him for the last four months of his life. There were days when I visited him that he didn't recognize me and other times when he was completely lucid. I learned to check with the nurse's station before I went in to see him, just to gauge how choppy the sea might be. The last time I saw my father, only two days before he died, the nurse said he had been agitated since his visitor the day before.

I was surprised to hear someone had come to see him since all his friends had died, and Cam and I were his only surviving relatives. Who was his visitor?

The nurse said, A lady. She didn't stay long on account of your father who started screaming bloody murder.

How odd. Did she sign in?

She showed me the register. The name was slanted and illegible.

What did she look like?

The nurse paused for a minute and then laughed. Now that I think about it, kind of like Mary Poppins! Floppy hat, long skirt, big black umbrella. It rained off and on yesterday, and her umbrella was almost as big as she was! I'll tell you something, though. When your father started yelling, she came out of that room like her panties were on fire. I've never seen feet move so fast.

I scrutinized the signature again and still couldn't decipher it.

I knocked lightly on my father's door and walked in. Hi, Dad, I said tentatively, trying to test the waters. He was lying down, his back to me. I walked around the bed so that I could see his face.

His cloudy brown eyes popped open, and he blinked several times like he was having a vision. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he was scowling. I handed him the eyeglasses that were on the bedside table.

He put them on and then pulled himself upright, took a good look at me, and screamed, I told you, get the hell out of my sight, Charlotte Rose! He reached over to his bedside table, picked up a pitcher of water, and heaved it at me, catching me on the shoulder and drenching me in the process. That was the last time I ever saw my father alive, and those were his last words to me: Charlotte Rose.

It was uncanny. I reread the lawyer's letter and looked at my watch: 5:47 p.m. I reached for the phone and dialed the law firm's number.

After three rings, a recording picked up. Damn! The office was closed until Monday morning. After the beep, I left my name and cell phone number and asked that Mr. Walters return my call as soon as he got the message.

I paced around the room reading and rereading the letter. Who was Charlotte Rose Gossage? I searched through my memory bank. My parents were both only children, so I had no aunts, uncles, or cousins. I couldn't recall ever hearing of a relative named Charlotte Rose Gossage.

I walked into the kitchen, took my laptop out of my briefcase, and poured myself another glass of wine. I sat at the kitchen table, turned on the computer, and pulled up the Portland newspaper's website, clicked on Obituaries, and typed in the mystery woman's name.

After a few seconds, she appeared.

May 14. Charlotte Rose Gossage, 67, longtime resident of Peales Island, Maine. Librarian and author (pen name Briony Beane) of the popular children's series, Zinnia Lavinia. Funeral at St. Brigit's Catholic Church, 10:00 a.m. on May 17; burial immediately following at the Fogg Cemetery, Peales Island.

That's all it said.

She had died ten days ago, just one day before my father, on the little island two miles across the bay.

Chapter 4

Zinnia Lavinia

My cell phone rang a fourth time. Jared. Why was that pain-in-the-ass hounding me? I took another sip of wine and answered the call just before it went to voice mail. Good evening, Jared, I said sweetly, stressing the word evening. How dare he call me after hours? What can I do for you?

I took another sip of the pinot noir. God, he made me want to drink. I picked up the bottle of wine and