Picking Up the Pieces Read online

  Table of Contents

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Author Information

  Author’s Notes

  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

  Picking Up the Pieces

  Baytown Boys Series

  Maryann Jordan

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Author Information

  Author’s Notes

  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

  35. Epilogue

  Picking Up the Pieces (Baytown Boys)

  Copyright 2018 Maryann Jordan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by: Becky McGraw

  Editor: Shannon Brandee Eversoll

  Proofreader: Myckel Anne Phillips

  ISBN: 978-1-947214-07-1

  My father-in-law served in the Navy during World War II. He commanded a PT boat in the Pacific, alongside John F. Kennedy, who would later become our president.

  In Picking Up the Pieces, at one of the American Legion meetings, an older veteran named Dennis talked about his story. His words are the words from my father-in-law.

  This book is dedicated to him, as well as all of the service men and women who have served.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I have to thank my husband, Michael. Always believing in me and wanting me to pursue my dreams, this book would not be possible without his support. To my daughters, MaryBeth and Nicole, I taught you to follow your dreams and now it is time for me to take my own advice. You two are my inspiration.

  My best friend, Tammie, who for over twenty years has been with me through thick and thin. You’ve filled the role of confidant, supporter, and sister.

  My other best friend, Myckel Anne, who keeps me on track, keeps me grounded, and most of all – keeps my secrets. Thank you for not only being my proofreader and my Marketing PA, but friend. I do not know what I would do without you in my life.

  My beta readers kept me sane, cheered me on, found all my silly errors, and often helped me understand my characters through their eyes. A huge thank you to Denise, Sandi, Barbara, Jennifer, Danielle, Tracey, Lynn, Stracey, and Jamila for being my beta girls who love alphas!

  Shannon Brandee Eversoll as my editor and Myckel Anne Phillips as my proofreader gave their time and talents to making all my books as well written as it can be.

  My street team, Jordan Jewels, you all are amazing! You volunteer your time to promote my books and I cannot thank you enough! I hope you will stay with me, because I have lots more stories inside, just waiting to be written!

  My Personal Assistant Barbara Martoncik keeps me going when I feel overwhelmed and I am so grateful for not only her assistance, but her friendship.

  Most importantly, thank you readers. You allow me into your home for a few hours as you disappear into my characters and you support me as I follow my indie author dreams.

  Author Information

  I am an avid reader of romance novels, often joking that I cut my teeth on the historical romances. I have been reading and reviewing for years. In 2013, I finally gave into the characters in my head, screaming for their story to be told. From these musings, my first novel, Emma’s Home, The Fairfield Series was born.

  I was a high school counselor having worked in education for thirty years. I live in Virginia, having also lived in four states and two foreign countries. I have been married to a wonderfully patient man for thirty-six years. When writing, my dog or one of my four cats can generally be found in the same room if not on my lap.

  Please take the time to leave a review of this book (on Goodreads, Amazon).

  Feel free to contact me, especially if you enjoyed my book. I love to hear from readers!

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  Website

  Author’s Note

  I have lived in numerous states as well as overseas, but for the last twenty years have called Virginia my home. All my stories take place in this wonderful commonwealth, but I choose to use fictional city names with some geographical accuracies.

  These fictionally named cities allow me to use my creativity and not feel constricted by attempting to accurately portray the areas.

  It is my hope that my readers will allow me this creative license and understand my fictional world.

  I also do quite a bit of research on my books and try to write on subjects with accuracy. There will always be points where creative license will be used to create scenes or plots.

  Four years ago, my husband and I discovered the Eastern Shore of Virginia and fell in love with the area. The mostly rural strip of land forming the peninsula originating from Maryland, has managed to stay non-commercialized. The quiet, private area full of quaint towns captured our hearts and we rushed to buy a little place there.

  It has become our retreat when we need to leave the hustle and bustle of our lives. I gather ideas, create characters, and spend time writing when not walking on the beach collecting sea glass.

  1

  The moon hung over the Chesapeake Bay, off the Eastern Shore of Virginia, creating shimmers of diamond sparkles across the undulating water as it sent wave after wave upon the shore. The inky water caught the moon’s reflection, but t
he night swallowed most of the illumination so even the ships anchored in the bay were only visible by the lights on their decks. The waterfowl were now silent, asleep on their perches, no longer searching for food. The waves cast seafoam, seaweed, and shells upon the shore as the tide rolled in.

  And, the beach accepted the deposits of sea glass that the ocean deemed worthy to leave for whoever was lucky enough to discover the gifts.

  Lance Greene might have appreciated the peaceful night, since sleep was elusive and his beachfront house had a perfect view of the bay. But, as usual on sleepless nights, he stayed inside in his spare room that he had turned into a studio.

  The modest one-story home, nestled behind a large dune, sat on a slight hill overlooking the bay. He had been immediately drawn to the house, the wide windows allowing light to chase out the dark corners during the daytime. The cedar frame had turned grey with age, but the previous owners had painted it with a clear, weather-resistant stain making sure it would last against the forces of nature.

  The front of the house faced the road, a small porch framing the front door, almost as an afterthought. Lance knew the heart of the house would be facing the bay and the sunsets, so the foyer would only be usable as an entrance, not a place to gather. But that hadn’t bothered him at the time…he had no one to welcome to his home anyway.

  The realtor had wanted to show him other, more exclusive properties—code word for more expensive and larger—but Lance had walked away from the hawkish woman with his hand up, silencing her prattle. With a fierce glower sent her way, he noted she stayed outside while he had roamed inside by himself.

  By himself—that was the way he liked most things. He found life was easier when he separated himself from others. Their needs, wants, desires no longer became his responsibility. Thoughts of his former self—before it all went to hell in Afghanistan—were pushed to the back of his mind.

  Just as he suspected, the focus of the house was toward the back, facing the bay. And as he wandered through the empty rooms, he had no trouble visualizing what his life could be, in this nowhere place on the shore. The former owners had taken the smaller rooms and opened them to create a large area, containing both the long living room and dining room, which flowed into the kitchen. A few upgrades in there were fine with him. He was not a foodie and had no intentions of becoming one. Off the living room was a screened porch, large and accommodating.

  The lines of the space were pleasing with vaulted ceilings and large windows allowing the sunlight to spear inside. He had sucked in a deep breath, feeling as though he might have finally found a place where he could breathe.

  The master bedroom was wide enough for his king-sized bed and the adjoining bathroom had been upgraded as well. Not a small man, he appreciated the oversized, glass-walled shower. Nodding to himself, he discovered the other two bedrooms. One faced the side of the house, positioned so it received both morning and afternoon sun. The lighted space beckoned to him and he recognized it for what it was. An out-of-the-way perfect place to land.

  He had walked back outside, after glancing into the other bedroom, hall bathroom, and laundry room, and stalked toward the realtor, ignoring her eyes widening as he approached. “I’ll take it.”

  Her gaze had jumped from him to the house behind and with a wide smile, she said, “Lovely! Let’s go get the offer signed.”

  Her curious questions about his reasons for moving to the Eastern Shore went unanswered. She had given up her inquisition as his stoic persona left her with nothing to do but focus on filling out the paperwork, not gaining information on the newest resident-to-be.

  Now, a year later, bending over the table, he sat on his stool, peering through his tabletop, lighted, magnifying glass, his hands holding the delicate wire and shards of sea glass that he used in his artwork. The work was meticulous, but he relished the creative process from idea to design to completion. An exquisite piece.

  As he finished drilling the tiny hole in the glass, he wove the gold wire through and around, occasionally testing his work against the design drawing in the notebook next to him on the table. Once satisfied with what he had accomplished, he leaned back, stretching the kinks out of his spine and neck. He preferred working in the daylight, but sleepless nights were put to use as well.

  Standing, he headed toward the door, stopping to look at his newest artistic endeavor. A mosaic created out of perfectly fitted pieces of sea glass lay on another table. The play of light off the multi-colors caught his eye and a slight smile escaped as he appreciated the work. With a final sigh, he flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness before he made his way through the house. He passed by the living room, now furnished with a long, comfortable sofa and several deep-cushioned chairs facing a flat screen TV on an antique wooden stand. Some of his artwork hung about the room, the only nod to living on the beach. He shunned decorating in commercial beach—wooden signs painted with sayings about how life is better with your toes in the sand or shells strung in a fishing net. Instead, he opted for comfortable. Masculine. Private. Uncluttered. The way he liked his life to be.

  Opening the refrigerator door, he pulled out a bottle of water, draining the entire contents while standing in his kitchen, his throat working as he swallowed the cold liquid. Tossing the bottle into the recycle bin, he glanced at the clock on the stove. 2:17 a.m. The time did not really matter to him as he had no place to be the next day. Or the day after that. Working from home afforded him the chance to create when the muse moved him and not worry about whether it was during the day or the middle of the night. Having no social calendar to contend with also made life simpler.

  Simpler. That’s why I moved here. No expectations. No disappointments. No friends to lose in the middle of the desert. Removed from society, but with just a thread of connection.

  Pushing aside thoughts of his time in the Army, he was assaulted by the more recent naggings from his mother.

  Walking into his bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, willing his memories to fade into the background. He had been a fool, opening his email earlier and reading the note from his mother, once more berating him for disappointing his father. “You know when your father is unhappy, he makes my life miserable. I would think you would care about me instead of being so selfish!”

  Forcing her out of his mind, he thought of the upcoming American Legion meeting. Two of the reasons he moved to Baytown were the newly charted AL and the desire to be in the company of good men and women who understood the military life. He hoped some of their spirit of camaraderie would rub off on him…eventually.

  Laying on his back, staring at the slow-moving ceiling fan, he thought of Mitch Evans, the police chief of the small town on the bay that he now called home and the president of the American Legion. Mitch had been a chance meeting on the far side of the world several years ago. A tentative friendship that grew to offer him a lifeline. Baytown was Mitch’s world, where he was raised and returned to take over when his father, the former chief, had to retire due to a heart attack.

  Mitch had roots and, if Lance was honest with himself, he envied those roots. They grew deep into the land of the shore, connecting Mitch to his childhood friends who had also come back from military service. Connecting Mitch to the town that revered him. To the job that always called to him. To his family, that gave him the support he needed. And, back to the woman he left behind.

  Lance had learned the reason for the name Baytown Boys—the group of men who had been fortunate enough to be raised on the shore, childhood friendships turning into sports teams in their adolescent years, military brothers after high school, and now adults creating their future. Grant, another police officer; Aiden and Brogan, brothers who owned the pub; Zac, the fire chief; and Callan, still with the Coast Guard.

  Their ranks had increased with new blood—former military men and women needing a place to call home. True to his nature, Mitch had extended the hand of friendship to him, to include moving to Baytown to
put down roots as well.

  He had taken Mitch up on his offer, but knew that roots would not grow. It takes a healthy plant, with a good root system to begin with, and he surely lacked those qualifications. But he was here and had no desire to leave.

  Rolling over in bed, he stretched out his long legs, grateful the room was large enough to easily accommodate his California king. There were few luxuries he desired, but his comfortable mattress was one of them. Anything he could do to tempt peaceful slumber.

  Closing his eyes, willing sleep to finally come, he prayed the screams in the night would evade him for once.

  2

  The sun was just peaking over the dunes, streaking the dawn sky with flashes of pink and yellow against the many colors of blue as the night began to fade away. During the week, Jade Lyons rose early to get ready for her job. A former first-grade teacher, this year she had been assigned to teach second grade at Baytown Elementary. But, Saturdays gave her the opportunity to get out of bed at dawn for an entirely different reason.

  Smiling, she knew most of her co-workers slept in on the weekends, but once her newfound friends in Baytown had shown her the beauties of walks on the beach before the crowds came, she was hooked.

  With binoculars hanging about her neck, she looked out onto the bay at the variety of ships anchored. There were large cargo ships waiting for their time to enter the Norfolk port or to travel north toward Baltimore, some laden with massive containers stacked on the decks. Others empty, waiting to dock and be filled for their trips around the world. Standing on the shore, she wondered where they sailed from and where they were bound. It was hard to imagine the lives of the men and women whose careers were spent on those large ships, traveling from port to port.