All In Read online

  All In

  By Marta Brown

  Copyright © 2013 by Marta Brown

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by VP Publishing House

  Image Copyright © Maridav

  Smashwords Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author or publisher.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locals are intended for authenticity to advance the fictional narrative. All characters and events are fictitious. Any and all similarities to real persons, living or dead are coincidental and are not attended by the author.

  For my mom

  xoxo

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Thanks

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Lane

  And so it begins. The annual Memorial Day weekend pilgrimage of the eastern seaboard’s most wealthy and privileged families to Martha’s Vineyard. The summer stays, or ‘Stays’ as we locals call them, who swell my tiny seaside town from barely fifteen thousand to an overwhelming hundred thousand residents. Then, just like that, Labor Day weekend comes, and they all migrate like birds flying south for the winter, back to their uptown high-rises and gated communities on the mainland. Thankfully.

  The sudden influx of Stays does have its perks though, like tips, big ones. And girls. Lots of them. After going to school with the same hundred and fifty people since kindergarten, the crowded beaches and pools are a welcome addition to the summer, even if it means my quiet home town becomes a tourist playground for a few months.

  I wipe the sweat from my forehead then slow my pace to a brisk jog to check the time. 11:00am. Crap. I’m gonna be seriously late for work and Yale isn’t going to pay for itself.

  I glance up the already packed beach and decide to skip the onslaught of families toting their French nannies, bulky strollers, sticky kids and miniature sized dogs along the boardwalk, and take a shortcut. I cut through the manicured backyard of a multi-million dollar beachfront home and hear some bubblegum pop song blaring from inside. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a party still going on in full force from the night before.

  I hurry past the house and to my parked car. I jump in, not bothering with the door because the top’s down, then whip out of the parking spot and high-tail it up the beach road that connects Edgartown to Oaks Bluff where I live.

  On the offseason Beach Bluff road is practically desolate, so I’m trying to exercise extra patience with the Stays coming in off the ferry and crowding the quiet two lane seaside drive, but I can’t help pounding my fist against the steering wheel impatiently.

  A silver BMW M-5 directly ahead of me continues to idle even though the traffic in front of him has finally dispersed. “Damn, I’m gonna be so late.” I honk my horn to hurry him up but I’m met with an indignant glance from him in his rear-view mirror before he resumes what looks to be texting

  Seriously?

  “Dude, let’s go,” I say, getting more annoyed by the second. I honk again, this time a bit longer than necessary, but I don’t care, I need to get home and change for work. I can’t afford to be late and lose hours because some trust fund kid’s too busy text messaging about whatever it is that fills his time, except for a job.

  Still, Mr. M-5 doesn’t bother to acknowledge the sound of my horn, let alone the horns of the other half dozen cars all stuck in the mini traffic jam behind him.

  Does this guy think he owns the damn road? Although, I guess it is possible with all the old money in this town, but right now he could be a freaking Kennedy for all I care, I gotta go.

  “Fine, you wanna play, Stay?” I crane my neck to see past the M-5, and the road is clear for days. I shift into first gear then press my foot on the gas without releasing the clutch causing the car engine to rev so loud that this time I get his full attention.

  I give him a cocky smirk when I see him glare at me in his rear-view mirror before I let up on the clutch, pull the car sharply to the left and punch the accelerator to the floor. The road is narrow on both sides, but I purposely stay extra close as I pass him, just to piss him off. I hit sixty on the speedometer in a matter of seconds then swerve back in front of him, tossing a glance over my shoulder for his reaction. It’s exactly what I’d hoped for. His arm sticks out the window flipping me the bird as he lays on his own car horn.

  Ha.

  I throw my head back against the headrest with a laugh and let the cool sea breeze rush over my face before I hit my accelerator again, leaving him and the entire line of summer stays in my rear-view mirror.

  …

  “Hey, Ma, you home?” I call, stepping out of my sand covered shoes and knocking them together just outside the laundry room door. Mom hates when I track sand all over the house, but it’s kind of impossible not to, considering half the island is beachfront.

  “Yeah, sweetie, just getting ready to go. You need something?”

  “Nah, just checking. I gotta shower then bail for work too. Hey, is Grandpa Frank home?” He’s gonna love to hear about me smoking that Stay.

  “Not right now. He and Irene went for a walk, but they should be back soon. Oh, and there’s a letter from Yale for you on the kitchen table. It’s from the financial aid office.” She leans out of the kitchen doorway, her smile contagious.

  My shower can wait. I rush into the kitchen. “Thanks, Ma.” I pick up the thin envelope and smile at the big blue block letters across the top left corner. YALE. I shake my head in disbelief that I’ll be the first in my family to go to college and an Ivy League at that.

  I’ve been waiting on the financial aid letter for weeks now, but in our situation, qualifying for the rest of the money I need for school shouldn’t be a problem. Money’s tight, always has been at my house, but right now it’s even tighter since Mom had to hire a full time nurse for Grandpa, leaving almost no extra money at the end of every month.

  I tear open the envelope. It’s not quite as nerve-racking as when I opened my acceptance letter, but it’s a close second.

  I scan the letter and my hands start to shake.

  “Well?” Mom claps her hands.

  Impossible.

  I take a deep breath and re-read the letter, this time not skipping a single word. I even flip it over to make sure I di
dn’t miss anything on the back. I didn’t. It’s blank. Much like my mind at this very moment.

  I look up at my mom and brace myself for her smile to fall. “I didn’t qualify, Ma.” I drop the single sheet of paper to the kitchen table.

  “What? That can’t be.” She snaps up the letter and reads it to herself, her hand rests over her heart while her head shakes and tears fill her eyes. “Oh, Lane, I’m so sorry,” she says as a tear spills over and runs down her cheek.

  I pull out a chair from beneath the table, and the scraping sound it makes across the linoleum floor causes my teeth to hurt. I slump into the seat and bury my hands in my hair. How did I not qualify? How is that even possible?

  “I just don’t get it. How could they say we make too much money to qualify?” I ask.

  My mother paces our tiny yellow kitchen, the letter gripped tight in her balled up fist, and it makes me nauseous.

  “It’s the fishing company. It’s got to be,” she says, finally coming to a stop.

  The fishing company? That doesn’t make sense. Mom has been running Grandpa’s fishing company for a while now, but she barely makes minimum wage for all her hard work. Not to mention all four of us share a house so small I sleep on the couch so Irene, Grandpa’s nurse, can have a room of her own, and we’re lucky to have that. Martha’s Vineyard is no cheap place to live.

  I look at her confused. “But that’s Grandpa Frank’s company. Why would it affect whether or not I qualify for financial aid?”

  “Well, honey, we had to transfer ownership of the company into my name when Grandpa wasn’t able to run it anymore because of his Alzheimer’s. He was forgetting too much, like paying the vendors, and employees and even worse the taxes. Sure, I guess on paper it looks profitable.” Mom shrugs then looks again at the letter in her hand. “But after everyone is paid, any extra money goes to paying for Irene.” Silent tears begin to roll down her cheeks, and it breaks my heart. “I can’t believe this. You’ve worked so hard.”

  I get up despite my body feeling heavy with disappointment and give her a hug.

  “Mom, it’s okay.” I reassure her I’m fine, but it’s hardly the truth. My mind spins in circles with unanswered questions. What am I going to do? How am I going to afford school now? Is my dream of going to Yale over?

  I stuff down my own concerns when I pull out of my mom’s hug and see the guilt in her eyes. This isn’t her fault. She’s had to struggle way too hard as a single mom after my father, who I’ve never met, got her pregnant and then took off, to feel guilty about anything.

  The jerk-off probably summers in the Hamptons to avoid the local girl he knocked up and his bastard son on Martha’s Vineyard all these years. Asshole. Life isn’t always fair, and no one knows that better than my family.

  I take the letter from her, glance it over one last time then crumple it up and toss it in the garbage.

  “We can still make it work, honey, maybe I can get a part time job at the Fish House to help out?” Hope laces her tone.

  “Ma, you’re not getting another job, you’re busy enough as it is. It’ll be okay, I swear. I’ll figure something out, but thank you,” I say, giving her another hug.

  “But…” she starts to protest when a noise from the front porch startles her. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and straightens her outfit when she hears Grandpa’s voice just outside. She doesn’t want to cause him any unnecessary worry. I know the feeling.

  Grandpa shuffles in the front door, Irene close behind him. “Hey, there’s my boy.”

  “Hey, Grandpa. How was your walk?” I try to sound chipper, but it comes out forced.

  “It was fine except Irene kept hovering over me the whole time. Can someone please remind her it’s my mind that’s going, and not my body?” He takes off his cardigan and hangs it on the hook by the front door before giving me a wink.

  “Now, now, Mr. Frank, I was not hovering and you know it. I was just trying my best to keep up with your speed walking,” Irene teases. I can’t help but smile despite my current predicament. It makes me happy to see Grandpa having a ‘good’ day, and for the days that aren’t so good he has Irene, which gives me and Mom peace of mind.

  Grandpa walks into the kitchen and ruffles my hair like he’s done since I was a kid but stops short when he sees my mom.

  “Jody? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, Dad, really, it’s nothing.” She waves her hand dismissively but it’s obvious to everyone that’s not the truth.

  He looks at me for an answer and even though I don’t want to burden him, I can’t keep this from him either.

  “It’s Yale, Grandpa. I didn’t get the financial aid I needed.”

  He takes a deep breath that’s loud and raspy. “Well, I sure hope you’re not gonna let a little thing like that keep you away from your dream? That’s not the Lane McCarthy I know.” He scoots past me with a grin and gives my mom a pat on her shoulder.

  He’s right. I don’t give up that easily. I didn’t give up when I wanted to make the varsity lacrosse team as a freshman or when I wanted to be class president or Valedictorian. I right my shoulders and steel myself. I worked hard and made it happen then, and this is no different.

  It’s a setback sure, and definitely a challenge, but not an impossible obstacle I can’t overcome. I feel hope and determination build as I devise a new plan. I’ll have to pick up more hours at work to save enough money and then get a job at school too, but it’s Yale. My dream. Grandpa’s right, I’m not going to let a little thing like money get in my way.

  I can do this.

  I lift my mom off the floor in a giant hug and spin her around. “Put me down.” She swats at my shoulder, laughing. “You’re going to break your back.”

  I set her back down on the ground and plant a kiss on her cheek. She looks relieved to see my resolve, and so does Grandpa Frank.

  “I better get to work,” I say, meaning both literally and figuratively, before giving Grandpa a firm squeeze on his arm, a silent thank you.

  “That’s my boy,” he says with a gleam in his eye. “That’s my boy.”

  Chapter 2

  Ashley

  “Mom? Dad?” I call from the top of the stairs.

  I glance out the large bay windows to check if they’re on the deck having cocktails with brunch and watching the sailboats pass through the harbor, a favorite pastime of theirs on the island, but the deck is empty except for a pair of seagulls perched on the railing of the balcony, squawking.

  “Andrew?” I yell downstairs where the theatre and our bedrooms are and again I’m met with no response. “Is anyone home?”I shout and hear nothing but silence. Finally.

  I toe off my sandals and bury my feet into the soft fibers of the living room rug. After spending nearly six hours cooped up in the car with my parents, a moment by myself is exactly what I need. I’m not sure I could have taken one more minute of listening to my father talk politics or the overbearing smell of my mother’s heady perfume.

  I toss open the French patio doors, causing the birds to take flight, and let the sunshine and fresh sea breeze into the room. I take a deep breath of the salty air then push the coffee table to the side of the room, plug in my iPod and scroll to my favorite dance mix. I stretch my tight muscles and let the music wake me fully from the short nap I just took.

  An infectiously fun pop song starts to pump through the surround sound and a slow smile spreads across my face. My parents would absolutely detest it; if it’s not Bach, it’s not music according to them. I swear my parents were never teenagers.

  I spread my arms out wide, tip my head back, and let the sun warm my face as I spin around to the snappy chorus until I’m dizzy and thankful no one can see how foolish I must look.

  A sudden movement outside the window stops me from dancing. My shoulders drop in relief when I realize it’s not my parents, but some guy running down the beach, presumably taking a short cut through our yard.

  “Whew,” I say to myself before beginn
ing to dance again, this time with more technique, but still for the fun of it. I am on summer vacation after all.

  “What in heaven’s name are you doing?” my father asks over the volume of the music, startling me out of my own little world. “Will you please turn that noise off?”

  I stumble backwards with my hand over my heart before grabbing my iPod from the docking station, abruptly ending the music he clearly finds so reprehensible.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy… I didn’t know anyone was home,” I say, embarrassed to have been caught dancing so unrestrained, a far cry from the practiced ballets my parents are accustomed to seeing me dance. “I was just having some fun,” I offer.

  “Well that is quite clear.” He rolls his eyes then looks at my mother, who stands next to him in agreement.

  “We could hear the music all the way out in the driveway.” She places her hands on her hips causing her layered Tiffany bangle bracelets to jingle.

  “Please be more respectful of our neighbors if you insist on listening to that…music,” my father says. He places a bottle of wine into the wine rack and shoots me a disapproving glance.

  “I will, I’m sorry.” I stare at my bare feet, wishing I’d just gone to the beach, when my mother clears her throat to get my attention then tips her head to the side and gestures to the coffee table with her eyes. “The Petersons will be here any minute.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry, Mother.” I bend down and attempt to pull the table back into its previous location, but accidentally catch the edge of the rug, causing the ornate silver dish full of sea shells on top, to tip precariously.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake, Ashley. I’ll just do it.” My father lifts the table up and places it back in front of the couch precisely where it was originally.

  My mother eyes me up and down and it makes me feel uncomfortable to be scrutinized so close up. “Please, dear, hurry downstairs and freshen up. All that flailing around is ruining your blowout. You’ll look absolutely atrocious tonight if your hair starts to frizz like you just walked in off the beach.”