November Mourning

MOURNING

Savor The Days Series

Book 3

A.R. RIVERA

November Mourning

Savor the Days Series Book 3

By A.R. Rivera

Cover provided by Derek Murphy and Creative Indie

Fonts provided by 1001fonts.com

Cover design by A.R. Rivera

Copyright 2017 A.R. Rivera

All Rights reserved.

ISBN:

Although this story contains pop culture references and existing locales, all characters, places, objects and events portrayed in this book are products of the authors’ imagination. Any similarities to persons living or dead, places, things, or events are coincidental and unintentional so don’t get you knickers in a twist. Any music, quotes or songs specifically named herein are credited to the original artists and sources.

No one shall not print, re-print, distribute, buy, sell, or transfer any physical or digital copy of this material, whole or in part, without express permission of the author. Writing a novel takes considerable time and effort. If you enjoy this book, dear reader, please respect the authors’ hard work by recommending this book for others to purchase. And feel free to leave a review on the platform where you purchased the book.

All quotes are used with attribution information offered at www.quotes.com

More Books by A.R. Rivera

Savor the Days Series:

Between Octobers

September Rain

November Mourning

January Falls (Coming Soon)

The Threestone Trilogy:

INERTIA

FORCE

REACTION

To my heavenly Father, because He gave me a pen.

CONTENTS

Title Page

More Books By A.R. Rivera

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About The Author

Chapter 1

There is no loneliness greater than the loneliness of a failure. The failure is a stranger in his own house. —Eric Hoffer

There’s a storm, brewing inside me. Hot and cold fronts clashing: the heat of my temper flaring against a cold reminder. A roaring wind climbs up my throat, trying to shoot through the veil of my lips, to shred through the quiet if this house.

A glaring reminder sitting on the mantle over the living room fire place, the way its illuminated makes me want to scream.

I literally feel mental because like the storm there is also this calm part—small though it may feel—in the center of me . This, I cling to. Cling with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the mantle.

Commanding myself to calm down, I work on a deep breath.

What’s got me so twisted is the simplest, most benign thing: a ray of sunshine. But the way it shoots through the window that overlooks the back garden is bloody dreadful. It’s not so much the light itself—it’s rather gloomy this time of the year; an early morning in November—more that the damned light has found a way through the patchy fog. It wouldn’t bother me if this damnable ray simply shone through the window as most shafts of daylight do, but it’s not.

The ray lasers through the glass, passes all the way across the Great Room to hit a glass portrait on the opposing wall. It’s then bounced directly from the glass that protects the image of my late wife to land again on the object of my gaze: a golden statuette. Something I once coveted but have come to hate more than the blasted sunbeam.

I’ve kept the thing hidden away because I can’t stand seeing it. But I’ve been gone for several weeks and in that time someone—Lily, I’m sure—must have found it and placed it atop the mantle of the fireplace to be illuminated by this ridiculous, stubborn beam of sunlight that first strikes my wife, then the award.

Like it knows.

Peering at the plaque bolted to the front, I recall how I used to covet the recognition, but now can’t fathom why.

Academy Award

To

Rhys Matthews

Best Performance by an actor in a Leading Role

Triumph In The Sky

Undoubtedly there is a status level that accompanies this honour; this receiving of my industry’s highest prize, but I don’t understand it. I mean, I thought I did.

"I’d like to thank the Academy …" so says the winner. It’s an honor just to be nominated, says the loser. And it is. A great honor. But in my case, it’s also a tremendous lie.

Never in my life have I felt like a bigger fraud. This award was bestowed upon me shortly after losing Grace. My wife. And only because I lost her in such a plaguing, public way. The sob-story of the century.

Gracie, I called her from the very beginning. I don’t know why, except that when she gave me her small smile and introduced herself, I wanted to give something back. So I added to her name. Gracie had told me once that she thought Triumph in the Sky was my finest work. Then I explained to her the only reason I took the part of the crippled helicopter pilot was work as therapy. The character was a self-destructive bloke and though I didn’t understand his choices, I completely identified with his rage. More so now than ever before.

The film was independent, produced on a micro-budget, which was unusual for a contender. The larger studios pump out most everything—and they’re usually the ones campaigning on behalf of their actors. Smaller studios, if they choose to promote a performance, rarely do so for more than one actor.

Threestone Features was in no position to put up the kind of funding that would necessitate recognition for such an award. No, I shouldn’t have even been considered, but my life was such a mess at the time—a huge source of gossip. The studio didn’t need to spend a dime. The world was already talking about me.

My sudden break-up with former girlfriend and fellow actor, Gretchen Bakker, was what got the ball rolling. She wouldn’t shut up about it; answering personal questions about our time together as if it were nothing, as if she and I didn’t fight to keep that part of our lives out of the spotlight. That led to the rag-mags theorizing over my sudden marriage to Gracie. She and I were picked and pulled at until they got wind that we’d separated. I fell out of sobriety after that and since I never do anything half-way, I quickly made it worse in trying to deal with the walls she built.

Then there was the obligatory celebrity sex-tape that was the essential nail in my marital coffin, and that was followed by my near-death experience. I’d passed out on the beach during said separation and woke in the Pacific Ocean after the tide had come in. It was all rather salacious. Then, there was my stint in rehab shortly after.

Just when I was getting my feet back under me, sober and working, fate intervened.

I was in Iceland filming King Bobby at the time. We’d been estranged for months and still, I was positive she would be there waiting once I gathered the balls to face her. I wasn’t sure she’d take me back, but I knew she’d at least hear me out. But ... Gracie was gone.

The media descended as they always do. It was the only time in my life that I was grateful for their reach and speculations. Instead of being the ever-present thorn in my side, they were a tool. I used them to get word out.

We found her forty hours later; far, far away in the mountainous forests of Kings Canyon. She’d been abducted in some crazy-ass scheme concocted by my former manager—someone I had long considered a friend. I still cannot fathom what that hideous bitch thought she’d accomplish by taking my pregnant wife against her will. I was not approached for ransom. The police were certain that the bitch’s only intention was to kill.

Did I mention Grace was eight months pregnant at the time and bed-ridden from complications? She was. Of course, I knew nothing about the baby because she’d kept it from me.

Forensic evidence was found all over that mountain side which told us that Grace had somehow managed to evade her captor. A chase ensued. It was assumed that the death of my former manager—whose name shall never pass my lips again—fell to her death during the chase.

Though Gracie was trapped in the wilderness in late October, she was a runner and a fighter. She survived that night, which was two days before Halloween, but couldn’t hold out any longer. Mid-morning the next day, her poor body couldn’t take the strain any longer and she went into labour. She gave birth to Ethan and then the uterine tear; scar tissue from an old C-section split and … she bled out.

All alone.

She journeyed to a place where none of us could follow; leaving me, her two boys—Noah and Caleb—and the one we shared, Ethan, behind.

Staring at the statuette on the mantle that someone has set in place of pride, I can hardly believe it’s already been two years. The longest years of my miserable life. And also my most successful.

Some days are better than others, but today the wounds are just as fresh as if it happened yesterday. Yet it feels decades have passed since I’ve seen her, held her face and ran my thumb down her cheek.

I stand in the empty great room of her home, now mine, though she’s taken most of the comfort with her. Grace is ever present, ever gone. And I am torn with reminders every minute I have to look at this award.

Taking the weighty figure in my hand I make for the back door. The single ray of sunlight has moved on now, lost in the Santa Monica fog. Pausing beneath the covered patio, I read the inscription at the base once more and wonder why I can’t manage to feel anything more than loathing.

Leaning on the bench where Grace and I used to chat, I’m consumed with odium. It swells from deep inside, filling me like a black pool.

Near the edge of the stone path that heads downhill, one of the gardeners has left a few hand tools and an empty pot of soil. Never one to waste an opportunity, I grab the spade and head back to the bench.

Grasping the yellowed head and torso, I swing the pity prize into the dirt. Using the sharp edge at the base to ply up the grass, I decide it’s just as good a spade as award, and use it for digging. A little top soil on the next swing. A few more strokes and it’s all dirt and surprised earthworms. I keep going, because releasing the ire in this way well helps.

This is why Grace put in a pool after Sol died, I remember. She said the labour helped the depression.

Four fury legs appear in my peripheral vision as I’m sweeping the dirt back over the hole I’ve made.

Bugger off, Alvin.

The Pinscher doesn’t leave. In fact he sits on his haunches and tilts his head, watching me stomp on the hole to pack the dirt. For a highly trained attack dog he’s not very bright.

Hey, ass sniffer, leave!

Then I notice, down low on the dogs’ stomach, the blatant absence of a penis. So I’m not talking to Alvin. It’s his sister, Chipmunk.

Why the hell do we have two guard dogs that look exactly alike? I’m not going to peter-gaze before giving a command.

Go away, Chipmunk. Immediately, she stands and trots ‘round the side of the house.

The audacious sun is still determined to find a way through the gray mist but I want no part of it, preferring my doom with obvious gloom. I walk back inside, less one eight-pound golden nuisance.

I’ve been back less than an hour and I’m already sweaty and irritated. After being on-set for the past four weeks, filming, working, being a shitty long-distance dad, I shouldn’t be so eager to ruin this short visit.

I try not to do more than one or two films a year since I don’t like being away from the boys that long, but it’s really difficult around Halloween. Hard to be home, harder to be away.

Walking down the main hall, I stop to peek into nursery. Little Ethan, my birthday boy, is still sound asleep in his crib. I check the next bedroom to find that Caleb is also sleeping. His nightlight is still on. I creep inside and shut it off. He’s in his full-size bed and a giant stuffed elephant lies next to him. As I close his door, another opens; the guest bedroom down the hall. Well, it used to be Noahs’ room. Now it’s the one Lily sleeps in while I’m off working and she and Marcus are staying with the kids.

Her eyes meet mine and her face breaks into a pathetic excuse for a smile. Still, I know she’s glad to see me.

When did you get in?

Not long ago. I step in, offering the compulsory hug to the woman who was once Gracie’s best friend.

She pats my back a few times, growing openly somber as if she’s just remembered the point of today. Marcus already left for the airport. Noah should be landing in an hour. I want to have a big breakfast with everybody since we’re all together.

You’re not cooking, are you? It’s not meant to sound rude. I’m simply asking an honest question. The woman has had many lessons, from multiple instructors. Notable chefs with impressive resumes. Still, she can barely boil water.

No, you ass, Lily smirks, swatting my shoulder. I thought I could talk Noah into making his famous waffles.

It’s a nice idea, I concede, But don’t count on it. Lily’s eyes pierce mine just then, as I sigh letting the quiet truth settle in.

There’s something in her gaze, it’s pure stubbornness, and I know she’s going to make us celebrate. Even if her eyes didn’t tell me the way they usually do, her next words do the job.

Noah will do it for Ethan.

It’s my first smile of the day, hearing her say his name. Caleb should help, then. He’s eight years-old, it’s about time he started earning his keep.

Inside the kitchen Grace designed, on the black marble countertops that she picked out, Lily places a number of necessities; all of which should tell Noah that he’s on duty when he walks in.

I wonder if he’ll talk to me.

Lily sets two mugs of coffee on the table between us. Pushing one at me she says, Milk. Two sugars.

When I first met the woman who would become my best friend’s wife, I thought she was seriously hot. I was already interested in her best friend, though. As I got to know Gracie, I had to spend more and more time with Lily. It didn’t take long to learn that she has quite a large heart and an even larger mouth. She’s one of those that speaks her mind. Well, she used to be. Something she and I have in common. We’ve both drawn inward over the past two years, dealing with the heartaches in silence when we can get away with it.

Is Noah still being an asshole? She asks.

Case. Point.

I shake my head.

Lily’s late older brother, Solomon, was Grace’s first love, first husband, and father to Noah and Caleb. Sol died in a car accident in Noah’s fifteenth year and he took up the role of man of the house. He was quite serious about it, as well. Despite his cornering me and questioning my intentions with his mother, he and I always got on. He is a good guy, likeable and well-rounded. He’s personable and well-spoken. He’s a hit with the ladies, too. Of course this drove his mother mad to think of, but I was proud of his ability to connect with whomever he spoke. It’s one of his greatest strengths. With girls, he doesn’t even have to try.

Grace had that same way about her—that draw, that energy and confidence to put the people around her at ease. After losing her though, Noah changed. We all did, of course, but no one more than him. Even as much as I have been altered, as much as Caleb clings when he’s missing her, as much as Ethan doesn’t know what he’s missing, I think it is Noah who suffers most.

He’s been off at University since July. Pre-Med. He also started working a side job as a line cook, even though his schooling is paid for and I’ve got plenty of money, and his mother left him more than enough in her will. He doesn’t come home often, saying that he has to work but we all know the real reason why he avoids coming back.

I haven’t spoken to Noah in almost two weeks. I tell Lily and it’s a disgraceful confession. But I gave up keeping secrets two years ago.

Lily gasps, Evan. Seriously?

I don’t need a lecture.

It is your responsibility to call him.

Even if he doesn’t answer? And I am swamped with work, I want to add but don’t get the chance.

You are the adult. It is your job to keep the lines of communication open even if he doesn’t want you to. Let him act out, but you remain blameless. You hold the door open and wait for him to walk through. Especially if he doesn’t—

What part of ‘no lecture’ are you not grasping? I text him every day. He doesn’t text back. I email him, message him through social media, as well. Even when I know he’s online, I get nothing. I can’t sit around waiting on him. I’ve got my own— I cut off, suddenly realizing what I was about to say; that I have my own life. But I don’t. I have their lives: our boys. I guide them through their lives. I have the pretend lives of characters that I act out for the camera. I have Rhys, the persona I put on for work, but none of that is mine, really.

I’m busy.

When was the last time you called him?

Shaking my head, I answer. Four days.

Her back straightens. Her lips thin as they often do when someone tells her something she doesn’t like. Evan, she sighs, I don’t need to tell you how tough it is to lose your mother at such a young age. You have been through it. Are you so deep inside your own shit that you can’t see his?

Lily, I begin, but my voice cracks. Instead of arguing, I simply concede. I’ll speak to him.

I know you will.

If he’ll let me.

He’s waiting for you, Evan. He just doesn’t know it.

Bright green lights flash from the baby monitor and the sound of little grunts boom into the room.

That’s my cue. Standing, I make a quick exit.

If there is a greater gift on this earth, I don’t know it. These boys I’ve got are utterly amazing. Each carries traits that remind me so much of their mother. Grace left her strength of will with Caleb. He is just as stubborn and vivacious as she ever was. His spirit, like hers, demands you sit up and take notice. Ethan’s got his mother’s large, round, silver-blue eyes and ...Well, judging by his face as I enter the nursery, he’s needs to shite.

He’s standing up on his little bed, bouncing, bracing himself on the railing. His tiny brow is scrunched, his brown hair in adorable disarray. His eyes widen with urgency when he spots me. He smiles calling out, Daddy! Daddy! But then the smile leaves and Daddy is replaced with, Poo! Poo!

Let’s get you sorted.

With my hands about his middle, we make a mad-dash across the hall. The moment I place Ethan on his bare feet, his little hands are tearing at his nighttime nappy. He’s completely toilet trained but also a deep sleeper, so he wears these training pants at night to avoid accidents. The name I’ve given them isn’t quite unique—nighttime nappy—but it’s cute when Ethan tries to say it. Once he’s squared on the toddler-size pot, doing his business, I flip the switch for the fan and wait.

My phone vibrates inside my pocket. A text message from Marcus.

—Leaving airport. Noah in tow. Prepare to be surprised!!

I text him back.

—Ominous much?

Daddy! Ethan’s standing with his trousers down around his ankles, obviously waiting for me to clean him up.

Once the dirty work is done, it’s my favorite time of day. Ethan, I wait for his big blue eyes to find mine. When they do, he grows a silly grin. Would you like a bath?

Gimme bath! He shouts, collaring me with his embrace.

Yes, let’s give you a bath. Your birthday party is today, you’ve got be clean before your guests arrive.

Ethan excitedly stamps his feet, like he’s running in place. Swimming in all his fervor, I’m quite sure I could tackle anything.

We clap together and sing made-up songs about bubbles and soap. I wash and condition his thick mop of bronze hair, towel him off, and then chuckle to myself as Ethan sits on the counter wrapped in a large towel, waiting for me to finish blow-drying his hair. In warmer weather I let it dry naturally, but its chilly out and I can’t have him catching cold.

We keep his hair a bit long because it looks so damned cute. I brush his locks up and out, drying each strand as I go, and laughing to myself at the maximum volume. By the time I’m done, Ethan looks as if he’s stuck his finger in a socket. I’m holding my sides, chuckling, staring at him. When Ethan catches his reflection in the large mirror across the back wall, his mouth falls open in the most comical way. I laugh more in this moment than I have in all the time I’ve spent away.

Caleb pops his head in, no doubt woken by our noise. When his eyes land on me I notice how they widen, gleaming with pleasure as he jumps into the bathroom.

Caleb! My best mate! I’m careful to keep a hand on Ethan as I lean down to wrap his older brother in a hug.

Dad! He grips my waist as tight as he can and another piece of me falls into place. When did you come home? His dark brown hair and eyes, his melanin-rich complexion, it all matches every portrait I’ve seen of his natural father, but this boy is undoubtedly mine.

About an hour ago. Taking in his increased height, I add, You’ve grown another foot, my lad. You’ll reach Amazonian heights before Christmas at this rate.

My chest aches. He’s growing too fast. I’ve missed so much more than this most recent growth spurt. But Caleb chuckles and hugs me tighter. You always say that.

It’s always true. Look what I’ve done to your brother’s hair.

When Caleb notices the mushroom cloud of Ethan’s hair, he tosses his head back laughing, which makes Ethan do his little excited run-in-place-thing. We’re all laughing as we exit the bathroom.

Caleb, ever the faithful big brother, helps me choose a morning outfit for Ethan: plain blue jeans and a tee-shirt that reads Future Rock Star. The outfit he’ll wear for his party won’t be donned until just before festivities begin because this boy cannot keep clean.

There’s a reason they call it the ‘terrible twos.’ In just two short years, Ethan has become less blundering and more purposeful in his pursuit of disobedience. Every time I tell him no he continues right on with what he’s doing only he moves faster than he used to and usually smiles. I’m sure at some point I’ll have to do something about that but for now, it’s all good.

Back in the great room, I find Lily standing in front of the fireplace, staring too long at the empty spot on the mantle.

I put it away, is my explanation, while Caleb coaxes a chatty Ethan into his high chair, knowing how his baby brother prefers to climb up himself.

Ethan and I share toast and a banana. Everyone else opts to wait for waffles.

All in all, it’s a decent welcome home.

Chapter 2

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." —William Shakespeare

‘Surprise’ Marcus had texted.

‘Prepare to be surprised—exclamation point, exclamation point.’

Really idiotic thing to tell a person.

There are millions of things that might surprise me. Earthquakes, floods, car accidents, kidnappings, make-believe friends, psychotic ex-managers, but this unexpected issue is connected to Noah. Knowing Marcus as I do and his use of ‘surprise—double-exclamation point,’ that can only mean a good thing.

Right?

But me being me ... Noah being Noah ... Our relationship being strained as it has for the past six months.

It all makes me think that, yes, I am definitely in for a surprise. Not a good one either. I hope I’m wrong, but can’t help picturing Noah waltz in with an extra five kilos round his middle or enormous plugs in his ears. Or his dark hair bleached white and recolored like a rainbow snow cone.

The absolute last thing I expect—actually, that’s not right because I don’t expect it at all. It’s out of the sodding blue.

Caleb and I are sitting on the floor, engaged in a heated round of Uno when my private security guard down at the main gate rings to say Marcus has just passed through. Ethan is standing behind me, hanging on my neck, shouting out the names of every color he sees. My ear is ringing, and I’m losing. Because, of course Caleb takes advantage, changing the deck color to yellow since his little brother keeps shouting gween!

I have to draw four cards and none come up yellow. I’m taking my sixth from the deck when the front door bursts open.

My best mate, and Lily’s husband, Marcus, flies inside, drops two duffle bags and flashes a wild, almost delirious smile.

When did you do that? And why? I say by way of greeting.

Marcus’ hand rubs across his naked chin. The beard he’s kept since he was old enough to grow one is gone. Tosser.

I welcome him with a handshake and a pat on the back. Did you lose a bet? It’s strange to actually see his whole face. I’ve forgotten how ugly you are.

He tilts his head, chuckling. "Nah, it