His Muse Read online

  By Twyla Turner

  Copyright © 2018 Twyla Turner

  Cover images © Copyright by Fotolia

  ©redav

  ©biker3

  ©ekostsov

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental.

  To,

  Those who are starting over…

  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Twyla Turner

  Connect with the Author

  Prologue

  Present…

  “Fifteen. That was the magical number. He was fifteen years my junior.” Her familiar voice fills the room. “I had fifteen years more experience. Hell, when I turned twenty-one and was out drinking at nightclubs, he was still being read bedtime stories. When we met, I was forty-four, and he was twenty-nine. But-”

  Kari presses stop on the audiobook app on her phone.

  She takes a deep breath. She isn’t even sure she wants to hear the story. Just the thought of it. The years of anger. The feelings of guilt for not wanting one of the most important individuals in her life to find happiness because of jealousy that eats at her. Destructive emotions that has kept her from picking up the phone or returning her mother’s calls all these years.

  Though it is obvious that her mother wants to reconcile. For her daughter to hear her story. Her side. Which Kari has never considered listening to until today. Not until the email from some random woman who claims to know her mother popped up in her inbox.

  From: Amalie97

  Subject: URGENT!!! IT IS ABOUT YOUR MOTHER

  Hello Kari,

  My name is Amalie. I know that you don’t know me or that I even exist. But I know your mother. She’s been an important part of my life for years. She doesn’t know that I am contacting you, and it took me some time to even find your email address. But I had to do it because this is too important for you to miss.

  She has written a book about her life, that I think you should hear. Below is a link to the audiobook, free of charge. I already paid for it and send it as a gift to you. I hope this message finds you well. And that it will change your perspective on the most amazing woman I know.

  P.S. If you do listen to it and want to reach out to me, give me a call at 33-4-xx-xx-xx-xx.

  With Love,

  Amalie

  Kari has to admit one of the only reasons she clicked on the link and started listening to the book is because of the twinge of jealousy over this random woman who thinks she knows her mother better than she does.

  The only other reason she’s willing to press play on the audiobook, lies next to her phone in a manila envelope. Divorce papers she’d been served the week before.

  After years of being unable to conceive and the stress it had put on herself and Mark, he’d found someone else younger who could give him children. Now he and his pregnant mistress want to get married. Kari is all that stands in their way. They are whole and happy, while she is shattered. And the only person who could possibly know how she feels and could give her advice is the one person she pushed out of her life twenty-two years ago.

  She expels the breath she’d been holding, takes a gulp of wine, and taps play on her phone again.

  “-that’s not where the story begins. Maybe it begins when I met my now ex-husband when I was a freshman in college. Maybe it begins when I got knocked up at twenty-one, got married shortly thereafter, and had to quit school to raise my daughter. Maybe it’s when I had to give up my own dreams so that I could support my husband’s dreams of becoming a surgeon. Or when I lost sight of myself as a woman, outside of being a mother and a wife. An individual. And as a result, he fell for the younger, single, child-free woman who knew herself and was going for her dreams.

  “I could start my story at any of these points, but you’ve all heard this story before. You’ve probably been living it. So, instead, I’ll start my story at the beginning of the second half of my life…”

  Chapter 1

  Twenty-two years ago…

  They call it a mid-life crisis. I prefer mid-life awakening. Or even better, mid-life rebirth. For most men, it’s a crisis. Feeling that pesky old mortality creeping up on them. I think for women it’s more of a rebirth. Many of us have spent our prime years having babies, raising them and their fathers, all while keeping the household and ourselves running like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. The second half of our lives, looks more like a liberation than a death sentence.

  Even as I smile lovingly at my daughter sitting across from me at an expensive five-star restaurant, I can’t help but plot my escape to freedom. Today, she graduated from college, and we’ve all come together to celebrate. Luckily, her father has offered to foot the bill, since it was he who picked a place I couldn’t quite afford at the moment. Not when I’m about to spend all that I have on starting over.

  “Ma, are you seriously gonna leave me and move to the other side of the world?” Kari asks me with a pout.

  I selflessly gave her twenty-two years of my life. It’s time to take back some of those years for myself.

  “I sure am Kare Bear. But don’t forget, that means you get to take trips to France without paying for a hotel.” I wink at her.

  “You’ve got a point,” she rubs her chin pretending to be deep in thought.

  She’s so much like me when I was her age. Average height, sienna-colored skin, and slender with tight gentle curves. Age has added quite a bit of extra padding, a little cottage to go with my cheese, and less perk to my breasts these days.

  “Don’t worry, Kari. If you need anything, you know myself or even Emma will be there for you. Even with the baby on the way,” Daryl, my ex-husband offers, speaking for himself and his wife.

  Emma doesn’t really look like she’s onboard or happy that he spoke for her. But that isn’t for me to butt my nose into.

  Some years ago, we’d decided to let go of our past grievances to co-parent Kari without any drama. Which was just code for me to get over it. ‘It’ being the heartache of being cheated on, divorced, and watching my college sweetheart marry someone else. Daryl didn’t have any real complaints where I was concerned. I’d been a model wife. Damn near Stepford if you ask me.

  Perfect Wife List

   Short-order cook

   Maid

   Laundry Service

   Took care of ALL Kari’s needs while he worked late or odd hours

   Attended boring medical functions

   An ear to listen to his issues with his fellow colleagues or difficult surgeries

   Gave sex on demand, even when not in the mood

   And remained faithful our entire marriage

  I’m sure there is way more I could add to the list, but I sho
uld stick to basics. So, it is solely on my shoulders to swallow down the rage I have whenever I looked at his handsome, cocoa face or his young, blonde blue-eyed now pregnant wife. Thirteen years younger to be exact. It was I who had to play nice. I still find moments where I damn near need to swallow my tongue when I’m around them.

  “Ry-” Emma began and then corrected herself. “Taryn, are you sure it’s wise to buy a home in another country when you’re not sure your business is going to do well there? Wouldn’t it be better to rent?” Emma asks.

  Some years ago, she tried calling me Ryn. I told her in no uncertain terms that my nickname was reserved for family and close friends only and that she was neither. I didn’t want her to mistake my friendliness for acceptance.

  “I’ll do just fine, Emma.” I plaster on a fake smile. “Thank you for your concern.”

  She gives me a doubtful look as she rubs her round, eighth-month pregnant belly.

  Once Daryl divorced me, I used the alimony he was paying me to go back to school to get my Travel & Tourism degree. Not only that, but once I was finished and started my career as a travel agent, I put the alimony I continue to receive into my savings. The perks of being the ex of a world-class surgeon. The child support I received before our daughter turned eighteen and my commission went towards taking care of Kari and household things, while we lived modestly.

  Now, I have saved up a considerable amount of money to start my black women’s travel company, Travel Noir, overseas in Nice, France. I consider it compensation for years served. My dream years ago had been to run my own company, I just hadn’t known what at the time. Then I’d gone on several trips to different destinations to try out resorts to recommend to potential clients. One incredible trip to the South of France, and it had hit me.

  I’d fallen in love with Nice. It wasn’t hard to see myself living there for the rest of my life. So, I started plotting once Kari went away to college. Now the time has finally come to execute my dream.

  I’m nervous, excited, and completely scared shitless. But it is time to start over. It is time to do for me and not everyone else. And I have every intention of doing just that.

  ~~~

  I spend the next two weeks getting my affairs in order. First, I chop my waist-length waves that I received from my Somali mother. Leaving behind a cap of curls I got from my African American father. The curls lay in little Betty Boop loops against my scalp. I didn’t even cry as I donated my locks. Out with the old, and all that. I felt light and free. It’s odd that it took me so long to cut my hair in the first place. It was something I’d kept because Daryl loved my hair long. We haven’t been together for about 8 years. So, letting go of my hair feels like I am officially letting him go.

  Next, I sell or give away all my belongings, except keepsakes and clothing, and pack the rest. Lastly, I give the keys to my little house in the San Fernando Valley, filled with memories, good and bad to the new owners. The extra money from the sale, padding my bank account further for when I purchase a home in France.

  Kari took me to the airport and gave me a watery kiss farewell with the promise of a visit in a month or two after I get settled. I’d tried to sleep on the long flight to my layover in Barcelona but was too keyed up with excitement to do more than doze off here and there.

  Now, I’m here. In the city I’ve dreamed of for years. Armed with just two suitcases and Rosetta Stone levels 1-5 in French. I’m ready to begin my new adventure.

  I stare out the window of my taxi at the pretty coastal town passing by on my left. Shops, cafés, and bars line the street in shades of tan, yellow, red, and orange. A striking contrast to the sea on my right. The blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea are hypnotic. Seafoam blue waters lap at the beach, and stretch to infinity in shades of cerulean, azure, to cobalt blue as the water deepens. I know I shouldn’t have, but I splurged on a sea view hotel to stay in while I house hunt. My budget for my new home isn’t very extravagant since I want most of it to go towards starting up my business, so I want to take advantage of the sea views while I can.

  After the taxi drops me off and I check in, I sit on the bed in my hotel room and look out at the blue waters and white sandy beaches dotted with umbrellas and sunbathing tourists. My hand presses against my mouth as I try to contain my smile. The word ‘giddy’ comes to mind.

  “Finally!” I outstretch my arms and fall back onto the bed like a child.

  I blink back happy tears as I stare at the ceiling embellished with fancy crown molding. I know I should take a quick nap to recharge, but I’m way too antsy to rest. It’s mid-afternoon anyway, and the sights beckon me. I jump up from the bed, throw open the windows, and start unpacking my suitcase instead. The sea breeze blowing in and caressing my skin. I think of it as Nice’s way of saying hello.

  I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and shimmy into a colorful sundress. My new city awaits me, and I’m in the mood to get reacquainted with it.

  It’s a warm, sunny day accompanied by cool salty breezes as I walk along one of the main drags. The people I pass smile brightly at me. It’s probably because of the goofy grin plastered on my own face. Happiness has a way of being contagious like that.

  I stop at a little outdoor shop and make my first purchase. A pair of large sunglasses that dominates my face and a big-brimmed, floppy black and white striped hat. I immediately cut the tags and put them on.

  I walk down main roads, up narrow side streets, and through quaint town squares with fountains at their centers. Making a mental list of restaurants, shops, and points-of-interest I didn’t see on my previous trip here. I plan on returning to each one when I’ve had more rest and get settled. Partly for myself, but mostly to test out establishments to take and/or recommend to my clients when they start arriving.

  Outside of finding a place to live, I have several months ahead of me, filled with touring the South of France. Building relationships with hotels, resorts, restaurants, museums, activities, and tours, in the hopes of partnering with them. They scratch my back with discounts for my travel packages that I’ll offer my clients, and I’ll scratch their backs with steady customers.

  Evening comes swiftly. The lights of the city come to life. Everything has a soft romantic glow. And I feel wrapped up in it. I’m alone, but I don’t feel lonely. Even as I sit in a charming little restaurant to eat a dinner for one. My solitude doesn’t feel like a burden, but hopeful for the people I’ll meet. The possible lovers I may encounter. Literally, everything is just a possibility waiting to happen. And that fills me with a kind of nervous anticipation.

  I eat in a little corner facing a window. People pass by on the busy sidewalk. I watch them, wondering what their stories are. If they’re like me, starting over. Or if their life has become mundane. It’s hard for me to imagine an ordinary life here.

  I finish up my meal and take a leisurely stroll back to my hotel. I’m meeting a realtor in the morning to start my search for the perfect place. So, I need to get some rest. Not that I’m complaining. My jet lag has finally caught up with me, anyway. Only the residual adrenaline is keeping me upright. I probably overdid it, but it was absolutely worth it.

  I’m already anticipating doing it all over again tomorrow.

  Chapter 2

  “So, this flat for sale is fully furnished. And although it is only a one bedroom, the furniture is perfect for converting into a sleeping area for your daughter or other guests when they visit.” Raquel explains as I gaze up at the gorgeous building.

  It’s a soft, buttery yellow building with black rod iron balconies. It’s an art deco beauty that looks to have been built centuries ago. It’s one of those quirky corner buildings that are in the shape of a triangle with diagonal streets going down either side. And it’s in a prime location. Shops, restaurants, and other businesses surround the area.

  This is home number six we’ve looked at so far. The others were nice, but none had spoken to me just yet. Some were lovely but way over my $250,000 budget. While others w
ere at or under my budget but needed too much work for me to deal with as I build my business. I am beginning to feel a bit discouraged.

  “What’s the price tag on this one?” I cut to the chase.

  Raquel grins at me like she has good news.

  “This one is 199,950 francs, which is about 11,500 US dollars under your budget.” She converts the dollar amount for me.

  “It’s stunning outside, but how bad is it inside?”

  “Come see.” She gestures as she starts forward.

  I liked Raquel the moment I met her this morning. She’s nice but no-nonsense, which I appreciate. Luckily, her English is fluent and she doesn’t seem offended by my butchering of her language when I do try. She just encourages me to keep practicing.

  She’s the classic French woman that I imagined. Slender, sharply dressed, and elegant. Whenever she talks, I have to keep from smiling, thinking about her holding one of those sticks that women used to attach cigarettes to back in the day.

  We take an elevator up to the 6th floor. When Raquel opens the door, I swear I can hear angels singing. The apartment is adorable. Bright light streams in through the French doors in the living room that lead out to a small balcony with a bistro table and two chairs. It overlooks the bustling street below and the hills in the distance. The floors are original wood in the chevron pattern. The galley kitchen isn’t big, but it is updated. The bedroom is spacious with its own French doors and small balcony. The bathroom is also small and remodeled, but still functional with a washer/dryer combo sharing the space. And the ceilings are adorned in elegant crown molding.

  It is absolutely charming. It’s not very large, but the high ceiling and bright natural light make the small space feel much bigger. Cozy without feeling cramped. It’s perfection.