Also by Whitney Dineen
Romantic Comedies
The Event
Relatively Normal
Relatively Sane
Relatively Happy
The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Mimi Plus Two
Kindred Spirits
She Sins at Midnight
Going Up?
Non-Fiction Humor
Motherhood, Martyrdom & Costco Runs
Middle Reader Fiction
Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory
Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?
Children’s Books
The Friendship Bench
The Move
Whitney Dineen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales (except Missouri really is a state), and situations are the work of the authors overactive imagination and voices in her head. Any resemblance to people living or dead, events, etc. is purely coincidental. And I don’t mean maybe.
Copyright © by Whitney Dineen in 2019; all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, scanned, photographed, or distributed in print or electronic form without express permission of the author. But let’s face it, if you love it, she’ll probably let you share small portions. You still have to contact her first.
Made in the United States.
January, 2020
Ebook Edition ASIN: B07ZDHCR8P
https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/
33 Partners Publishing
Acknowledgments
Once again, I’m flush with gratitude for all the people that help me release a book. They are all rock stars, and I couldn’t do it without them. In order of appearance, not importance, here they are:
The voices in my head: Seriously, y’all are nuts, but I’m glad you picked me.
Libby Bohlen: Mothers rock, opinions and all.
Jimmy Dineen: Being married to me hasn’t been boring, but buddy, you’ve been something of a thrill ride yourself. Here’s to another thirty years of fun.
Becky Monson: Your cover designs for my last two series are the best. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening to the voices in your head and making sure my books are worthy of being judged by their covers.
Jennifer Peel: Lady, thank you for telling me like it is. I know that’s not easy for such a nice person as yourself, but you make me a better author and I appreciate you.
Diana Orgain: I love all of our conversations, from plotting to take over the authoring world to gushing about our gorgeous chickens. I’m convinced soul food like this is the key not only to success, but sanity as well.
Sheryl Babin, Tracie Bannister, Melanie Summers, Kate O’Keeffe, Annabelle Costa, Delancey Stewart, and Virginia Grey: Heartfelt appreciation for always being there for a blurb, tweak, or share, and for offering an opinion. You’re my foundation.
Celia Kenney: It’s such a gift to have an editor who gets me and doesn’t let me pull any crap. My hat’s off to you, my friend.
Paula Bothwell and Sandy Penny: My eternal thanks for making me appear literate. Not only are you proofreaders extraordinaire, but you’re fast and fabulous.
Karan Eleni: Thank you for nudging me along and keeping me on track. You’re the best assistant I could hope for.
Scott Schwimer: Daddy, it’s been a wild relationship from our first lunch out at Kate Mantilini to shortbread in the mail. You are an awesome friend, attorney, and all-around big daddy.
My readers: You guys are the ones who make my dream gig possible, and I heart you for being so awesome! I read every single one of your reviews, emails, and posts on Facebook. Thank you for being a part of my journey.
Dedicated to all you adventurers who know there’s someplace you’re meant to be, even if you don’t know where that is yet.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
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
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
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
About the Author
Sample: The Reinvention of Mimi Finnegan
Prologue
I don’t believe in voodoo as a rule. I’m not superstitious or particularly gullible, and I sure as heck have never given much credence to people who claim they can predict the future. Why am I telling you this? Because when I was twelve my grandmother Thelma, who I called Mimi, took me to see a fortune-telling friend of hers in Harlem, just down the street from where she lived. The old lady with the Rastafarian braids, nose ring, and skunky-smelling aroma, read my palm and told me the following, “In your thirtieth year of life, right after the dog jumps over you, your whole world will change in the most unexpected ways. Be open to the change or you will always regret it.”
Mimi wrote the message down verbatim and gave me the scrap of paper, making me promise to keep it in my little jewelry box with the dancing ballerina. She said, “Baby girl, that old bat might have been higher than a kite, but she’s given me priceless words of wisdom during my lifetime. I have no idea what’s in store for you, but I know it was important for you to hear that.”
I’ve long since lost the jewelry box, and Mimi died a handful of years later, but I always remembered the message, just like I promised I would. I haven’t thought about in years, but suddenly life has made certain I’m awash with the memory.
Chapter 1
“Incoming!”
I hit the ground as soon as I heard the warning.
One of my all-time favorite pastimes is walking through Central Park in the fall. The air is crisp, and the colors are mind-blowingly gorgeous. Unfortunately, I have to share this miracle of nature with several million people who inhabit that same seven-mile stretch of land.
The sheer volume of all those bodies can be dangerous when large groups congregate in one area. It can also seriously hinder my enjoyment. I’m currently hindered, lying prone in a pile of damp leaves watching as a German shepherd jumps over me. He’s chasing the frisbee that had been destined to decapitate me.
I hear the old Jamaican woman’s words like she’s sitting next to me, “In your thirtieth year of life
, after the dog jumps over you, your whole world will change in the most unexpected ways.”
A very attractive doggy-daddy runs towards me calling, “Nice catch, Hanzie!” He whizzes right past me to give his buddy a vigorous rub. I eagerly await my turn. Just kidding, I don’t really expect Mr. Hotty Pants to rub me down, but offering a hand up would have been nice. Clearly that’s not going to happen as I watch him jog away with his furry friend. There’s not so much as a backward glance in my direction.
“Loser!” I yell at his departing backside.
Dear New York,
I love you like the native I am, but you gotta quit letting the riffraff move in.
How do I know he’s riffraff? He was wearing an “I Heart Akron” sweatshirt. No real New Yorker hearts anywhere other than New York.
An authentic New Yorker would have run over to help me up before apologizing profusely for the near miss. They may have even offered to buy me a hot dog for my troubles. Stereotypes aside, born and bred locals are generally good people. Sure, they give you hell when you deserve it, but when something like this happens they own it.
I lie still for a moment trying to regain my equilibrium after that jolt of adrenaline shot through me. I adore this island with my whole being. It’s the only home I’ve ever known, but the near miss with Mr. Akron’s flying disk has me wondering what life is like for the rest of the world. You know, the people who can enjoy the great outdoors with a modicum of elbow room.
I finally get up and buy my own hot dog to snack on while I walk home. Out of the corner of my eye I see a leaf sticking out of one of my ringlets of hair. Pulling at it, I realize I’ll be picking out bits of nature for the next couple of days. My corkscrew curly brown tresses have managed to attract and conceal all manner of things: leaves in the fall, flower petals in the spring, and possibly small rodents if I ever let them near my head, which I don’t.
As soon as I get to my building, I head down to the basement to get the rest of my cold weather clothes from storage. An Indian summer has been visiting so I haven’t been in a rush, but today, the bite of fall is upon us.
After retrieving two boxes marked “Pumpkin Muffin Clothes”—I labeled them in anticipation of the season where I organically increase my carb intake—I head up to my apartment on the fourth floor.
I probably should have brought up one box at a time, but I really didn’t want to make two trips. As I stagger down the hallway, I hear Timothy Sanders, my neighbor and all-around stud muffin, ask, “Hey, Lexi, need a hand?”
“Hi, Tim, that would be great.” I happily transfer half of my load into his very capable arms and ask, “When did you get back into the city?”
“Last night. Sadly, Fire Island becomes nothing but a fond memory for another year.”
He sighs in such a way that I feel an overpowering urge to wrap Fire Island up in a big red bow and gift it to him. Tim is a handsomely preppy brunette who dresses impeccably. Simply put, he would complete me if he ever bothered to ask me out. And believe me, I release all my single girl pheromones into the ether when he’s around. So far, to no avail.
Tim remains outside the city through September, which is a month longer than most people who vacate the premises to escape the suffocating heat. “Did you come back at all over the summer?” I ask despite knowing the answer is no. I’ve been scoping out his unit with the dedication of a confirmed busybody.
“Nah, I worked remotely. It’s nice being home though. What have you been up to?” he asks.
“Same old, same old. Doing my darndest to turn Silver Spoons into the next Williams Sonoma.”
My official job title of growth manager requires that I closely follow trends around the country looking for the next best fit to take our chain of kitchenware boutiques nationwide. I love my job for the most part, but I’ve grown bored. When Emmie, my good friend and fellow Silver Spoons employee, left several months ago, some of the joy I felt going to work disappeared. Actually, a lot. Her departure started a string of upsets we haven’t quite recovered from.
A little lightbulb seems to turn on in Tim’s head. He says, “I forgot you worked there. Listen, can I come in and see you sometime next week? Maybe you can show me around, if you’re available.” Do fish swim? Do Yankee fans flip you the bird if you accidentally cheer for the other team? I’m always available for the likes of Tim Sanders. Always.
I develop lockjaw, and I forget to swallow the excess saliva that fills my mouth. Tim is going to ask me out. Why else would he want me to show him around my work? Granted, it’s a weird kind of build up to courtship, but whatever gets the job done, right? After five long years, my dreams are about to come true. OMG, that fortune-teller was right! I’m thirty, a dog just jumped over me—I always thought that was a metaphor, but I guess I was wrong—and now Tim is finally going to ask me out. My life is changing.
I inelegantly choke on my spit as I answer, “For you, anything. What day works best?”
“Don’t know yet. Let me call Tiffany and find out when she’s available.”
“Tiffany?” I ask, hoping she’s his sister. Why would he want his sister to tag along?
“Oh, my gosh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know,” he exclaims.
I await explanation as tingles of dread crawl across my scalp like a spider infestation. “Tiff and I got engaged last month. Can you believe it?”
Imagine how you’d feel if the Big Friendly Giant wasn’t truly friendly after all, but was more of a Big Savage Giant. Visualize him shoving his meaty fist right through your solar plexus before ripping out your still-beating heart. That’s how I feel. All the hope and anticipation that this time of year stirs within me, mixed with the unadulterated joy of seeing Tim again, has evaporated, leaving nothing but emptiness, which will likely prove debilitating once I get into my apartment.
After several silent moments, where I don’t even bother to congratulate him, I finally say, “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
He looks surprised. “Really? That’s weird. We’ve been together for over a year.”
A whole year wasted, hungering for the unattainable. Three hundred and sixty-five days of my life I want back with the same yearning I used to feel for Christmas morning when my age was in single digits. I briefly wonder how serious my feelings have been for Tim. Was it him or the idea of having romance in my life that interested me? I store this question away to address later.
For now, I demand, “Strange I haven’t seen your fiancée before. Why is that?” I ask this as though he’s making her up.
He shrugs, blissfully unaware of my breaking heart. “We decided to get married when I got the notice about the building going condo.”
All romantic angst is put on hold. “What building’s turning into condos?” It has to be Tiffany’s—I think her name like it’s Hitler or Satan—because I never received a notice.
“Lexi, didn’t you get the letter from the management company alerting us that the owner is giving us the option to buy our apartments? Surely you’ve heard the rumors over the last few years.”
Of course, I’d heard murmurings. My last three apartments were rumored to either be going co-op or condo and none of them ever had. That’s par for the course when you live in the Big Apple. “I didn’t get the notice,” I tell him. “When is it happening?” I silently curse the myopic mailman who keeps putting my mail in the box of the drug dealer whose apartment is upstairs from mine. I briefly wonder what other correspondences have been misrouted.
“Not for six months, but that’s going to fly by in the blink of an eye. You’re going to buy, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know.” My head is filled with sharp jabbing pains, like an acupuncturist is sticking needles directly into my brain. “How much are our units going for?” I ask, even though I know it will be outside my budget. I’ve managed to save seventy-two thousand dollars in the last nine years, but that won’t be anywhere near the twenty percent down payment I’d need. Even if it were, there will be condo
fees on top of a staggering mortgage payment.
“They’re offering current residents who have lived here more than three years, a ten percent discount. You should be able to buy in for about four hundred and fifty thousand. Too good an offer to pass up, don’t you think?”
He must be high. How in the world can he imagine I’ll be able to afford such a hefty sum on my own? He needs to marry Tiffany to afford it. And while I’d make decent money if I lived in Tulsa or Des Moines, living in New York City, conscientiously tucking money aside for future home ownership, I barely get by.
My one-bedroom, one-bath apartment (the whole space is just over five hundred square feet, and that includes the closets) on the Upper West Side has a view of Central Park, if you’re not afraid to hang out the bathroom window and crane your neck so far to the left you look like you’re performing extreme yoga. A view of any kind of park pushes the price point up. It’s tiny, but it’s my home. The home I can no longer afford to live in.
Defeatedly, I answer, “I don’t have enough for the down payment.”
“That’s too bad,” he says sounding genuinely sorry. “You’ve been a great neighbor.”
Neighbor! Clearly, I’ve been the only one doing any pining in this relationship.
When we arrive at my door, I unlock it and lead the way in. Tim puts my box on the dining room table. “So about next week, I’ll let you know when Tiff and I can come in to register for our wedding. I really appreciate you helping us out.”
That’s why he wanted to come into Silver Spoons? I mean, obviously, in light of his engagement, but still, so disappointing. “I don’t know anything about the gift registry, but our sales staff will be more than happy to help you and Tiffany.” Satan.