Love is a Battlefield (Seven Brides for Seven Mothers Book 1) Read online

  Also by Whitney Dineen

  Romantic Comedies

  The Event

  The Move

  The Plan

  The Dream

  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

  Thrillers

  See No More

  Middle Reader Fiction

  Wilhelmina and the Willamette Wig Factory

  Who the Heck is Harvey Stingle?

  Children’s Books

  The Friendship Bench

  Love is a Battlefield

  Whitney Dineen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locales (except Oregon 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 2020; all right 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.

  September, 2020

  Ebook Edition ASIN: B089RQG8D7

  ISBN: 9798680246184

  https://whitneydineen.com/newsletter/

  33 Partners Publishing

  Acknowledgments

  I’m thrilled to finally be writing a series set in Oregon. The last eleven years living here have been full of all the things that matter in life: family, friends, gardens, chickens … Alas, no camping to date, but I’m seriously considering giving glamping a go.

  So much love to my family for their constant encouragement and support. You guys are my heart and foundation.

  Many thanks to Becky Monson for yet another fabulous cover. Girl, they just keep getting better and better.

  To my editor and proofreaders, Celia Kennedy, Paula Bothwell, and Melissa Amster, you gals rock my world.

  Many thanks to my author friends who support and encourage my career, you know who you are. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you.

  Heartfelt love to my attorney and Hollywood daddy, Scott Schwimer, we’ll walk that red carpet together, yet!

  To 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.

  This book is dedicated to every single one of you that has survived this crazy year.

  Keep your spirits up, keep your light shining, and help each other wherever you can.

  Together, we can do anything!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Excerpt: Relatively Normal

  Chapter One

  The Mothers

  Libby Cooper is busily deadheading her hot pink double fiesta impatiens when she hears the familiar riff of “You’re My Best Friend” by Queen. She picks up her phone and excitedly greets, “Ruby!”

  Her best friend since their first day at Oregon State University announces, “I still think he’s perfect for her.”

  Loving Ruby’s enthusiasm and pie-in-the-sky optimism, Libby kindly warns, “Addie’s never forgiven him for all those pranks he pulled on her when they were kids.”

  “Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean she never will. The question is, can you get her to set foot in Oregon?”

  With three quick snips of her gardening shears, Libby replies, “Of course I can. My daughter isn’t as tough as she wants the world to think she is. Is she a bit uptight? Yes. But she’s really a big softy when she thinks someone needs her help. That’s the card I’ll play.”

  Ruby’s familiar giggle is quickly followed by, “Excellent! Let me know when you’ll be here.”

  Addison

  “There’s only a four percent chance my vacation to the Cayman Islands will be canceled due to a weather-related incident. That’s a ninety-six percent chance I’m going to be lying around in a bikini being pampered,” I tell Eliza, or Elle, as she’s been called since graduating from high school. Her smiling face beams out of the laptop sitting on my bed, where she’s helping me decide what to pack for two sun-filled weeks on Grand Cayman. That’s where I’ll be celebrating the opening of Bainbridge Caribbean.

  “You’re so lucky you got to decorate the most exclusive resort in the Cayman Islands,” she says with borderline envy.

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” I reply honestly. As I sort through a pile of sarongs, I tell her, “I worked my butt off to show Roediger that I was the best person for the job. I put weeks into my pitch, convincing him that going with anyone else would be a waste of his time and money.”

  “Roediger Bainbridge,” Elle says wistfully as she twirls a strand of her glorious auburn hair around her index finger. “Did you know that Forbes rated him the third wealthiest hotel magnate in the world? That’s impressive considering he isn’t even forty.”

  Zings of pride still shoot through me when I think about how he chose me to design the interior of his hotel. The fact that he’s single, charming, and super easy on the eyes also plays a part in my enthusiasm for seeing him again. Not that I’m shallow, but no woman with a heartbeat is immune to a package like Roediger.

  “He’s like the lead in one of those romanti
c comedies from the nineties,” Elle sighs.

  While I totally agree with her, I feel the need to add, “Real life is never like the movies. More’s the pity.” Then I add, “I wish you could come with me.”

  “As much as it pains me to say, taking your mom for her sixtieth birthday is the right decision.”

  “Speaking of my mom, I’d better get moving if I want to get downtown in time for our reservation.”

  “I love how Libby comes into the city every time your dad is away on business.”

  “It’s a great excuse for some girl time with her only child. Plus, the shopping upstate pales in comparison to Madison Avenue.”

  “Does Your Mother Know” by ABBA blasts from my phone. It’s the song my mom programmed for her calls.

  I shoot Elle a questioning look as I answer, “Hey, Mom, what’s up?” I wonder if she’s already at the restaurant and is checking to see if I’m almost there.

  “I’m downstairs, let me in,” she orders.

  “You’re here? At my apartment? Why?”

  “Just let me in and I’ll tell you,” she says.

  I call down to the front desk. “Emilio, the impeccably dressed woman with the shoulder-length silver bob is my mother. You can send her up.”

  The doorman pauses before he informs me, “There’s a beautiful lady with a ponytail and blue jeans. Would that be who you’re talking about?”

  Emilio is new so he doesn’t know my mom wouldn’t wear jeans into the city. Yet, I distinctly hear her say, “Tell him to let me in, Addison.”

  “That’s her, thanks.” I turn to Elle and announce, “My mom is wearing jeans.”

  “In New York City?” my friend asks in alarm before offering, “Something must be wrong.”

  “There’s only one way to find out. I’ll call you back later tonight and let you know.”

  Elle shoots me a thumbs up before I flip my laptop shut. Then, I hurry to unlock the front door before the woman who gave me life has a chance to knock. She claims that once she’s been announced, I should watch her walk down the hall from the elevator. She likes to make an entrance.

  My mom is not wearing her trouser-styled Ralph Lauren jeans. She’s in her gardening jeans, full-on with the holes in the knees and the grass stains that illustrate how she got those holes.

  “You can’t go to Gramercy Tavern looking like that,” I shout down the corridor.

  “I’m happy to see you, too,” she says in a tone dripping with sarcasm.

  As soon as she’s within arm’s reach she hands me a large bag from Happy Happy Wok Wok. “You brought Chinese? What’s wrong?” Not only does my mom not dress casually in the Big Apple, she only eats Chinese food when there’s a crisis. It’s the only time she can justify putting MSG into her body.

  She pushes me through the doorway. “Let’s dish up and I’ll fill you in.”

  My mind is running a million miles an hour. “Is Dad leaving you for a younger woman?” I demand.

  “What? No. Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  I fling my hands out, spokesmodeling her current ensemble.

  Pulling two plates out of the kitchen cabinet, she announces, “Are we still going to the Caribbean on Friday?” Why wouldn’t we be? As my stress level climbs, she informs me, “I heard it’s a bad hurricane season. I’d hate to get stuck on some tropical island so far away from home.”

  “Mom, I’ve been flying back and forth for the past year and you haven’t once been concerned about hurricanes.” It’s much more her style to suggest that there are worse things than being stranded in paradise.

  She sighs like she’s trying to fill a hot air balloon in one breath. “Honey, do I ask for a lot of favors?”

  Uh, oh, something is up. “No,” I answer hesitantly before adding, “which I totally appreciate.” Hint, hint, don’t ask for any now.

  She fills a plate with my favorite shrimp. “It’s because I love and respect you too much to infringe on your life for anything less than a dire emergency.” Crap. She’s laying it on thick so I can’t say no to whatever bomb she’s about to drop.

  “Thank you, Mom. I can’t tell you how nice that is to—”

  She doesn’t let me finish. “I talked to Aunt Ruby this afternoon. She’s having an exceedingly difficult time right now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, suddenly losing interest in the kung pao shrimp on my plate. What could her hard time possibly have to do with me? Even though she and Mom make it a point to get together every year, I’ve barely seen her in the last fifteen.

  “Ever since Tom died last year, she’s been running the Willamette Valley Lodge single-handedly and she’s in a real bind right now.”

  “Thank goodness she has children then.”

  “Yes, well, her kids don’t specialize in the kind of help she needs.”

  No sense hinting around that they should be the ones coming to her aid, not me. “Are you by any chance suggesting Aunt Ruby is having a life or death decorating emergency? Because Mom, regardless of what those shows on HGTV try to tell you, there’s no such thing.”

  Seriously, people survived laminate countertops for generations before they were told that marble and granite were the only civilized options. Not to mention the seventies. That whole decade is what I imagine an acid flashback looking like.

  “Ruby’s been trying to decide if she should keep the lodge or if she should sell it. The stress has been taking its toll on her physically.”

  “If it’s affecting her health, she should sell it and live off the proceeds,” I say bluntly.

  “Addison Marie, that business has been in the Cavanaugh family for three generations. You don’t bail on longevity like that.”

  “Why not? If it’s getting to be too much for her and her lazy ass sons won’t help, then there’s nothing wrong with her walking away.” Brogan and James Cavanaugh are not my favorite people on the planet. I haven’t seen them since we were teenagers, but the memories from shared family vacations during our formative years have scarred me for life.

  “James is busy running his farm and, as you know, Brogan has his hands full being a successful author. I hardly think they’re slacking. More like preoccupied with their own pursuits.”

  “Uh-huh.” I don’t dare ask my mom where I fit into her friend’s trouble for fear she’ll tell me.

  “Don’t you want to know what the crisis is?”

  “Not even a little bit.” Knowing where I fit in will only cement my mom’s intentions that I come to her friend’s rescue like some kind of decorating Wonder Woman sans the bullet repelling bangles on my wrists.

  “She needs to make some renovations to the inn. Bookings have slowed down as new lodgings are opening all the time in their area. She has to do something to redirect interest back to her place.”

  “She should throw a big party or get a Hollywood movie studio to film something there,” I suggest.

  “Before she does anything like that, she needs to make sure everything looks its best. That’s where you come in.” And there it is, the other shoe dropping. Right on me.

  “Have her call my office and talk to Chloe. I’ll see what I can do about scheduling a consultation with her sometime in the spring.”

  “The spring will be too late, honey. She needs to be ready by Christmas.”

  “Christmas? That’s completely unrealistic, Mom. It’s already the middle of August. If that’s her deadline, there’s no way I can help. I’m booked solid through March.”

  “That’s not strictly true,” she says, gaining strength for her cause.

  I hand her my phone. “Call Chloe and ask her. I promise she’ll verify the busyness of my schedule.” I shouldn’t have to point out how in-demand my skills are to my own mother.

  “You’re taking a month off starting next week,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, but I’m going to Grand Cayman with you, and when I come home, I’m going to have a couple of things done here at my apartment.” I’
ve been putting off laying hardwood floors and updating the paint for over two years. I don’t want to wait two more years until I have the time to oversee it.

  “Your apartment is perfect as is, and I’m sure your client will be happy to reschedule our trip when you tell him a family emergency has come up.”

  Of all the nerve. “First of all, Mom, while I love Aunt Ruby, she isn’t family. Secondly, I’ve already explained that dire decorating emergencies don’t exist.”

  “You yourself said that I don’t ask for favors,” she says. “But I’m asking now. Ruby is my dearest friend and when she calls me in tears needing help, I will move heaven and earth to come to her aid.”

  When I don’t say anything, she hurries to add, “A lot of people die within a year after losing their spouse. I can’t bear to think about that happening to my best friend.”

  I ignore her and pick up my phone. “Hey Google, what percentage of women die within a year of losing their spouse?”

  “According to studies by the Bereavement Center for Mental Health, seventeen percent of women die within a year of losing a longtime spouse,” Google announces.

  “Seventeen percent,” I reiterate. “And I’m willing to bet ninety-eight percent of those are a heck of a lot older than Aunt Ruby.”

  “My friend needs me,” my mom states plainly.

  Historically, once my mother has made up her mind, there’s no changing it. But I have to try. “Then you should definitely help her.”

  “I don’t have the skills, but I intend to come along to offer moral support. That way we’ll still have our getaway together for my birthday.”

  Oh, no, she didn’t. Playing the birthday card is the cherry on the guilt sundae she just served.