Learning to Love Read online

  Learning To Love

  A Make Me a Match Novel

  Julie Evelyn Joyce

  Learning to Love Copyright © 2020 by Julie Evelyn Joyce Doner

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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  Cover design and E-book formatting by

  Margaret Ethridge

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  Edits by Sarah Pesce of

  Lopt & Cropt editing services

  ISBN: 978-1-9994842-3-1

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Julie Evelyn Joyce

  Visit my website at julieevelynjoyce.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Learning to Love

  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

  A Sneak Peek!

  In Case You Missed It

  Steeped in Love

  Praise for Steeped in Love

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to teachers and other frontline workers. Thank you for caring. Thank you for never giving up the fight. And thank you for inspiring me.

  Learning to Love

  Rebecca Ledgerwood is a physical education teacher who’s ready to invest some sweat equity into a lasting romance. William Whitney is a man who’s turned his life upside down in pursuit of making a difference.

  The students at Kendal High School face challenges prep school educated Will could never imagine, but his beautiful coworker Rebecca has known firsthand. Though the chemistry between them is strong, they come from vastly different backgrounds.

  Rebecca is surprised to discover she and Will have more in common than she realizes. But just when she learns to trust him, Will is faced with the biggest challenge of his life. With their hearts on the line, can Will prove to Rebecca that he’s learned how to love?

  Content warning: This story contains a family member’s death, as well as content related to eating disorders.

  1

  Rebecca Ledgerwood took off toward the town square at a vigorous clip in her brightest red sneakers. Sundays in Kendal weren’t for the lazy or the lackadaisical. For as long as she’d been living there—all thirty-five years of her life and counting—it’d been the day to be out and about. To be seen and heard. Go to church, grab a bite, socialize, exercise, and everything in between.

  As she neared the gazebo that stood at the center of all the activity, a fist of longing squeezed her heart. Everywhere she turned, she spotted families and soon-to-be-families, happy couples, new mothers pushing strollers . . . visions she’d trained herself to enjoy instead of envy. But today, envy was niggling. She felt like the word “single” was tattooed on her forehead. Like she was the only one without someone to share this day with, and quite frankly, it sucked.

  Summer was in full swing. For a high school teacher, it was the most magical time of the year. Unless you were a single high school teacher. Then, the days seemed interminably long. Where were all the single guys when a girl actually had time to entertain them? Sheesh. In another week or two, she’d be spending her days preparing for her twelfth year at Kendal High School in the physical education department, and once the kids came back . . . buh-bye, social life. After-school programs, clubs, athletics, staff meetings, volunteering, fundraisers, and a whole host of other events took top priority. Oh, and the teaching thing.

  Even with eleven years under her belt, she couldn’t claim to be an expert. Teaching was as much a learning experience as being taught—maybe even more so. Each class was different; every student had a unique personality, strengths, and needs. Kendal High students in particular called for a great deal of compassion. These kids were pulled in from other communities and school districts where they were struggling and brought to KHS to get the help they required in order to succeed. To survive as an educator at Kendal High, you needed plenty of creativity, patience, and a healthy sense of humor to help you get through the most difficult days.

  Yes, those kids made you work damned hard for every inch you gained, but she wouldn’t want it any other way. Because with every small battle she won, the rewards were enormous.

  As the afternoon sun beat down, she slowed her pace to a walk and followed her nose to the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked pie. Addie Mitchell’s hand pies were impossible to resist, but they were worth every last calorie, and sometimes she just had to give in.

  Addie had her bike propped on its kickstand while she served an older gentleman. She beamed a smile at Rebecca and held up a finger indicating she’d be with her shortly. Rebecca studied the pixie-haired woman, fascinated by her ease in interacting with every customer, young and old. And the whole Pie-Cycle idea? Pure genius. Rebecca never knew she needed pie delivered directly to her until she had it.

  Addie waved her over to make her order. “Hey, Rebecca!”

  “Hi, Addie. Got anything good left?”

  “Well, I’m down to one flavor—banana-hazelnut—but I put some extra chocolate drizzle on them,” she said, waggling her eyebrows enticingly. A saleswoman to her core. As it happened, Rebecca had a weakness for anything hazelnut. And chocolate was a no-brainer.

  “I’ll take four if you’ve got ’em.”

  Addie nodded, bagging them up for her. “Having a party?”

  She ducked her head, her cheeks flushing with heat. “Uh, no, it’s cheat day.” You’re not cheating, she internally berated herself. As an advocate for healthy eating, she’d never been fond of the term. There was nothing wrong with enjoying sweets in moderation. The words had just slipped out, as words tended to do in awkward situations such as this.

  “Oh,” Addie said, chuckling. “Well, I’m honored you chose to cheat with my pies.” She passed her the bag, then pocketed the bills Rebecca handed over in exchange.

  “I’ll have to spend a few extra hours in the gym this week, but it’s worth it.” Rebecca could feel the other woman’s eyes on her, sizing her up. Every woman did it, even the nice ones like Addie. Sometimes without realizing it. They’d say with a look—a raised eyebrow or a twist of their mouth—that she could stand to skip a week or ten of gym sessions. She could, maybe, but she wouldn’t. Strength, to her, was more than muscle mass. Strength meant she had power over her life and control over the choices she made. There was no way in hell she’d go back to being that scrawny kid in high school who never knew when her next meal would be.

  Realizing their conversation had run its course, Rebecca held up her prize package of pies, shot the baker a friendly smile, and hurried away in a half-sprint.

  “Enjoy!” Addie called after her.

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p; Oh, she would. She couldn’t wait to get home and sink her teeth into one of them. But home was a good five minutes away. There was no reason why she couldn’t sample one sooner, give herself a little energy boost. Decelerating but still moving forward, she shook open the bag and peered inside to find the biggest, flakiest . . . Whoa!

  Her foot caught on something, and she fell face-first into a deep purple sea. Scrambling onto all fours, she checked to see what got her. A tent guy line. How could she not see a purple tent set up right in front of her? Well, when one had an eye on pie . . . Panic surged as she realized the bag wasn’t in her hand.

  “Are you hurt, dear?” a voice called from above her.

  Glancing up, she saw Carmen Deacon’s head poking through the tent flaps.

  How could anyone think of her well-being when there were baked goods unaccounted for? Feeling around through the loose fabric that skirted the tent, her hand finally made contact with the paper bag. She pulled it free and held her breath as she nervously checked the precious cargo inside. “They’re all right!” she cried, lifting the bag high overhead in triumph.

  Carmen stared at her like she’d gone mad. “Let’s get you inside and make sure you’re not hurt,” she said, ushering Rebecca into her tent. Too elated to think of the ramifications of following her, she did as she was told. But once you stood inside Carmen’s tent, she wasn’t Carmen anymore. She became Towanda, teller of fortunes, reader of palms.

  And entering Towanda’s tent was as good as giving the woman carte blanche to predict your future.

  “Come, dear. Sit.” Carmen—uh, Towanda—guided her to the table and chairs at the center of the tent. String lights and tea lights cast a warm glow over the space and made the rhinestones on the palmist’s purple cape sparkle with every movement. Pushing her into the chair furthest from the exit—the clever broad—she added, “I’ll fetch you a bottle of water.”

  Rebecca tucked her bag of pies by her side, then surveyed her surroundings in greater detail. She smoothed her palms against the purple and gold silk draped over the table. An assortment of tarot cards lay scattered across its surface. Curiosity got the better of her, and she reached for the card nearest her, studying the vibrant blue swirls that spiraled into a wide-open blue eye in the middle. Cool . . . in a creepy sort of way. Okay, why was the eye staring at her? Or did it just look like it was staring at her because it had nothing else to stare at?

  Before she could flip the card over and discover what lay hidden on the other side, it was gone, plucked from her hand and replaced with a far less exciting bottle of water.

  “Don’t touch the tarot cards, dear. They might bite.”

  Rebecca blinked. “Uh . . .”

  The older woman guffawed as she swept the remaining cards into a box, then sat in the seat opposite Rebecca’s. “You’re not a believer, are you?”

  “Well, I mean, I . . . no. Not exactly.” She shrugged, feeling as though confessing such a thing was sacrilege in Towanda’s purple tent.

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Towanda shot back with a playful wink. “Come see me again, and I’ll do a proper tarot reading. But right now, I want your palms.” Resting her elbows on the table, she held out her own palms and gestured for Rebecca to place hers on top.

  She complied, then audibly gasped at the strength of the other woman’s grip. Towanda closed her eyes and pressed her lips together in concentration, but her steady grip never lessened. Soon, a soft hum filled the silence. Despite the hubbub of activity outside, nothing—no noise of any kind—seemed to permeate through the tent fabric, almost as if there were some sort of invisible soundproof barrier surrounding it.

  Towanda’s thumbs swiped over Rebecca’s palms. Then a second time. A smile lit her face, and her still-shut eyes crinkled in the corners. “Turn off your thoughts,” she whispered. “Open your mind to the here and now.”

  Turn off my thoughts? She stifled a laugh. Like there was an off switch. She’d never been good at yoga, at least not the relaxation part of it, because she kind of sucked at making her brain shut up. Especially in moments of discomfort. How long does a palm reading take? Palms aren’t very big, and not all that exciting . . .

  “You’re still thinking too much,” Towanda admonished her in a sing-song voice.

  Rebecca lifted her gaze to find Towanda grinning at her, her deep-set blue eyes twinkling with mirth. Her cheeks held the healthy glow of a woman who loved to laugh. She spent most of her days waltzing about the town, fraternizing with the townsfolk and dishing the latest gossip. Everyone in Kendal knew Carmen Deacon. She was the town’s self-appointed one-woman welcoming committee, after all, and she made a point to meet and greet anyone who crossed her path.

  Though their paths didn’t cross too often, Rebecca appreciated Carmen’s obvious zest for life and the inner strength that radiated through her. She smiled as she imagined having an arm wrestling match with her and losing.

  “Are you ready?”

  The question jolted her from her thoughts, and for a moment, Rebecca wondered if her unspoken challenge had been accepted. “For the reading, you mean?”

  Towanda let loose a throaty cackle. “Yes, you silly girl.”

  With a resigned sigh, Rebecca rolled back her shoulders and gave herself over to the palm gods. Or goddess, in this case. What’s the worst that could happen? “Okay, have at it, Carmen.”

  “That’s the spirit! And it’s Towanda, sweetheart.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “I’ll be reading both palms. The left, they say, is what the gods give you, and the right is what you do with it.”

  Towanda leaned closer and focused her gaze on the lines that crisscrossed over Rebecca’s palms. Lines that seemed rather meaningless to Rebecca. But the way Towanda studied them—so eager and curious and enraptured—she could just as easily have been staring at a map of the world, deciding where she most wanted to travel to next.

  “I think for you, dear, I might do something a little unorthodox and start with the heart line.”

  “The heart line?”

  “Yes, the line that speaks to your physical and emotional health, your attitude toward love.”

  She’d only ever loved one man who never returned the sentiment. And, oh yeah, the bastard had broken their engagement three weeks after they’d made the announcement in front of his family. So her attitude toward love could best be described by a Def Leppard song: “Love Bites.”

  “The love line runs below your pinky finger to the edge of your index finger.” Towanda traced the curved shape with her own finger to demonstrate. “Yours is a long line with a gradual curve, which means you’re passionate about the things you love and you don’t care who knows it. And probably a tiger in the sack, too,” she added, her eyebrows raised.

  Rebecca choked on her saliva, which spurred on an eye-watering coughing fit. Towanda released her hands and gestured to the water bottle she’d given her earlier. Twisting off the cap, she took several sips, then exhaled a shuddering breath. “I’m okay,” she croaked. “Slightly disturbed, but otherwise okay.”

  Towanda’s cheeky grin reflected her utter lack of remorse at her colorful choice of words. It was hard not to admire her gusto.

  Placing her palms once more in Towanda’s care, she asked the question that she had been wondering about for years. “So how exactly did the Towanda thing come about? I mean, the name itself. Why do you go by Towanda when you’re reading palms?”

  The older woman went on to explain it was a tribute to the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. “I have my own copy, but the blessed thing has been stuck in my VCR for years. It’s like Idgie’s spirit is inside there. Stubborn as the dickens! Did you ever see the film, dear?”

  Rebecca shook her head.

  “Idgie, the main character, she’s so different for a girl growing up in her time. Independent and self-assured . . . has her own sense of right and wrong. She shouts ‘Towanda!’ before she jumps head-first into something adventurous or dangerous. It’s like h
er own personal battle cry. I like to think I have a little bit of Idgie inside of me, that I’m not afraid of what the future holds.”

  Her gaze fell to their joined hands, and this time, Rebecca felt more than the strength that radiated through Towanda’s palms. She felt a bond, a connection she couldn’t quite explain. “I think there’s a lot of her inside you,” she whispered.

  “I get that same feeling with you, too, Rebecca.”

  Their eyes met, and they shared a smile. Fear was something she’d experienced long before she knew the meaning of the word. Nagging sensations that caused her stomach to clench or her skin to feel hot; nights that she couldn’t sleep because her heart was beating too rapidly. When her father left without saying a word. When the mortgage was due and there wasn’t enough money in her mother’s savings account. When the fridge was empty. The future didn’t scare her, but there were times she feared the memories of her past might swallow her up.

  “Let’s look at your life line now,” Towanda said. “Yours starts at the edge of your palm, between your forefinger and thumb, and extends deep to the base of your thumb.” She followed the line with her middle finger, moving down and then back up again. “It’s a good, long line. A strong line, thick and clear. I can feel the energy.”