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Product Description
Somewhere over the rainbow... is a giant dumpster. At least, that's how things appear to Frankie Wunder when she discovers her husband's been cheating on her and there are no fairy tale endings on her horizon. But Frankie, a successful South Beach realtor, isn't prepared to leave her future up to the wave of anyone's wand. Determined to find a man who meets her criteria for the perfect husband and father of the child she desperately wants, Frankie goes on a diet, assembles a list of prospective candidates, and immerses herself in the South Beach dating scene. But is a man who's rich, successful, and willing to take care of her what Frankie really wants? As she works her way through a deceitful doctor, a lecherous lawyer, and a rakish real estate executive--the men most South Beach Cinderellas would gladly lose a slipper to--Frankie realizes her dream men are nightmares and her true Prince Charming is nothing like the guy in the fairy tale.

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 24

HUMPTY DUMPTY OVER EASY

On early mornings along Miami Beach, crabs, driftwood and washed-up jellyfish inhabit places that later in the day become the province of thonged browned butts, beer cans and radios emanating pulsating salsa. It was before this changing of the guard took place that I liked to walk along the edge of the beach, my bare feet sinking into moist, darkened sand as sluicing water lapped at my ankles and gulls screamed against crashing waves.

I had spent the previous night alone in my new home where I had improvised a makeshift bed out of a lounge chair, a sleeping bag and some pillows. I awoke with a backache and a stiff neck and decided to watch the sunrise as I walked along the beach. It seemed like the kind of independent, self-sufficient thing I should be doing. Coffee could wait until later.

I left my car in the practically deserted municipal lot on Collins Avenue. The sky looked like one of those spin art paintings you make as a kid with shades of orange spreading over a deep blue.

It was a chilly February morning and I wore a sweatshirt over my shorts, but left my hair to fly loose in the wind and sting my face with the force of a quick slap. I liked the sensation just as I liked taking cold showers. There’s something about controlled pain that makes me feel as though I’ve come alive. I wonder if it’s a sign of masochism or if I just enjoy experiencing things deeply. It was Friday, two days after I had closed on my house, so I suppose I was just into hurting myself.

I ambled along the dark beach kicking sand, outrunning the surf. But at some point, I became conscious I was alone and felt my pulse quicken. Could there be homeless men and psychopaths hidden in the Spanish bayonet and bushes along the dunes waiting for the likes of me, figuring once they nabbed my car keys, it would be easy to identify the only car parked in the municipal lot? Then my abductor would lock me in the trunk, my sweatshirt sleeve stuffed in my mouth, while he found a nice, deserted place to rape and murder me.

I walked more quickly, not quite ready to give up the solitude but allowing my New York survival instincts to kick in. I slipped my hand in my pocket, my keys arranged like brass knuckles between my fingers. Just in case.

Sandpipers darted in and out of the water, digging purposefully in the sand. How did they find mates? Single bird bars? Bird personals? Anything had to be better than my own mantra, ‘The Control Freak’s Guide to Snaring a Suitable Spouse’.

The men I had chosen had been disastrous. Was I such a poor judge of character or was this all there was? Either way, my future was looking more like an empty eggshell than one filled with children and love. I linked my hands over my barren stomach. After two months of exercise, it was now firm and solid and I hated it. I wanted a big, bulging belly with little hands and feet inside kicking to get out.

The sky turned a pale blue streaked with pink and orange cotton candy. My legs moved faster and faster until I was running with all my might at the water’s edge, my heart pounding against my chest. Sand and water sprayed behind me, my breaths came in gasps, but I felt invigorated. I can do this. I’m not going to give up.

Then I was down.

I toppled over like a felled deer as pain shot through my heel and up my leg. I rolled on my back squeezing my leg, trying not to scream or cry, hoping that a land shark hadn’t taken a bite out of my foot. The pain abated and I pulled my bloody heel toward me. The sight of it made me feel faint. I’m not good with blood. I never have been. Even as a child, I had freaked when my baby teeth fell out. And once, my mother had to take me to the emergency room when I cut my finger on a piece of glass, though, it turned out, I hadn’t needed stitches.

I reached out to touch my current wound, then pulled my hand back as a fresh rush of pain coursed through me. So I guess it was my preoccupation with my injury, though it could have been the roar of the surf that left me oblivious to the approach of the man. In any event, I hadn’t seen anyone all morning and the last thing I expected when I turned my head was a human form looming over me. I screamed. Loud.

With his hair whipping around his shadowed face and a gray uniform that I took for prison garb, I was sure I was done for. I squeezed my eyes shut and continued screaming as I brandished my weapon keys in front of my face like you see vampire victims do with crucifixes.

“Please stop screaming, Frankie,” a familiar deep voice said.

I opened my eyes, still holding the keys before me. “Oh my god,” I said when it registered.

“Can I take a look at your foot now?”

I nodded as Fernando Carreras got down on his knees and took my bloody heel in his hands. He was dressed in a gray warm-up suit—anyone could have mistaken it for prison clothes—and he obviously hadn’t shaved yet.

“I don’t think it’ll need to be amputated,” he said in a serious voice. “Not if we can get you some medical attention soon.”

He felt around in the sand where my foot had touched down and lifted out a broken shell with a red edge. Blood. “I’m saving this,” he said. “I wouldn’t have believed something this small could make anyone scream as much as you did.”

“I wasn’t screaming over that.”

“You weren’t? You sounded like you’d been chewed up by sharks.” He took a white handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around my foot. “I think that should hold it for now.”

“Do you own a handkerchief factory?” I asked, remembering the one he’d wiped my forehead with at the fundraiser.

He ignored that. “Try to stand up. You can lean against me.”

I liked that just fine, but my foot began throbbing as soon as I got up.

“My apartment’s just over there.” He gestured toward several high-rise buildings a short distance ahead of us. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you.”

“I’m fine. Really. I’ll just go back to my car now. Thanks for your help.” I took a clumsy hopping step.

“I don’t think so.” He picked me up like he might a wounded dog. A very large dog. “Keep your foot out; it needs to be elevated.”

I grabbed onto his back in case he dropped me. His sweatshirt was clammy; I wondered if he’d been out jogging.

“I’m not going to drop you,” he said.

He smelled like sweat and musk and salt. I wanted to lean my face against his glistening neck, but I held myself taut. He carried me past a gate that led into the lush private pool area of his building.

“You live at the Alexander Hotel?” I asked, suddenly recognizing the luxury hotel that catered to a wealthy clientele with its beautifully appointed apartments.

“For now,” he said. “I’ve been staying here since Ileana and I split up. Now that the divorce has gone through, I’ll be getting something more permanent. Remember?” He squeezed my arm. “I said I’d be calling you about finding me something?”

I remembered but I was looking at how his hair had fallen across his eye. His divorce had gone through. My mother would like that. I touched the loose black strand and pushed it back from his forehead. I’m often queasy when I come in contact with another person’s sweat, but I found my hand lingering on his damp head.

“Thanks,” he said.

I drew my arm back.

The lobby was cool and dark, with wood-paneled walls. Fernando continued holding me at the elevator bank for what seemed like an unusually long time. I glanced around self-consciously hoping no other early risers would join us. “You can put me down,” I said, as the elevator opened. “Your arms must be hurting.”

He smiled. “No chance.”

At the door to his apartment, he rested me against the wall as he fumbled through his pocket for his key, then, once inside, placed me gingerly on a beige suede sofa and put a couple of throw pillows under my foot. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

I heard cabinets closing and glasses clinking in the kitchen while I looked out at a shimmering ocean joining a perfectly blue, post-sunrise sky. Then as the smell of freshly brewing coffee drifted into the living room, I could make out the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Fernando appeared a moment later carrying a full glass of orange juice. “Drink this,” he said.

I didn’t argue, though I usually liked to start my day right by skipping the juice and saving the hundred calories or so. A 500-milligram chewable tablet of vitamin C worked just as well. But the cold juice slid down my throat like ambrosia. It tasted fresh-squeezed.

“First, I’ll get you fixed up,” he said, “then we’ll have something to eat.” He scooped me up. Was this some kind of Hispanic macho-male ritual? I’d have to remember to ask Roberta if Juan Carlos liked to carry her from room to room.

The water was still running as he sat me at the edge of the bathtub and, after removing the bloody handkerchief, placed my foot into the tub. I winced in anticipation of the pain.

“You didn’t play much football as a kid, did you?” he asked as he swished my foot around in the water. He’d pushed up his sleeves but not enough, and one had a dark gray watermark around its cuff.

“I don’t like pain.” I tensed my body as he lifted my foot out. He rested it across his lap and patted it dry with a towel. He rolled one end of the towel into a point and gently poked it between my toes. I almost passed out with lust.

“This shouldn’t hurt.” He squeezed the cut open.

I opened my mouth to scream, then closed it. It didn’t actually hurt.

“I know it bled a lot, but it isn’t very deep. I’m going to put some Neosporin on it and bandage you up.”

I could feel the warmth of his hands as he held my heel. He seemed to be concentrating very hard as he worked on my foot. A woman could really use a pedicure for a moment like this.

“You said you were going to call me.” I bit down on my tongue, figuring some demon had invaded my body and was using my voice to say something so incredibly stupid.

He didn’t look up, but finished putting a Band-Aid in place, then wrapped a gauze strip around it. “Stand up and try to put some weight on it.”

I pressed my bandaged foot against the cold marble floor. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. Maybe I’d only said that in my mind.

“I was going to call you,” he said.

Shit. Now what do I say that won’t make matters worse? “So why didn’t you?” the demon inside my voice box said aloud. I was a complete idiot.

“Let me see you walk on it,” Fernando said.

I took a step.

“Put your weight on it, Frankie. You’re walking on your toes.”

I bore down with my full weight as I walked out of the bathroom into the living room. It hurt, but it didn’t compare to the humiliation I was feeling. “It’s fine,” I said. “You’re a prince, Fernando.” Shut up, you stupid demon. “I need to get going, though.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

I stared into eyes that looked like the ocean meeting the sky. Take me in your arms and kiss me passionately. Tell me you haven’t stopped thinking about me over the past week but you’d been kidnapped and locked up in a dark basement without your cell phone. Tell me you can’t live without me.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked.

Fertilized, I thought, but I settled for, “Over easy.”

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Discussion Questions

-What are Frankie’s flaws and what makes her likeable? Do you find her sympathetic?
-How has Frankie been shaped by the influences in her life, such as her mother and father?
-How is humor used to reveal Frankie’s character and to question conventional thinking?
-Do Frankie’s choices make sense?
-How and why does Frankie change during the course of the story?

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»	Author Sharon Potts' web site
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