A Girl by Any Other Name Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  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

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Totally Bound Publishing

  A Totally Bound Publication

  A Girl by Any Other Name

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-925-5

  ©Copyright MK Schiller 2013

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright December 2013

  Edited by Eleanor Boyall

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2013 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  What’s Her Secret?

  A GIRL BY ANY OTHER NAME

  MK Schiller

  Everyone tells him he needs to move on, but how can a man function without his heart?

  Ten-year-old Caleb Tanner wants nothing to do with Sylvie Cranston, the annoying weird girl who moves next door to him and gets him in trouble for swearing. But at twelve, they become friends when he teaches her how to hook a fishing line and she shows him the value of a selfless act. At fourteen, he falls in love with her.

  At sixteen, she dies.

  Or so he’s told. But Cal never believes it. Sylvie has become part of his soul. He knows her like the steady beating of his own heart. He’d know if she was dead. Cal looks for her, prays for her and finally he just waits for her.

  Nine years later, she walks into the community college English class Cal is teaching. Only this girl claims her name is Sophie Becker and she doesn’t know him. Cal knows better. He’s determined to get the girl he loves back—and protect her from the danger that took her away all those years ago.

  Dedication

  Dear fellow romance lover, thank you for choosing my book! I hope you enjoy Cal and Sylvie’s story as much as I loved writing it.

  There are many people whose support made this work possible.

  Thank you to Totally Bound for believing in my work, and my diligent editor,

  Eleanor Boyall.

  Thank you to my loving family for all their support and living with all the sacrifices of having an absentee member while I was focused on Cal and Sylvie’s world.

  Thank you to Nicole, Roberta and Etheleen, my beta readers,

  for your feedback and suggestions.

  Thank you to all the readers who continue to support indie authors like myself and invest themselves monetarily and emotionally in our work.

  Keep reading and never stop looking for your happily ever after!

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: Mark Twain

  Adventures of Tom Sawyer: Mark Twain

  American Pie: Don McLean

  American Express: American Express Company

  Barbie: Mattel

  Brown-Eyed Girl: Van Morrison

  Cadillac: General Motors LLC

  Casino: Universal Pictures

  Chuck Taylor: Converse

  Citibank: Citigroup, Inc

  CliffsNotes: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Converse: Nike, Inc

  Craftsman: Sears

  Crazy Love: Van Morrison

  Doc Martens: R. Griggs Group Ltd

  Facebook: Facebook, Inc.

  Ford: Ford Motor Company

  Forrest Gump: Paramount Pictures

  Frankenstein: Mary Shelley

  Glenlivet: Chivas Brothers Ltd

  Glock: Glock GmbH

  Goodfellas: Warner Bros

  Google: Google, Inc.

  Home Depot: Homer TLC

  iPod: Apple, Inc.

  I Will Wait: Mumford & Sons

  Jack Daniels: Brown Forman Corporation

  Jane Says: Jane’s Addiction

  Ken doll: Mattel Corporation

  Laffy Taffy: Nestle

  Mama Said Knock You Out: LL Cool J

  Mine Would Be You: Blake Shelton

  Moby Dick: Herman Melville

  Monk: USA Network

  Mrs Dalloway: Virginia Woolf

  Of Mice and Men: John Steinbeck

  Only the Good Die Young: Billy Joel

  Pride and Prejudice: Jane Austen

  Remington: RA Brands, LLC

  Rolling Rock: Latrobe Brewing Company

  Saks: Saks & Company

  Save Me, San Francisco: Train

  Schwinn: Nautilus, Inc

  Sherlock Holmes: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  Sister Golden Hair: America

  Snickers: Mars, Inc

  SparkNotes: SparkNotes LLC

  Suzuki: Suzuki Motor Corporation

  Tabasco sauce: McIlhenny Company

  The Gambler: NBC

  The Great Gatsby: F. Scott Fitzgerald

  The Mayor of Casterbridge: Thomas Hardy

  The Raven: Edgar Allen Poe

  The Weight: The Band

  Tombstone: Bueno Vista Pictures

  Transformers: DreamWorks Pictures

  Walk Away, Renee: The Left Banke

  Walkman: Sony

  Walmart: Wal-Mart Stores, Inc.

  Who Says You Can’t Go Home: Bon Jovi

  Wikipedia: Wikimedia Foundation

  Yamaha: Yamaha Corporation

  Velcro: Velcro Industries BV

  Chapter One

  Excerpt from Raven Girl

  The worst part of being a kid was that you never knew how good you had it until it was too late.

  Childhood was simple. My parents told me it was because I didn’t have bills to pay or mouths to feed, but it was more than that. It was because nothing was planned. When you didn’t plan for it, you didn’t worry about the consequences. They just happened naturally without the coercion, manipulation or mindfuck games that came with becoming an adult.

  I never planned for Sylvie Cranston to be my best f
riend. I never expected her to be the muse in all my dreams, or the girl who later haunted my nightmares. I certainly never planned to fall in love with her, but that was exactly what happened.

  Everyone told me I needed to move on. That was like asking me to pierce my own flesh and crush my empty, beating heart. They wanted me to toss it away and continue to breathe. How could a man function without his heart?

  Age 10

  “Caleb, the neighbors are moving in. Come on, I need you to carry the casserole.” My mother’s hurried voice echoed down the hall to my room.

  I didn’t think that woman knew the term ‘lazy Sunday’. I had no desire to meet the new neighbors let alone bring them a casserole. I wanted to get out of my Sunday suit and fish before it was time to worry about Monday.

  “Why can’t Mandy carry it?” I asked. My little sister and my momma were pretty much a package deal. Wherever Amelia Tanner went, Amanda Tanner followed. Mandy was my momma’s mini-me with long, curly red hair and dark green eyes that my father fondly referred to as sharply sweet. They even had the same pattern of freckles across their noses. However, my momma was elegant whereas my sister was as clumsy as a blind dog in a figurine factory.

  “It’s way too heavy for her, and I’m not risking it. I worked too darn hard on it. Now get your butt in gear and help me.”

  I begrudgingly walked out of my room to the foyer where the two females in my life waited for me impatiently. “Can I at least change first?”

  My mother sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “They’re going to see you looking like a bum every day this summer. At least make a good first impression. I hear they’re from up north, and we want them to think of you as a perfect Southern gentleman, not the wild ruffian you are.” I shook my head, but didn’t protest. You didn’t argue with my mother. Even a peaceful protest was out of the question. “You know, there is no hospitality like the Southern kind, so let’s go show these folks how lucky they are to be living here.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes, but it was exactly what I wanted to do. She smiled at me, ruffling my hair. “You never know, they might have a little boy your age.”

  “Geez, Momma, you act like I’m five. I’m not a little boy and I don’t need a playmate.”

  “You sure are throwing a temper tantrum like a little boy,” Amanda chimed in, who actually was five.

  “You will always be my little boy. Now come on,” my mother stated.

  I led the procession of Tanners, carrying the cheesy casserole dish that felt like it weighed at least twenty pounds. We marched outside our little brick ranch, walking all the way out to the sidewalk and crossing over the ten slabs of cement to the driveway of another almost identical brick ranch. It was easier to cut across the grass, but I knew better. My momma would have a few remarks if I dared cross the patch of grass between the houses. It was not proper. It was not neighborly. And we had manners. This philosophy applied even though the other house had been vacant so long it was more like weedy thistle than a real lawn. Still, my father mowed it down once a week for appearances’ sake when he tended to our lawn. “Can’t let the neighborhood go downhill,” he’d say. I knew with his promotion to sheriff, he would be working longer hours, and the chore would soon be mine. At least I’d only have to mow our lawn.

  I stepped aside so my mother could knock on the door. A moving van was in the driveway and several men were unloading it. The whole thing was a little weird. No one ever moved to Prairie Marsh, Texas. Sure, there were people who left to pursue life in other parts of the country, only to return homesick or bitter from their experiences, but it was a strange occurrence to see a new family here. We were a small town in the middle of nowhere, East Texas. Even at ten, I knew that much.

  A tall dark-haired man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt answered the door. This was strange too. People around here either wore Sunday clothes or regular clothes. This man was in semi-Sunday clothes. If you were doing heavy lifting, you definitely wore jeans. I doubted he would fit in.

  “Well, hello, we’re the Tanners, your neighbors next door. I’m Amelia. This is my son, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. And this little princess is Amanda, but please call her Mandy.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Cranston.” He shook my mother’s hand and smiled widely at Amanda. I one-armed the casserole dish to shake his hand, happy he wasn’t ignoring me like most adults. “Nice grip, son.”

  We walked into the three-bedroom replica of our house I’d always known as Mrs Miller’s place. Mrs Miller had died last year and her son had sold it, but that had been months ago. We’d begun to think the new owners had changed their mind until my mother had spotted the moving van this morning. The old house appeared new again. The oak floors were so shiny they looked wet, and the furniture was brand new with the store tags still on it. The whole house smelled of fresh paint and lemon juice. That would please my mother. She liked a clean house.

  I held up the casserole and thankfully Mr Cranston took it from me before I dropped it. I had no idea how my mother made that pan feel heavier than my dad’s old medicine ball in the garage, but she did. My dad always said, “The heavier the casserole, the better it is.” If that was the case, I was pretty sure my momma made the best casserole in the county.

  “I hope you like this,” my mother said, pointing to the pan.

  “It smells divine.”

  Did he say divine?

  “My husband, John, would be here too, but he’s on duty today. He’s the sheriff.”

  “I’ve heard. I’ll feel very safe living next to the sheriff.”

  “We don’t want to intrude. We know y’all must be busy today.”

  “It’s no interruption. The workers are still bringing in boxes.” Mr Cranston went to the kitchen and set the pan down slowly, as if he was afraid it might break. “Thank you for this. It’s been so long since we’ve had anything homemade.”

  “Oh, your wife doesn’t cook?”

  Mandy started snooping, picking up random items and turning them in chubby fingers. I grabbed her arm before she could touch one of the walls and smudge her grimy fingerprints on it. The ‘princess’ had a problem keeping her hands to herself. I stood with her against a corner, hoping my momma wouldn’t ask for a complete breakdown of the man’s dietary history.

  “My wife passed away six months ago. It’s just Sylvie and me.”

  Oh boy, this wasn’t good. My momma’s gossip senses were spinning. I knew she was already lining up a number of churchgoing single ladies to set Mr Cranston up with when he was ready.

  “I’m so sorry,” my mother cooed. I knew what that meant. I’d be bringing over a casserole to this man every week.

  “It’s been difficult on my daughter, but we’re adjusting.”

  “I can’t even imagine. A girl needs her mother.”

  “Can I offer you some coffee?” Mr Cranston said, gesturing to the round oak table by the kitchen.

  “Maybe one cup if you’re sure.” My mother took a seat. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if I could ask to leave. Unfortunately, Amelia Tanner had other plans for me. “How old is Sylvie?”

  “She’s ten.”

  Momma clapped her hands together, forming a huge grin. “Cal’s ten. That’s wonderful. They’ll be in the same grade.”

  Mr Cranston smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, as if it was painful to make the muscles in his face work. “That’s great. She has trouble making friends. It’ll be nice that she’ll have someone her own age next door.”

  The last thing I wanted was to hang around some girl. Obviously, if she had issues making friends, there was a reason for it. Sylvie Cranston was going to be as irritating as a pound of blood-hungry mosquitoes trapped inside a camping tent.

  “Where is your daughter?” my mother asked, adjusting a loose red curl from the heavy bun that sat on the nape of her neck. My father said she looked like Reba McEntire, and my mother always disagreed, but it was funny that she wore her hair like Reba ha
d in The Gambler.

  Mr Cranston’s eyes searched the room and he scratched his head like my father did when he lost his reading glasses. Did he not realize his daughter wasn’t here? “I’m not sure. She has a way of disappearing. She’s probably in the backyard.”

  “Cal, why don’t you take Mandy and go find Sylvie.” It wasn’t a question. I sighed, but caught myself when my mother turned her sharp green eyes on me. Momma always received compliments on her eyes, the same eyes Mandy had, but I always thought they looked mean, especially now. I had my father’s gray eyes and sandy-blond hair. Momma referred to it as ‘model’ hair, but I really didn’t care for that expression. “That way us adults can talk. Go on, you two.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I tightened my clasp on Mandy’s hand, knowing expensive items had a tendency of shattering in her presence. I also knew it would be my fault if they did. For some reason, I’d been assigned the role of my sister’s keeper.

  The former Miller, now Cranston, backyard was a carbon copy of ours, except we had a swing set and there was a noticeable shift between the lush green of our yard and the canary coloring of theirs.

  It didn’t take long to find Sylvie Cranston. She was walking along the back of the property where the grass blended into a field, which led to the woods behind our houses. If you followed it down the path for a short distance, it would lead to the best fishing lake in the world…or at least, my world. I wanted to be there right now.

  The girl was so skinny, I thought a strong gust of wind could knock her over. She was tall, though, with long brown hair that curled in a hundred different directions. She wore a long blue flowery dress that came down to her calves, and appeared to eat her up. It looked like something my momma would wear to church. There was a red bow in her hair that dangled as if it might fall out any minute and pink Converse shoes on her feet with black socks. It was weird. She was weird. I wondered if the Cranstons belonged to one of those nutty religions that made girls wear dresses all the time. That was just what I needed. Next-door cult neighbors.