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Inhaltsangabe
Can brothers who share one life share one love? Since the tragic accident that changed their lives forever, brothers Nigel and Caleb have been inseparable—until one woman captures both of their hearts.
Thirteen years ago, Nigel and Caleb lost their parents in a terrible accident. Today, Nigel is a thirty-five-year-old college professor, while Caleb—a reclusive twenty-nine-year-old—doesn’t know a life beyond the walls of the house they share. Caleb developed an extreme case of agoraphobia—the abnormal fear of public places— and psychogenic amnesia after the accident that killed their parents.
But things are about to change. Unexpectedly, and for the first time, Nigel finds himself falling in love. He tries to keep Karen, his new love interest, a secret, but it doesn’t take Caleb long to discover what’s going on. So what happens when Caleb finds out about Karen? He falls for her, too.
As the brothers’ tight-knit relationship faces increasing pressure and the love triangle intensifies, mysteries surrounding the tragic accident also begin to unravel, bringing the story to a shocking climax. With equal doses of suspense and romance, Our First Love is a bittersweet drama about the pain of loss and the thrill of new love.
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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor
Anthony Lamarr is a novelist, screenwriter, award-winning playwright, and author of Our First Love. He is a graduate of the University of Florida’s College of Journalism and lives in North Florida.
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Our First Love CHAPTER 1 NIGEL
A week ago today, the front page of the Capitol Sentinel blared, Aman Tops Polls in Governor’s Race. And, I was predicting the next day’s front page would howl, Aman Commits Suicide, while the sidebar wailed, Reporter Tried to Stop Shooting.
My left eye twitched as I stood in the doorway staring at the dispirited body slumped over in a wicker chair facing the window. The corpse was dressed in Barney’s trademark navy blue suit, white shirt, and garish red tie, but the forty-two-year-old dynamo that inspired swarms of complacent adults into social and political activism was not there. I didn’t expect Barney to be home when I rushed inside his voguish chateau on a cul-de-sac in Northwood Plantation. Barney was taking off as soon as the phone went dead.
I wasn’t at my desk when Barney called; my editor, Lillian Faulk, answered the phone. I was sitting in the lounge watching Oprah and eating a late lunch when Lillian summoned me over the intercom. “Nigel. Nine-one-one at your desk. Now!” I sensed the panic in her voice.
Lillian was frantic, waving the phone when I sprinted into the newsroom. She covered the mouthpiece and yelled, “Hurry, Nigel! Hurry!”
“Is it Caleb? Is something wrong?”
“No! No,” she quickly answered. “It’s Barney Aman. He’s really upset.”
Bobby Leno, the newspaper’s managing editor, and Russell Lane, city editor, stood behind Lillian. It was Russell’s idea for Bobby to temporarily pull me away from features to write personality profiles of Florida’s gubernatorial candidates. I wasn’t overly thrilled about the assignment, but as usual, I agreed without complaining.
Lillian shoved the phone at me and whispered, “Something’s wrong. I’m talking big-time wrong!”
I grabbed the receiver.
“Barney?”
He didn’t respond, but somehow I could hear him contemplating what to say.
“Barney, this is Nigel. Is something…?”
“The masquerade is over,” Barney blurted out. Like a waxing tidal wave, he divulged, “There’s nowhere for me to hide anymore, Nigel.”
“What’s happened?”
“It won’t end with you, Nigel,” he cried. “You can’t stop it.”
I leaned closer to my desk and tried to whisper. “Listen, Barney. I haven’t told anyone so you’re okay for now.”
“What haven’t you told?” Russell turned my chair around until I was facing him. “Answer me! What didn’t you tell?”
Barney’s two lives collided yesterday, but I couldn’t tell Russell or Bobby or even Lillian about the manila envelope that had landed liked a missile on my desk. They’d never understand why I didn’t say anything about the document inside the envelope or why I’d stopped by Barney’s house after work and given him the envelope and its contents. Bobby would’ve fired me on the spot if he knew that I’d turned my back on the biggest political news story to hit Florida’s capital city since Governor Charlie Crist announced his candidacy for the United States Senate instead of seeking another term as Governor.
After the 2008 presidential election, the public called for change, and Barney answered the call. The son of a former congressman, Barney made his first foray into the world of politics. Even though he was a newcomer, the last-minute announcement of his bid for Governor was met with enthusiasm and hype. Four weeks later, several statewide polls indicated the former star collegiate linebacker was his party’s top candidate and, of the seven party candidates, the only one strong enough to win the gubernatorial race. It was apparent, even after his unremarkable two-year stint in the National Football League, that Barney had the makings of a leader. Charisma, good looks, and candor were inherent attributes that made Barney a beacon for voter adoration, media attention, and territorial backlash.
A framed photo of Barney and his parents was on the corpse’s lap. Part of Mrs. Aman’s face and some of the gold rose petals adorning the frame were covered in her son’s blood. The gun, a black pistol with a silver handle, was on the floor beside his feet. Barney’s shoes? Barney wasn’t wearing any shoes. Where were his shoes? A man like Barney would not go to his death half-dressed. Then, I remembered Barney had two lives, and maybe the Barney I didn’t know was more relaxed and blasé.
Lillian tried not to look at the corpse as she stealthily canvassed the room, but I couldn’t help staring at it and answering the questions Caleb would ask when I replayed our day for him.
Where did the bullet enter? Below the right eye.
Did it exit? Yes.
Was there a note? A note. A note?
Lillian was already two steps ahead of me. She stood by the desk looking down at Barney’s handwritten suicide note. I read the expression on her face. The note left her with more questions than answers.
“We need both of you to leave.” A sheriff’s deputy walked in Barney’s library. “This is a crime scene.”
The deputy ushered us out the house and into Sentinel photographer Marc Dunwoody’s front-page snapshot.
“Thank you, Nigel, for understanding,” Lillian blurted out as soon as we got in the car. “That’s all he wrote.” Lillian backed out of the driveway. “So, are you ready to fill me in?”
Russell and Bobby felt that I had become part of the story, so I was no longer the reporter. Now, Lillian was the reporter, and I was expected to be her exclusive informant.
“You know more than you’re saying,” Lillian said as she effortlessly steered the car into the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Thomasville Road. “Especially, since you haven’t said a word.”
I couldn’t get the image of Barney’s bare feet out of my head. He was always impeccably dressed, even when he appeared at casual events like last week’s Juneteenth festivities at Tom Brown Park. Barney and a slew of parading candidates and aloof dignitaries were there to welcome the overflowing crowd to the city’s annual freedom celebration. It was ninety-eight degrees by noon, so everyone dressed in shorts, T-shirts and sundresses. Barney was the exception. Wearing stiff khakis and a long-sleeved white oxford, he was…
“What did you understand?” Lillian yelled to get my attention.
“Sorry, Lil. What did you say?”
“ ‘Thank you, Nigel, for understanding.’ That’s all Barney wrote in his suicide note. And I’m guessing that means you knew what he was hiding. So, talk to me.”
“I can’t…”
“Why not?” Lillian’s sympathetic repose was a camouflage. “I’m listening.”
Vehicles in the northbound lanes slowed down and pulled off the road as flashing lights and a shrieking siren neared. The ambulance was less than a mile from Barney’s house but, regrettably, a spent hour too late to be of any help.
“Did you hear me, Nigel?”
“I hear you, Lil. But I can’t answer the questions you’re asking me.”
“Nigel, this isn’t a secret between you and Barney now. Think about it. Someone else knows, and that’s why Barney killed himself.”
Lillian was right. Without a doubt, the person who had mailed the manila envelope knew.
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