The do over, p.1
The Do-Over, page 1
PRAISE FOR BETHANY TURNER
“Pitch-perfect comedic timing, a relatable heroine, and a refreshing sweetness elevate this novel above the sea of modern rom-coms. The rare author who can make me laugh out loud, The Do-Over is Bethany Turner at her best.”
—LAUREN LAYNE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“For anyone who’s ever questioned the path they’ve chosen, Bethany Turner’s The Do-Over offers a heart-warming look at what happens when life goes off-script. She takes that old saying ‘People plan and God laughs’ and runs with it in the most entertaining and endearing fashion. A sweet and satisfying read.”
—MELONIE JOHNSON, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
“A charming and delightful story of what-if’s, second chances, and discovering what you really want. The Do-Over pulled me right in from the get-go and had me grinning all the way to happily ever after.”
—KATE BROMLEY, AUTHOR OF TALK BOOKISH TO ME
“Bethany Turner has crafted a delightful, witty story with zippy dialogue, warmly relatable characters, and hilariously apt pop culture references. I found myself sneaking off to read just one more chapter. I’m still smiling thinking about this book. Reading The Do-Over felt like eating a big bowl of Lucky Charms mixed with Fruity Pebbles. A colorful explosion of happy. ;)”
—RACHEL LINDEN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE ENLIGHTENMENT OF BEES
“Turner crafts an entertaining rom-com that spans ten years and keeps the reader guessing who will claim the heroine’s heart . . . As the slow-burn romantic mystery of who Olivia will end up with builds to an amusing and satisfying conclusion, Olivia’s witty narration will hold readers’ attention. This is a treat.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, FOR PLOT TWIST
“Turner’s humorous latest has an enjoyable New Adult vibe . . . There is a happily ever after, but not the one most readers will be expecting.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL, FOR PLOT TWIST
“Plot Twist gave my rom-com loving heart everything it could hope for: pop-culture references, frequent laugh-out-loud lines, an enduring friendship, a determined heroine to root for, and (of course) a love story with plenty of twists and turns. A sweet, funny read about the many kinds of love in our lives, perfect for anyone who loves love or dreams about meeting George Clooney.”
—KERRY WINFREY, AUTHOR OF WAITING FOR TOM HANKS
“With a decade-long span of pop-culture fun, playful romantic possibilities, and the soul-deep friendships that push us to be real, Plot Twist is everything a reader has come to adore from Bethany Turner . . . plus so much more!”
—NICOLE DEESE, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF BEFORE I CALLED YOU MINE
“Funny, clever, and sweet, Plot Twist reminds us that sometimes love doesn’t look just like the movies—and that it can be so, so much better than we ever dreamed.”
—MELISSA FERGUSON, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE CUL-DE-SAC WAR
“Bethany Turner just keeps getting better! Plot Twist is like experiencing the best parts of all my favorite rom-coms, tied together with Turner’s pitch-perfect comedic timing, an achingly sweet ‘will they or won’t they?’ romance, and the BFF relationship most girls dream of. Add in some Gen-X nostalgia, and you have a book you’ll want to wrap yourself up in and never leave.”
—CARLA LAUREANO, RITA AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE SATURDAY NIGHT SUPPER CLUB AND PROVENANCE
“With a sassy Hallmark-on-speed hook and a winning leading lady, Turner loans her fresh, inimitable voice to her strongest offering yet: a treatise on how love (and the hope for love) paints across a canvas of fate and happenstance, and how life undercuts our expectations only to give us the biggest romantic adventures.”
—RACHEL MCMILLAN, AUTHOR OF THE LONDON RESTORATION
Also by Bethany Turner
Plot Twist
Hadley Beckett’s Next Dish
Wooing Cadie McCaffrey
The Secret Life of Sarah Hollenbeck
Dedicated to Henry Blumenthal,
whom I’m not quite ready to acknowledge isn’t real.
The Do-Over
Copyright © 2022 Bethany Turner
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Published in association with the literary agency of Kirkland Media Management, LLC, P.O. Box 1539, Liberty, TX 77575.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Turner, Bethany, 1979- author.
Title: The do-over / Bethany Turner.
Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, [2022] | Summary: “McKenna Keaton is perfectly content with her single life-until a work scandal, a family curse, and the reappearance of Henry Blumenthal make her question a life’s worth of good choices”--Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021045256 (print) | LCCN 2021045257 (ebook) | ISBN 9780785244974 (paperback) | ISBN 9780785244981 (epub) | ISBN 9780785245094
Classification: LCC PS3620.U76 D6 2022 (print) | LCC PS3620.U76 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045256
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021045257
Epub Edition January 2022 9780785244981
Printed in the United States of America
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Contents
Cover
Praise
Also by Bethany Turner
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Prologue
My name is McKenna Keaton, and I am the daughter of Scott and Diane. Yes, my mother’s name is Diane Keaton. It probably goes without saying that my mother is not the Diane Keaton, but that hasn’t stopped my dad from affectionately calling her Annie for more than forty years. As in Annie Hall. And my mom loves it, to the point that only those closest to her know that Annie Keaton is not actually her name.
My parents got married by a justice of the peace during their two-hour break after a full day of classes at the University of California, Berkeley, where my dad was studying to be a history professor and my mom was pursuing a degree in theater. They were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Keaton, Scott kissed his bride, and then they ran off to their respective night jobs as a bartender and a telephone operator. On their wedding night, my mom had to pull a double shift at the phone company, so my dad hung out at the club where he was working long enough to catch Herbie Hancock’s entire set before driving his VW Bug—the same one that had transported him from Indiana to California—to pick up some fried chicken to take to my mom. At three in the morning, once the calls had died down, he laid out a blanket on the floor by the switchboard, popped open a bottle of sparkling cider (so his new bride wouldn’t get in trouble for drinking on the job), and treated her to a newlywed picnic. When her shift ended at 5:00 a.m., he drove her to Indian Rock Park, and they climbed up to the lookout, laid out that same blanket, and watched the rising sun from the east reflect off the Golden Gate Bridge to the west. Then they got back in the Bug, drove to campus, and each went their separate ways for another full day.
Or so the story goes.
That was 1978. In 1982, Erica was born. I followed in 1984. And then in 1995, our baby sister, Taylor, surprised us all by joining the family long after our parents began taking for granted that their diaper-changing days were behind them. We had just moved to New York City so my dad could take a job at Columbia. At least that was the official reason—and it was a big one. That was certainly the reason that was going to pay the bills for a while. But really, I always thought it was about giving my mom a chance to follow her dreams of being on Broadway.
She was a pretty big deal in Durham, North Carolina, where we’d all settled while my dad got his master’s from North Carolina State, and then up until 1994, while he was an adjunct at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. She basically defined the Durham theater scene for the better part of a decade, oversaw the renovation of a historic theater, and taught night classes for free—ju st because she loved sharing her passion for performing with people who otherwise might never get the chance to step onto a stage.
When my dad was working, Erica and I would tag along and watch my mom in her element, leading an enthralled group of aspiring performers through acting exercises and monologue readings. Once in a while she would pull us on stage, and we’d try to keep a straight face while getting yelled at by Maggie the Cat or while Claudio from Measure for Measure attempted to pour his heart out to two little girls who couldn’t stop giggling. Looking back, it was reasonable to have assumed then that I would never be happier than I was in those moments, seeing a side of my mother that wasn’t tied down to making sure those two little giggling girls brushed their teeth before bed and had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich packed and ready to go for school the next morning.
But then my dad got the job at Columbia, and Erica and I traded in our days of playing Uno in Felix Unger and Oscar Madison’s spacious apartment with no fourth wall for a tiny two-bedroom in Morningside Heights. The air-conditioning was out more often than not, and since my dad didn’t believe in wasting an educational opportunity, he would take us up on the roof and enlighten us to the history all around while we escaped the stifling heat. From there we could see across the Harlem River to the Bronx and across the Hudson River to New Jersey. He’d tell us about Hamilton and Burr crossing the Hudson to duel at Weehawken and the Bronx bootleggers of the 1920s.
But it was what we were able to see when we walked at street level that made me fall in love with New York. At nine years old, I would have happily passed on a trip to Disney World or the gift of a Game Boy in exchange for hours spent walking up and down Amsterdam Avenue. Dad would tell us about the rich history of our neighborhood—from the sermon Martin Luther King Jr. preached at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and the music Duke Ellington and Leonard Bernstein made there to the books that had been written at the tables of the Hungarian Pastry Shop and the significance of those delicious hamantasch cookies within the Jewish faith.
Most Saturdays, the four of us would sit and eat apricot linzer tarts (except for my mother, who always chose the dense chocolate Sacher torte) at one of the metal tables on the sidewalk and then burn up our sugar intake with a walk or bike ride through Morningside Park. I didn’t know that the crime rates were high or that my dad probably had to pick up extra shifts tutoring in order to pay for all those tarts and tortes. I only knew life was perfect, and the previous happiness in North Carolina had just been the warm-up to the joy of life in Manhattan.
And that side of my mother that Erica and I had loved to catch glimpses of on the stage in Durham was, in New York, unleashed. She would make sure Erica and I had breakfast, then my dad would walk us to our school, which was just down 110th Street from his office. Then, most days, Mom would change into her audition clothes, take the train from the 116th Street Station to Times Square, and spend the day dancing, singing, and acting her heart out at cattle-call auditions. She took classes in all those things, too, despite the fact that she was more qualified to teach them than almost any of her teachers. “The only people who don’t know anything are the people who think they know it all,” my parents loved to say. So she kept learning.
I didn’t know then that she’d given herself one year to devote to auditioning, and that if nothing came of it, she’d have to take whatever sort of paying job she could get. I only knew that I rarely saw her without a smile on her face.
I’ll never forget the day, after we’d been in New York eleven months, that I saw her cry for the first time—at least the first time I remembered. She picked Erica and me up from school, which wasn’t the routine but happened sometimes, and took us home to change out of our school clothes into our best dresses. Dad was already home, dressed in a shirt and tie, though he didn’t know why. But there was nothing to worry about. How could there be when Mom had that smile on her face?
We took the train to 66th Street–Lincoln Center, walked together into Central Park, and had dinner at Tavern on the Green. After dinner we took the train to Forty-Second Street and walked up to Forty-Fifth and the Imperial Theatre. Mom sat between Erica and me so she could quietly explain little things about Les Misérables that went over our heads. In the first act, after Fantine sang “I Dreamed a Dream,” my mom whispered to us, “There are all sorts of dreams, girls. And sometimes they come true.” That was when I noticed the tears streaming down her face, and I knew that my perfect life had somehow gotten even better.
We left the Imperial and walked to East Sixtieth for frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity, and that’s where she finally told us all the big news. She had been offered the role of Mrs. Potts’s understudy in the Broadway cast of Beauty and the Beast. Her dream had become a reality.
That reality lasted exactly four days, and then she found out she was pregnant with Taylor.
Erica tried to explain to me that there was a lot of dancing in the show, and that they made the costumes to fit a certain size—even when the costume was a teapot—and that there were all sorts of reasons a pregnant woman couldn’t star in a Broadway show. And she said Mom wasn’t a big enough star yet to ask them to work around her or wait until after she had the baby.
I didn’t know then that I was going to be forced to say goodbye to Amsterdam Avenue. I only knew that everything was going in the right direction, then it stopped.
Within a few months, we were back in North Carolina and my dad was teaching at Duke. Mom was always there to tell us to brush our teeth. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were always prepared. Then Taylor was born and our house was always loud—but at least we had a house. That’s what my parents said whenever I complained about not being able to hear my friends when I was talking to them on the phone, or when I had to go to my room and watch Boy Meets World on the little portable television Erica and I shared. That’s what they said when I complained about being back in Durham. At least we had a house.
So, great. We had a house. A house where I never once got up on the roof—and even if I had, there would have been nothing to see apart from other houses. But it was nice that Erica and I each had our own bedroom. Of course, that only lasted until Taylor turned one and Mom and Dad tried to move her from their bedroom to mine. No way. I was twelve years old. There was no way I was going to share my room with someone who didn’t even have all her teeth yet. I begged Erica to let me move into her room—and swore a binding oath to help her with her chores for two whole years. And so my big sister became my roommate until she moved out to go to college when I was sixteen. She went to Duke, but she wanted the dorm experience. At that point Taylor was in preschool and was the most annoying human being on the planet. I couldn’t wait until it was my turn to get out of there. Ignoring my dad’s advice that Duke was one of the best schools in the country and would make the most economical sense for my undergraduate studies, I didn’t think twice when I got accepted to Princeton. I was living in New Jersey, more than four hundred miles from everyone I knew—most notably my little sister—a full month before the fall semester began. I got my degree in political science and then went to law school at NYU.
Finally, I was home, and I didn’t have any intention of ever leaving again.
A couple years later Erica married Jared Pierson, and three years later my niece, April, was born. Then came Cooper and Charlie. They’re all living in Raleigh with some dogs and a white picket fence and beautifully straight teeth everywhere you look. (Jared is an orthodontist.) Erica inherited my parents’ love of learning and teaching and teaches US history at a private high school.
Meanwhile, Taylor forged her own path, branching out (slightly). She also went to Duke but landed a visual arts degree and was quickly making a name for herself as a successful interior designer in Durham.
I stayed in New York after law school and began climbing the ladder. I didn’t make it back to Durham very often, but I FaceTimed with my parents most weeks. Erica had remained my best friend in the world, and my niece and nephews loved me. I looked forward to having them spend some time with me in the city once things leveled out at work. And once they were all old enough not to wet the bed or choke if I didn’t cut their food into small enough pieces. (Erica said they were already well past those stages, but I thought we should wait a while longer, just to be safe.)
