What Dreams May Come

by Alana Terry

  She didn’t know the answers to any of those questions. All she knew was that God had peered into her heart, understood her most secret desires, the ones she didn’t even dare express, and he’d poured out more blessings on her than she have imagined.

  As she and Scott walked side by side into the dusk on their way to worship God with twenty thousand other believers, Grandma Lucy’s words played through Susannah’s mind:

  The Lord is faithful, and he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion.

  ‘Do I bring to the moment of birth and not give delivery?’ says the LORD. ‘Do I close up the womb when I bring to delivery?’ says your God.

  Joy swelled up in her heart. She was glad that the general sessions always started with a time of worship and singing or else she was certain her spirit couldn’t contain all the gratitude and praises ready to pour out of her.

  You’ve seen the sacrifices she’s made, and in your good plans you will restore all that was once lost.

  God had done that and infinitely more. It didn’t matter that the future was still uncertain. It didn’t matter that she had questions about how she and Scott could care for Kitty and continue serving God with Kingdom Builders.

  All that mattered was God had seen her in her deepest sorrow, and in the soil of her grief had planted seeds that now sprouted and bloomed into the most beautiful, glorious harvest of joy she could have dared hope for.

  She stopped walking. Looked up at Scott with a heart bursting from happiness.

  “What is it?” he asked, matching her grin.

  He was too tall. Even on tiptoes, she couldn’t reach him unless he bent down. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. Pulled his face down toward her.

  “I’ve always loved you,” she whispered the moment right before her lips melted into his.

  And she would continue to love him for as long as they both should live.

  THANKS SO MUCH FOR taking the time to read What Dreams May Come! I really hope you enjoyed it.

  Did you hear that Susannah and Scott’s romance is based off the real-life story of how my husband and I met? It’s not every couple who manages to fall in love before they’ve even seen each other face to face.

  Our love story is so unique, our friends begged me to turn it into a novel.

  Which is the book you just finished!

  The question readers ask the most is which parts of What Dreams May Come are based on our real story and which are fiction.

  My husband really was my missionary recruiter, and we really did fall in love a full year before we met at the Urbana Missions Conference. Would you believe that the first time I saw him, he had my engagement ring in his pocket!?

  Some parts of our love story, however, are quite different than what Scott and Susannah went through in What Dreams May Come. But I don’t want to get bogged down in all the details and keep you from your to-be-read list!

  The next novel in the Sweet Dreams Christian romance series is one reviewers call “a beautiful love story,” “another wonderful book by Alana Terry,” and “pretty much impossible to put down.”

  In What Dreams May Lie, you’ll read about Susannah’s childhood friend Ricky and the sweet (sometimes funny) lengths he goes to in his search for true love.

  You’ll also find another note at the end of the novel from me where I’ll tell you the real reason my husband and I broke up before we’d even met. (I can tell you this: it has nothing to do with medical issues or family tragedy.)

  So jump into another sweet, inspiring romance (and find out more about my real-life love story) when you buy What Dreams May Lie today!

  Get your copy here or scroll ahead for a sneak peek!

  CHAPTER 1

  “Come over here, and let me hug you, sweetheart.”

  Jillian’s entire body stiffened as her aunt enfolded her in an embrace that smelled suspiciously like goat.

  I still can’t believe I’m living on a farm.

  Jillian pulled away.

  What am I doing back in Orchard Grove?

  Connie chuckled, easily hoisting Jillian’s two suitcases toward the attic stairs. “Is this all you packed? I sure hope you didn’t leave anything important back home.”

  What was there Jillian could have forgotten? It wasn’t like she’d need anything fancy out here in the middle of nowhere. Only one thing could be worse than living in Orchard Grove with her Aunt Connie, and that was staying in Seattle with her parents.

  Connie led her into the tiny attic room that had been the pirate ship, the castle, the theater, and the art studio of Jillian’s childhood years — years of imagination and excitement living so close to Grandma Lucy’s farm.

  It wasn’t that long ago really, but for Jillian it may as well have been a lifetime.

  “Do you feel all right, hon?” Connie asked with that special, condescending knowing in her voice. “Can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe? You don’t want to get dehydrated.”

  Ugh. That’s why Jillian most hated the thought of living here. Hated it almost as much as the idea of staying in Seattle. Hadn’t she known it would happen like this if she came to stay at Safe Anchorage Farm, her aunt fussing and making a big scene?

  “I’m fine.” It wasn’t worth jumping straight into an argument her first night here. The long drive over the North Cascades had been tedious enough. Jillian was surprised she made it all the way to the attic without Connie making her memorize and recite a whole bunch of house rules.

  She was an adult, but her aunt would always think of her as a child.

  Connie stood there, looking helpless. If Jillian had to guess, she’d say her aunt was trying to come up with a way to broach the incredibly awkward subject of what had caused Jillian to get kicked out of her parents’ home in the first place. That or she really had to use the bathroom but didn’t want to appear rude.

  Jillian turned her back to her aunt and hoisted her suitcases onto the bed. Some little old ladies collected dolls or trinkets. Here at Connie’s, Grandma Lucy’s prayer shawls and blankets lay in every room. Some grannies baked pies or tended flower gardens. Grandma Lucy spent her days talking to God.

  At least Grandma Lucy was asleep. Jillian didn’t know exactly what kind of lecture her grandmother might have in store for her, but tomorrow morning was soon enough to find out.

  A goat bleated outside.

  “Oh, that’s Peaches. I’m coming, you old thing.” Connie called out as if the goat were a child waiting at the bottom of the stairs and not an animal who was (hopefully) locked up outside in its pen where it belonged. Jillian hadn’t stayed at the Safe Anchorage Farm in years, but she knew enough to expect that bright and early, Connie would come in and invite her to go out and milk the goats, a job that could take over an hour and a half start to finish.

  It had been her favorite part of her summers growing up.

  Now she was just tired.

  Tired and ready to drown her anxieties in dreamless sleep.

  Tomorrow would come all too soon, with its share of awkward conversations and forced reunions.

  Tonight she was glad for the chance to be alone once Connie bustled out the door, calling to the whining goat as she hurried down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 2

  It’s not what you think ...

  I swear I’d never hurt you ...

  Now look at what you made me do.

  Jillian woke up with a start. The old T-shirt she’d been sleeping in clung to her sweaty skin.

  She took in a deep, choppy inhale.

  Breathe. Everything would be all right if she could simply find her breath.

  There. It was back. She felt her cheeks.

  Dry. Which meant she’d only been crying in her sleep. Maybe that was progress.

  She glanced at the clock. A few minutes after four in the morning. The funny thing was Connie would probably be waking up in an hour to do her morning chores and get a head-start on her day at the farm.

  As much a
s Jillian had loved this place as a child, she was a city girl now. Orchard Grove was no place for her.

  Yet here she was.

  She sat up in bed, running her hands through her hair to see how knotted it was. She’d been thrashing around so much lately she sometimes woke up and looked like her mom’s honeymoon pictures from the eighties with her hair teased. Why anyone from any decade would voluntarily tangle their own hair was a mystery Jillian would likely never solve.

  At least these tangles weren’t too bad. Nothing a few minutes with a brush couldn’t fix. The problem was she’d been too tired last night to unpack, and even in the spring, the attic was cold enough that she hated to think of freeing herself from her pile of Grandma Lucy’s prayer shawls and quilts.

  She made a few valiant attempts to fall back to sleep before jumping out of bed and pulling on some sweatpants and socks. She was dying of thirst, which wasn’t too uncommon after these sorts of nightmares.

  She felt her way gently down the stairs, each one slightly uneven in the home her grandfather had built by hand. Skipping the one step in the middle that always creaked, she relied on decade-old memories to help her grope her way to the kitchen where she was forced to turn on the light over the sink.

  Water. A full, refreshing cup, a trip to the bathroom, and then maybe her brain would decide to drift back to sleep.

  But if personal history was anything to rely on, she shouldn’t set her hopes too high.

  She reached for one of the crystal glasses. Here at Safe Anchorage, her aunt and grandmother had no concept of plastic or generic. Everything was dainty, costly, and fragile, even back when Jillian had been a clumsy kid who broke her fair share of teacups. Fortunately, Grandma Lucy was a saint in just about every definition of the word and never scolded her for her numerous accidents.

  If only other Christians were that forgiving.

  Jillian filled up her goblet and drank the water down. That was one thing she could appreciate about life at Safe Anchorage. Fresh, clean well water. She guzzled her first serving and turned on the faucet for a refill.

  “I thought you might be awake.” The warbling voice was unmistakable.

  She’d hoped to go back to sleep rather than engage in conversation, especially the kind of conversation she knew must be coming up, but Jillian’s heart still quickened slightly at the sound of Grandma Lucy’s voice, her spirit swelling with memories of her summers spent here in Orchard Grove, memories of simple and happy times long before life turned so chaotic.

  Her grandmother stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Jillian’s neck, declaring, “You’ve gotten so tall. I can hardly reach you.”

  “You say that every time I see you,” Jillian reminded her.

  Grandma Lucy smiled. “And each time it’s just as true.”

  “Well, I’m done growing now.” Jillian pulled away. There were so many things Grandma Lucy still didn’t know, didn’t realize about the past several years. So much time had passed ...

  “Did you have a hard time sleeping?” Grandma Lucy asked, and without waiting for Jillian to answer, went on to add, “I had a feeling you were up.”

  Of course. Grandma Lucy’s bizarre premonitions and stirrings as she sometimes called them were infamous in these parts. Neither Jillian’s strictly conservative religious upbringing nor her passing knowledge of secular science could explain her grandmother’s uncanny intuition.

  Grandma Lucy took her by the hand. For a woman so wrinkled, her skin was remarkably soft.

  Maybe all those goat soaps and lotions they made here at Safe Anchorage really worked.

  Without another word, Grandma Lucy led Jillian into the farmhouse’s only modern addition, which had served as a greenhouse, a sunroom, and a place to serve guests tea, but was most commonly known as Grandma Lucy’s prayer room. Here Jillian’s grandmother would spend hours a day alternately reading her Bible, talking out loud to God, humming hymns or making up songs to sing to her Creator, and napping in her giant rocking chair.

  Ever since she’d solidified her plans to move back to Orchard Grove, Jillian had foreseen this meeting, this conversation right here in this room. Without waiting to be told, she sat in the overstuffed chair across from Grandma Lucy’s famous prayer rocker and waited for whatever lecture or interrogation was coming her way.

  Her hands felt clammy, but otherwise she wasn’t nervous. After all, she’d had a week to mentally rehearse the whole conversation, starting with the part where Grandma Lucy told her how worried she was for the state of Jillian’s soul, how she questioned her eternal destiny and prayed for her salvation.

  As if what had happened to Jillian was enough to kick her out of the kingdom of heaven for good.

  Jillian had practically been raised inside the church, sitting every Sunday, and most other nights of the week, in uncomfortable pews. She was a preacher’s kid, after all. Church had been the one constant in her life.

  Until even that was stripped from her.

  “Well, now.” Grandma Lucy eased herself into her rocker with a groan. She looked just like she had a decade ago when she’d sit Jillian in this exact same chair to practice memory verses. Grandma Lucy placed her hand on Jillian’s knee, the touch somehow transmitting far more heat than was to be expected on a morning as chilly as this.

  She smiled serenely, as if Jillian had been the one to call this meeting and Grandma Lucy was simply waiting patiently for her granddaughter to start the discussion.

  Casting nervous glances around the room, Jillian wondered where she should start. How much did Grandma Lucy already know?

  And how much more wretched and guilty would she feel after their conversation was over?

  CHAPTER 3

  “Ricky!” Mom called from the doorway to the garage. “Get out here now, or we’re going to be late.”

  Grabbing Mom’s purse, which she’d left on the counter, checking to make sure the car keys were still in his pocket, and adjusting his pants, which were practically falling off since he’d lost his belt, Ricky made his way to the car.

  Mom was already in the passenger seat with a sour pucker on her face. “We’ll be late.”

  Ricky glanced to make sure the garage door was actually open before he backed up. The last time he’d been in this much of a rush, he’d made a thousand-dollar mistake, so he was always careful now to double-check.

  Safety before speed, as Mom would say.

  Of course, this was the same woman who was at the moment complaining so loudly you’d think they must be half an hour behind schedule.

  Well, as much as Mom was griping about it, they weren’t late. There was no reason to worry about traffic in Orchard Grove on a Saturday morning. Ricky would bet his entire paycheck, small as it was, that they’d be at least a few minutes early.

  But of course, there was no reason to try to convince Mom of that. All that was left to do was apologize for his tardiness, tell her how hard he’d work not to let something like this happen again, and keep his eyes on the road like a good, conscientious driver.

  A courteous driver is a righteous driver, and all that other junk Mom quoted.

  She yanked down the visor to block out the morning sun streaming in through the windshield. “What’s it doing so light out today?”

  It was less than four minutes later when he pulled in front of the Orchard Grove Family Medical Center and jumped out to open his mother’s door for her. “What time do you think you’ll be done?” he asked.

  She let out a loud, noisy sigh as he reached in for her purse.

  “I couldn’t tell you, son. You never know with these doctors how long these appointments will take. It could be ten minutes, or maybe he’ll find something wrong and have to spend hours. You better plan to come back around eleven.”

  By which he knew she meant no later than quarter ’til.

  “I’ll be here.” He hurried ahead to open the door to the medical center. “Want me to walk with you up to the office?”

  “I’m not an invalid
yet.” She reached out her hand and pressed the elevator button.

  Ricky waited until the doors opened, then gave her a quick kiss good-bye. “I’ll just be running a couple errands, so I’ll see you soon. Have a good appointment.”

  “I might,” she sighed as she got onto the elevator, “unless he finds out that I have a cyst or the cancer’s returned.”

  Ricky didn’t bother to mention that chiropractors probably weren’t in the business of diagnosing cysts or cancer, but then again, what did he know? His mother was a walking medical encyclopedia. She could stub her toe and diagnose herself with colon cancer a minute later.

  Stepping outside into the bright sunshine, Ricky smiled. There was something about spring — and having nearly an hour before he had to chauffeur his mother anywhere — that made him feel optimistic.

  The feeling you get after you just completed your last homeschool test of the year or when the girl you’re crushing on just agreed to meet you at the prom.

  Of course, those were distant memories now. He shouldn’t dwell on them. After all, he had errands to run. This weekend was the third-year anniversary of Mom’s victory over breast cancer, and even though she never said anything outright, she’d left enough hints that Ricky knew she was expecting some special way to honor the occasion. He’d already made reservations for a fancy Sunday lunch tomorrow at the Main Street Hotel, and he wanted to run by the Safe Anchorage gift shop to pick up some of those handmade goat lotions and candles she liked so much as a present.

  A godly gentleman should always be considerate, giving, and generous. How many times had Mom crammed those words into his brain until they were permanently branded into his psyche?

  Considerate, giving, and generous. Like the son who buys his mother fancy gifts and takes her out for an expensive brunch to celebrate three years cancer-free.