Around one in the morning, Amanda pulls me aside, telling me to take my woman and go to bed. “Don’t expect to spend much time with her when we get home. Thanks to you, we have a wedding to plan,” she laughs. “Well, we do as long as her dad doesn’t kill you for not asking for his blessing first.”
Shit. How am I supposed to face her dad three days from now? I don’t typically give a shit what people think of me, but I am marrying his daughter. He’s going to be a part of my life until the day one of us dies and Amanda may be right, he just might take me to the range and have a convenient ‘accident’ if he finds out.
“Looks like it’ll be an interesting trip then, won’t it?” I respond, my mind trying to figure out how to get myself out of this hole I’ve dug before it turns into a grave.
I walk slowly down the hall to our bedroom, every step feeling like a beat in the death march. This time, I’m not sure there is going to be an easy way out.
Coming this November
With Love, Charlie
Early in the afternoon, I can tell Grandma is getting tired. I’ve done most of the work with her supervising, but the heat is taking a toll on her energy level. “Grandma, why don’t you go and take a rest. I’ll get the rest of the tomatoes in the ground and then I’ll be in.”
While she’s relaxing, I’m hoping to keep working on my bedroom. I refuse to do any of the work when Grandma’s having an off-day because I don’t want her thinking that I’m trying to push her out of her space or get rid of things that have meaning to her. That means I’ve spent the past six nights surrounded by piles of boxes that have been weakened with age and abuse. Part of me is waiting to wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of everything collapsing around me.
I make three piles as I sort through every box: Things to keep, things to donate and the last pile we’ll have to go through together. It didn’t take long to gain an understanding of what items she’s not ready to part with. She’s still asleep when I reach the bottom of the last pile along the south wall. In all the years I’ve been sleeping in this room, I’ve never seen the hope chest hidden away in the corner. Because I’m nosy, my fingers itch to lift the lid and see what treasures are hidden inside. But I can’t do that. To me, this is a piece of my grandmother that is so personal I can’t imagine intruding for the sake of my own desires.
“It looks like you’ve been busy while I’ve been lazing the afternoon away,” Grandma laughs. Despite the fact that she’s been in bed for the past two hours, she looks impeccable, not a single hair out of place. “I think I’d like to go through the chest today. I’m sure there are things in there that aren’t as important as they once seemed.”
It’s all I can do to keep from bouncing on my toes, excitement threatening to boil over in my body. I’ve loved hearing Grandma tell me stories about various pieces as we’ve sorted through the room, but now I feel as if I’m going to see a side of my grandmother that she’s locked away from the world. If I’m lucky, maybe there will be clues to help me answer the ridiculous question that’s been haunting me.
Most of the chest holds little surprise to me. The dress she wore for my parents’ wedding, my father’s baptismal gown (I still find it funny that he wore a gown, but I suppose that was the norm back then), her wedding dress and various mementos from the big moments in her life. When we reach the bottom layer, I watch as the color drains from my grandmother’s face, her hand hovering inches above the fabric of a yellow, floral print dress. She closes her eyes as if she’s trying to summon the courage to touch the garment.
“Grandma, we can take a break if you’d like,” I offer, not wanting to trigger a lapse. Whatever these items are, it’s apparent they hold great pain for her.
“No, I need to do this. I just…I haven’t thought about these items for such a long time.” As she pulls the dress out of the hope chest, a box falls to the ground, the contents barely contained. Beside the box, there’s a picture of an attractive young man. A soldier. On the back, written in a flouncier version of my grandmother’s handwriting is a name: Charles M. Davenport. It’s Charlie.
I take in every detail of the photograph from the mischievous glint in his dark eyes to the smirk that says he’s most definitely up to something. Every feature of his face is strong, almost to the point of severe. The slightest hint of dark hair shows from beneath his dress uniform cap. His shoulders are broad, but his physique is lean. It’s only when I hear a sniffle from my grandmother that I break my gaze. Looking into her light blue eyes, I realize that Charlie, whoever he is, was my grandmother’s one true love.
No matter how much she loved my grandfather, I can’t remember ever seeing her look at him with the reverence she’s giving this faded photo. Even in pictures, there was a sort of flirty admiration, but when she looks at Charlie, it’s soul-consuming desire. She takes the picture from my hands, stroking Charlie’s cheek with the back of her finger. And then, she starts humming again.
Just. Wonderful. I could have stopped her when I saw her visceral reaction to that dress, but no, I had to feed my own interest, and now she’s slipping away from me. In her mind, she’s going to see Charlie.
A Note From Sloan
Thank you for taking the time to read Dare to Dream! If you enjoyed it, I would love it if you could help spread the word by reviewing it on the site where you purchased the book. If you purchased on Amazon, it is lending enabled so you can share it with a friend.
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Links to my other titles:
Isthmus Alliance Series
Unexpected Angel
Unexpected Protector
Unexpected Consequences
Truth or Dare #1
Truth or Dare Series
Truth or Dare
Standalone Books
Fragile Bonds
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About the Author
Sloan Johnson is a big city girl trapped in a country girl’s body. While she longs for the hustle and bustle of New York City or Las Vegas, she hasn’t yet figured out how to sit on the deck with her morning coffee, watching the deer and wild turkeys in the fields while surrounded by concrete and glass.
When she was three, her parents received their first call from the principal asking them to pick her up from school. Apparently, if you aren’t enrolled, you can’t attend classes, even in Kindergarten. The next week, she was in preschool and started plotting her first story soon after.
Later in life, her parents needed to do something to help their socially awkward, uncoordinated child come out of her shell and figured there was no better place than a bar on Wednesday nights. It’s a good thing they did because this is where she found her love of reading and writing. Who needs socialization when you can sit alone in your bedroom with a good book?
Now, Sloan is a tattooed, purple haired mom of two kids, one of which was a thank you present to her husband for letting her get a Staffordshire Terrier with more anxiety issues than Sloan has, which is saying something. She’s been kicked out of the PTA in two school districts and is no longer asked to help with fundraisers because she’s been known to lose herself in a good book and forget that she has somewhere to be.
Acknowledgments
This is that strange part at the end of every journey, the time when I start to think about everyone who has helped me get from a blank document to a finished product I can share with the world. And as always, I know I won’t remember everyone, so if you’re left off this list and should be there, know it’s not intentional. If you know me well, you know what I mean when I blame the squirrels.
Kristen, Debi, and Nikki… you three have been my sounding boards for a hell of a long time now. You know me better than jus
t about anyone. You put up with my randomness. You deal with me changing stories in the middle. But above all, you’re not afraid to tell me to shut up when I’m having an off day. I love you all!
Georgette… thank you for being willing to tell me what sucks. Thank you for pushing me to make changes that needed to be made.
Marisa… you are my forever designer. Thank you for finding the picture to tell Colby and Lea’s story.
Anna… how in the hell do you put up with me? Thank you for not laughing in my face when I gave you an impossible deadline.
And above all, thank you to all of the bloggers and readers who take a chance on my books! With so many choices out there, it’s humbling to know that you picked up mine!
Dare to Dream (Truth or Dare #2) Page 21
