Persuaded
by
Misty Dawn Pulsipher
Copyright © 2014 by Misty Dawn Pulsipher
Cover design by Cindy Canizales
Cover photos by Shutterstock
ISBN-13:9781500570842
ISBN-10:1500570842
There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their reunion, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment.
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
PROLOGUE
SUMMER RAIN
Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough.
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
The sky is bleached white in some places, bruised a foreboding gray in others. The street is slick with rain, and everything is washed of color except for him, as if we are in an old photo. His sea-green eyes and subtle strawberry hair stand out like a beacon in a storm. Do those eyes see that every time his hand flinches up to catch me in case I slip, I want to take it and keep holding on? Maybe he wants that too.
The rain is beating down around us, but we don’t feel it. The harder the drops try to wash away our joy, the more we smile. A flame sparks in his eyes and a childlike smile curves his mouth. Then he jumps into a puddle with both feet, soaking me through. I just laugh, offering my face to the sky, taunting it to do its worst.
When I open my eyes, he is watching me. Has the rain rinsed away his smile after all? Looking at him, I want to memorize every detail: the way his white shirt clings in pleats to his soaked skin, each raindrop on his eyelashes, the smattering of golden freckles on his face and arms. I see him, but seeing isn’t enough. I want to breathe him in and let him sustain me. I want to reach my hands under his skin, beneath his muscles and bones, and brush his soul with my fingers.
Does he see all this in my eyes? He watches me for a moment, and we are still while the rain lashes the ground. When he brings his lips to mine I taste his smile. This moment in time, this point of light in the universe that is us—I stamp it on the flesh of my heart where the erosion of time has no reach.
With every summer rain, I will remember.
ONE
DREADFUL GOOD DREAMS
Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
Hanna Elliot bolted upright in bed, clutching a hand to her chest and gathering her nightshirt in her fist. Sweat had beaded on her skin, and the cotton twisted around her body in wet clings. She felt lightheaded, as if there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. It was only a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the kind of dream that makes you glad to wake up.
In the dream, nothing had been following her—no phantoms closing in on her, no frightening images chasing her into consciousness. There had been only rain-kissed lashes framing those green eyes as they drilled into hers. Rain collecting in his spiky hair, streaming down his cheeks and over his lips like tears. His stooping and peering into her face, a question in his eyes, before pressing his rain-washed mouth to hers. The taste . . .
Hanna stifled a sob, propelling herself off her bed and into the bathroom. Stumbling to the sink, she braced her hands on each side and focused on taking even, controlled breaths. She filled a glass with water, then straightened and drank. Her eyes settled on her reflection and a belated sort of surprise grasped her. Along with him, she had seen herself in the dream—her eighteen-year-old self—the self that had just graduated high school and had a lifetime of possibility before her.
Now, ten years later, she and her reflection were engaged in a standoff of sorts. Something akin to disappointment settled over Hanna as she faced herself in the mirror. She had slate blue eyes, a rather ashy shade of blonde hair, and pale skin that had an inconvenient habit of getting splotchy whenever she was embarrassed or upset. Some might think she was lucky to have maintained her figure all these years—if flat-chested-with-no-hips could be considered a figure. Her married friends always gushed about her slim form, envied her metabolism—but all Hanna saw was that their bodies had changed with marriage and motherhood, with the progression of their lives, and hers was stuck as if frozen in time.
All in all, Hanna bore a striking resemblance to a dull, dusty book that no one had so much as pulled from the shelf in ages.
Images from the dream washed over her again, and the pain clawed its way up her throat. She wrenched the medicine cabinet open, glad to lose sight of her present-day self. Seizing the Omeprazole, she shook one into her palm and chased it down with the vestiges of her water.
It was anxiety, plain and simple. It had to be. On top of turning twenty-eight a few days ago, she had barely made it through the last couple weeks of school before collapsing on Day One of summer break.
Hanna loved her job as a kindergarten teacher. Having no kids of her own, her career gave her the opportunity to still experience bits and pieces of motherhood—except that all thirty of her “children” were the same age. Sometimes, at the end of the day, she felt a bit like a hen who had been pecked to death by her adorably fuzzy chicks. But the work was fulfilling, and she took pride in the fact that she made a difference in the world.
Pulling her nightshirt off and tossing it into the corner hamper, Hanna climbed into the shower. As the hot water beat down on her skin, the tension in her muscles started to release.
Still, the dream was fresh in her mind; the images, stark and the emotions they caused, potent. Yesterday, when she began packing for her vacation, Hanna had come across an unwelcome reminder of that first summer after high school. Even though she was sorely tempted, she didn’t open the little box that fell out on her bed when she upended the drawer. She had only stared at it, suddenly feeling as if it was just the two of them alone in the universe.
Throwing the shower curtain open, Hanna stepped onto the cushy bathmat and reached for her towel. Though her memories of that summer had dulled with the passage of time, she could still make out their edges, like shadows seen through a sheet of ice: her first day of work at the Port of Brookings Harbor, the storm assaulting the roof as he ducked into the store to buy an umbrella, talking for hours as he waited out the weather, holding the umbrella over both their heads as he walked Hanna to her car after work . . .
Hanna sucked in a breath at the twist of pain in her chest. No. No more memories. No more wading in the muddy flood waters of the past. Shaking her head to break up her thoughts, Hanna dressed in a long peasant skirt and a loose-fitting top. Her plane left first thing in the morning, so she had the rest of the day to take care of things before she left town. Checking her watch, she twisted her hair into a knot off her neck. She’d promised to meet Maude for lunch today, and she had a few errands to run before noon.
TWO
SOUPER SALAD
It was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good.
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
Hanna inhaled as she came through the door of Souper Salad, relishing the smell of freshly baked French bread in all its crusty, buttery glory. With every soup imaginable and about a gazillion different salad combinations, Souper Salad had always been Hanna’s favorite restaurant. Maudelaine Russell, Hanna’s godmother and consequently her favorite person in the world, sat at a table just inside the door, talking on her cell phone. Maude was a British woman with silver hair that was always piled elegantly atop her head, crinkly skin, and rosy apple cheeks. She and Hanna’s mother, Eliza, had met at college and remained best friends throughout their lives. Maude stood by Eliza’s side at her wedding, was present for the births of bot
h her children, and held her hand while she lost her battle with terminal cancer.
Maude could be a little rough around the edges, but inside she was nothing more than goo—like a candy-coated gummy bear. Hanna blinked out of her thoughts when Maude motioned her over to the table, mouthed the word Shepherd while pointing at her phone, and rolled her eyes.
Hanna smiled her understanding. Mr. Shepherd was Maude’s boss and the reason for her high blood pressure. He was nice enough, except for his belief that anything worth doing was worth doing yesterday. The man had quite possibly invented things like rush delivery.
Unsure how long it would be before Maude could escape her employer, Hanna decided to get in line. She could order for Maude easily enough, seeing as her godmother always got the same exact thing: garden vegetable soup and a Caesar salad. Hanna couldn’t recall a time in the last decade when Maude’s choice had varied.
The line was long today, giving Hanna nothing but her thoughts to focus on while she waited to place the order. Seeing Maude’s face had given Hanna a lift, but she still felt as though she had her own personal rain cloud—the dream—following her around. Such a dream was not to be recovered from quickly, but she didn’t want to give Maude any cause for alarm. It was nearly impossible hiding anything from her.
Several minutes later, Hanna had moved through the buffet line and stood at the cash register with two trays. Maude, who had just terminated the call, rushed up to the cashier and waved a credit card in her face before Hanna could pay. Hanna protested but was silenced by Maude’s glare. They stopped off at the soda fountain to fill their cups—iced tea for Maude and Coke for Hanna—then sat at the table. With a steaming bowl of soup and their own favorite salads before each of them, they dug in.
“Everything okay at the office?” Hanna asked, needing a distraction from the rain cloud.
Maude swallowed her mouthful of soup. “The Walters are due in at one.”
Ah, so that explained it. Maude worked as an executive assistant at the Shepherd Debt Consolidation Agency. Mr. Walter, a fifty-ish man with an inflated sense of self-importance, insisted on being addressed by his rightful title of “Sir Walter.” Though he was born and bred in the good old U.S. of A, “Sir” Walter had joined an online knighthood and had the framed certificate to prove it. To make matters worse, his twenty-year-old daughter was the quintessential spoiled rotten daddy’s girl. “Beastly” was the word Maude routinely used to describe Liz Walter.
“Maybe you better double up on your Xanax today,” Hanna suggested, spearing a forkful of salad.
“That man is off his trolley,” Maude answered. “If he’s British, I’m Helen of Troy! Sir Walter indeed! Sir Nutter, more like.”
Hanna snorted, her eyes tearing up from inhaling her soda.
Maude ripped off a large chunk of bread and dunked it in her soup. “The last time Walter brought that beastly daughter of his into the office, Shepherd suggested putting her into a budget boot camp. One of those rehabs for shopaholics, you understand. You should have seen her face, poppet! I thought she was going to have a bloody piglet.”
Hanna listened to Maude rant for a few minutes, content to focus on something other than the dream. When her godmother’s energy had been exhausted on the topic of the Walters, Maude changed the subject. “All set for your holiday, then? What time is your flight?”
“Five thirty a.m. tomorrow.”
“Dreadfully early. Any stop offs?”
“No, it’s a direct flight. I’ll be landing around one p.m. eastern time.”
Maude heaved a monumental sigh. “Well, I hope you’ll think of me while you’re sunning on the beach.”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing much sunning,” Hanna countered. Her pallid skin wouldn’t be landing her a modeling gig with Coppertone anytime soon.
Maude waved her fork in the air, dismissing her. “It’ll do you good to get away, poppet—lift your spirits and give you something else to think about.”
Scowling, Hanna swallowed her mouthful of soup and chased it down with a gulp of her soda. Was she so very transparent? “I didn’t realize my spirits needed lifting.”
Maude’s eyes took on the maternal sheen of pity. “It’s been a tough year for you, what, with that nonsense all over the Tele.”
Hanna fixed her eyes on her salad, her heart speeding up. She would never be able to pull anything over on Maude. This was the first time the subject of him had been breached between them, even during last summer’s media coverage. Since Maude hadn’t mentioned it, Hanna had just assumed she didn’t recognize the person in question.
Maude leaned forward, patted Hanna’s hand. “Unrequited love does leave its mark, doesn’t it, dear?”
“I guess,” Hanna agreed, surprised by Maude’s directness. All the times Hanna tried to talk to her about it, Maude sidestepped the topic. Hanna knew the truth—that Maude couldn’t forgive him for breaking the heart of the closest thing she had to a daughter. “I had a dream about it last night . . . about him. It shook me up a little.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Hanna considered it, but what could she really say? After all, it hadn’t been only a dream, but a memory as well. Too private. Too sacred. Too painful. “Not really. Thanks though.”
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s not as if the prime minister is missing. If you ask me these journalists have too much time on their hands.”
Maude had a point. From all the hype in the media over his disappearance, you’d think the Statue of Liberty had been abducted.
“Well,” Maude said, “a summer away will be just the thing to put you right as rain. A little sea-bathing and a suntan, and you’ll be good as new!”
“Um, you know I don’t tan, Maude.”
“A sunburn, then,” Maude corrected. “Enjoy the break and the sea air.” Spearing a tomato and popping it in her mouth, Maude said, “Who knows? Maybe some dashing chap will come and sweep you off your feet.”
Hanna snorted. “Right. I’ll just be holding my breath in the meantime.”
“It’s never too late,” Maude informed her. “Love doesn’t age, you know. The heart doesn’t expire.”
Twice in one day now, Maude had used the word “love.” Was she feeling sentimental over Hanna’s impending departure, or was it perhaps something else?
As if reading Hanna’s thoughts, Maude straightened and dabbed a napkin to her lips. “Listen to me, blathering on like a ninny! Pay me no mind, poppet. Just know you’ll be sorely missed, and there’s an end to it.”
Hanna’s face relaxed with empathy. “You know I’m not leaving the country, right? You can call me anytime you want to talk.”
“Oh, I know, dear. I only hope it doesn’t end in you as a round-the-clock nanny to those ghastly nephews of yours.”
Maude had never been a kid person, and the only experience she’d had with the boys was secondhand. “They’re not ghastly, they’re just . . . energetic. CJ is six and Walter is only two.”
“All I’m saying, dumpling, is don’t let yourself be taken in.”
Hanna couldn’t argue. Truth be told, she knew that her sister Mary’s invitation to join her in Connecticut for the summer had been as much a plea for help with the kids as a benevolent offer. But she didn’t mind helping out. Hanna was a kid person, had always wanted her own, and in some small way, she thrived on filling the needs of others. Being needed was easy—it was being dispensable that she didn’t care for.
Crumpling her napkin and tossing it into her empty soup bowl, Maude asked, “Do you need a lift to the airport in the morning, dearie?”
“No. I’m parking in one of those discount long-term lots a few miles away from the airport, then catching a shuttle in.”
“You’re sure? It must be costing a fortune.” Maude was the queen of frugal.
“One of the other teachers at work owns a lot and gave me a deal. Fifty bucks for the summer.”
Maude looked impressed in spite of herself. �
��Well, that’s one less thing to worry you, I suppose. I’ll just stop off at the loo on our way out, poppet,” Maude told her, heading to the restroom.
Hanna stood and cleared the table, then refilled both drinks. Outside the restaurant, she embraced Maude, causing her to tear up.
“Enjoy your holiday, dumpling,” said Maude with a dignified sniffle. She kissed Hanna on both cheeks and then headed to her own car.
For the first time since waking from that dreadful good dream this morning, a buzz of anticipation filled Hanna for her upcoming vacation.
THREE
DOCKING LACONIA
He had distinguished himself . . . and must now . . . have made a handsome fortune.
—Jane Austen, Persuasion
Derick Wentworth slowed the Laconia to wakeless speed as he entered Old Lyme Harbor. To him it seemed that the other boats, bobbing gently from their docked positions, watched him pass with wary eyes. He shook off the sensation that he was being scrutinized, attributing his paranoia to the fact that he’d hardly been out of the media’s eye during the last year. Win the America’s Cup three times in a row? That barely made ESPN magazine. But suddenly deciding that you needed something different and dropping out of the competition at the last minute? You were the cover story. No one understood that he just needed something else; that he felt there was another place he had to be—almost as if he was late for something.
The media had concocted all sorts of sordid tales about why he’d suddenly disappeared: an unfortunate pass through the Bermuda Triangle, his relocating to Prague to finally cohabitate with his imaginary supermodel girlfriend, and his personal favorite, rehab. Derick had never touched illegal drugs in his life, and it had taken a total of one hangover after a night of careless drinking, puking, and idiotic behavior to convince him that alcohol was never meant to be something you drank for fun. Since that night, rubbing alcohol and Nyquil were the only forms of the stuff he had any use for.
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