A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  Miranda took hold of his hand and brought it to her mouth. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s do this. Instead of worrying about being married for fifty years, let’s just work on being married right now.”

  He held her gently, yet she sensed a desperation in his embrace. “Good plan,” he whispered.

  They waited for sunset, then paddled back to the dock. Miranda frowned, seeing an unfamiliar car parked in the cottage driveway. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said to Jacob. “Were you?”

  He didn’t answer, but his telltale grin gave him away. “Help me tie up the kayak, will you?”

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  Just then, Sophie and her two kids, Daisy and Max, came out of the cottage. “Surprise,” yelled Sophie. We were just in the neighborhood…”

  Miranda laughed with joy and went to give her friend a hug. “It’s fantastic here. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We have a little something planned for your last night at the lake,” Sophie said, leading the way into the cottage.

  Miranda gasped. The table was set for a candlelit dinner for two, with a linen tablecloth, a bottle of wine and a beautiful meal set out. “I’m taking the kids to the drive-in movie in Coxsackie for the last show of the season. We probably won’t be back until late…if that’s okay with you.”

  “We already said it would be okay,” Valerie said, coming down from the loft. She looked a lot more like her old self, in cropped jeans and a Camp Kioga sweatshirt.

  “Fine by me,” Miranda said, feeling a little thrill of anticipation.

  They left in a swirl of laughter, and Miranda found herself alone with Jacob. He held out a chair for her. “Dinner is served.”

  It felt exactly like a date, with a lovely meal, a glass of wine and the knowledge that they would make love afterward. She looked at her husband’s face in the glow of the candlelight and felt such an intense wave of love that it brought tears to her eyes.

  Though she hadn’t said a word, he must have felt something from her. He set down his wineglass, and said, “Let’s go to bed.”

  SHE TOOK HER TIME getting ready, putting on a spritz of perfume the way she’d done when she was younger, and taking out a nightgown she’d bought just for this trip. It was cream-colored and floor length, gathered softly at the waist. She stepped out into the bedroom. Jacob was standing by the night table in boxers and a T-shirt. He’d turned down the bed and was flipping through some photographs.

  When he saw her, his face lit with a smile. “You look good, Miranda.”

  “I feel good.” She crossed the room to him. “What’s that?”

  “These are the pictures I took of you the night before the surgery,” he said.

  Miranda felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach. She remembered that night well. She had wanted him to photograph her, naked and whole for the last time. The pictures had a quality of searing intimacy, the camera somehow revealing more than a mirror ever did. She remembered how they had talked that night, and cried together, and made love with a fierce intensity they’d never recaptured.

  “I had no idea you carried these around,” she said. “My God, Jacob. No wonder you can’t get used to me the way I am now.” “Miranda, no.” He grabbed her hands. “You don’t understand. These are pictures of my wife, my best friend, my college sweetheart, the love of my life. You were getting ready to face unbelievable pain, and you still had the strength to look at me like that. I don’t keep these around to remind me of what you used to look like, Miranda. I keep them to remind me of how brave you are.”

  It struck her then that they hadn’t made love in the daylight since before her surgery. And whenever they did make love, Jacob was careful and considerate, straining to hold her gently—too gently. “Then treat me like I’m that woman, Jacob,” she said. “That brave woman. Not like someone who’ll break. That’s what I’ve missed this past year. You’ve been too careful with me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Miranda.”

  “I swear I won’t break.” She moved forward and kissed him—not a good-night kiss but a frank, sexy, open-mouthed, how-about-it kiss.

  He pulled back and smiled at her. “You sure?” he whispered.

  “Of course. I’m ready to quit acting like a patient, you know?”

  “I know.”

  There was something shining in his face, a love so strong that she felt warm all over, as though she were standing in the light of the sun. And she realized something then, something she’d always known but had managed to forget in all the busy chaos of their lives. Their love was a force so strong that it would never end, no matter what happened to her. “Oh, Jacob,” she whispered. “I feel like I’ve come back from a long trip. And I’ve missed you so.”

  He pressed her down on the bed and unbuttoned her nightgown. “Ah, honey. I’ve missed you, too.”

  Epilogue

  “Smile, just one more time.” Miranda knew she was probably trying Valerie’s patience, but she couldn’t help herself. “You look incredible in that dress. How about right here, on the front porch?”

  “Okay, Mom.” Valerie seemed happy enough to pose but cast a worried look at her date, Pete. In a crisp, rented tux, his hair newly cut and his shoes polished to a sheen, he appeared both nervous and elated. “Just a few more minutes, okay, Pete?” “I don’t mind.” He blushed, looking so boy-next-door cute that Miranda herself wanted to hug him.

  “I lied,” she confessed. “I don’t want just one more picture.” “Miranda,” Jacob said. “You’ve probably got enough.”

  But she didn’t, and in the end, she got her way. She took pictures of every possible combination—Valerie with her date, with her dad, with her brother. And then a shot of Valerie and Andrew and the puppy, Kioga. When they returned home from their week at the cottage, they had adopted the pup from a local shelter. At about twelve weeks old, he looked like a shepherd mix, with one ear up and one flopped down, and he had become the center of Andrew’s universe. Andrew was raising the dog, training him, and it was hard work. So hard, in fact, that he almost never had time to get on the computer anymore. And he didn’t seem to miss it one bit.

  “Good night, Mom and Dad,” Valerie said. She gave them each a hug before getting into the car with Pete. As she hugged Miranda, she gave her an extra squeeze. “Thanks, Mom,” she whispered.

  Jacob stood behind Miranda and put his arms around her as they watched the car drive away. The last of the evening sunshine lingered, painting the front garden with a deep sheen of gold. She leaned against Jacob, grateful for his solid presence, grateful for…everything. This past year, she’d learned not to fear death but to accept its presence—a reminder that you can do anything with this day except waste it.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for spending some time with Miranda and her family. I hope you were as moved as I was by the great work done by Cottage Dreams. Marie S., a cancer survivor who corresponded with me about Cottage Dreams, writes, “Even though I feel a part of my spirit was taken from me during my cancer journey, I can’t help but look at the importance of people who continue to reach out to others in trying times…”

  Now you have an opportunity to reach out. In the fictional story, Sophie took inspiration from Cottage Dreams to offer a haven to a family that desperately needed to heal and reconnect. In reality, this organization is only able to carry on its work through the charitable contributions of caring people. If possible, please open your heart and your purse strings and make a contribution to Cottage Dreams. There is also a need for items to go into “Welcome Baskets” for arriving families. To find out how you can reach out, please visit their Web site at www.CottageDreams.org or send a check to Cottage Dreams, The Heritage Building, 33A Pine Avenue, P.O. Box 1300, Haliburton, ON K0M 1S0.

  Thank you for caring,

  Susan Wiggs Rollingbay,WA

  Unspoken

  Lauren Hawkeye

  Unspoken

  Copyright 2014 Lauren Hawkeyer />
  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  For Brenda Novak.

  There’s no one I’d rather have as a fellow “D-Mom”.

  "Keep those tissues handy. Unspoken will touch your heart and leave you believing that even a love mired in a hurtful past can still have hope.”

  National Bestselling Author Steena Holmes, Author of Finding Emma and Emma’s Secret

  Chapter One

  As Ellie Kendrick drove slowly down the narrow strip of asphalt that led to her destination, the ten years that she had been gone slowly evaporated into the dry Arizona heat.

  The shop stood at the end of the block, a square structure of crumbling grey brick that sat apart from its neighbors. The wooden sign on the front of building had never been particularly bright or eye catching, but now it—and the dull brick walls—looked like a photo that had sat out too long in the sun.

  Pulling her rental sedan to the side of the road—always plenty of parking to be had in Florence, Arizona—Ellie stepped out of the car that smelled like vinyl upholstery and industrial strength cleaner, and into her past.

  The street was empty as she approached the door, her low heels clicking on the cracked sidewalk. Late evening in Florence meant shift changeover at the prisons had just finished, with half the town facing a long dozen hours inside a cement block, the other spending precious time with their families, eating their dinners, showering off the desert dust, crawling into bed.

  Ellie traced her fingers over the letters of the faded sign, once coral over turquoise blue. Estelle’s Blooms had been meant as a bright spot in town, or so Ellie’s grandmother had always said.

  Now, it looked like nothing so much as one of those black and white photographs that someone had tried to liven up with splashes of artificial color. Nothing real remained, and it would be so easy for Ellie to get back in her rental car, to escape the way she had so many years ago.

  Of course, then she hadn’t had a choice. Just, she supposed as she jingled the weight of the heavy, old key in her hand, as she didn’t really have much of one now.

  Ellie sighed and tucked a wayward strand of her reddish gold hair behind her ear. It flopped back exactly where it had been before she’d moved it, hanging listlessly in the desiccated heat.

  The sound of a car door slamming several streets over had her moving, fitting the key to the lock, where the brass slid in so smoothly, almost loosely, that Ellie figured it wouldn’t have taken much to pick it, had she been so inclined.

  And ten, fifteen years ago, she would have been. Which was why she wasn’t particularly eager to be standing around on the street when the next person moseyed on by.

  The door opened with a creak, and Ellie winced, her organized brain automatically making a note to grease it up, even though she didn’t really care one way or the other. At least, she hadn’t thought she did, but as the heavy door croaked its way shut behind her, and she found herself inside a building she hadn’t entered for over a decade, she was struck with an undeniable sense of melancholy.

  At first glance, the interior of Estelle’s Blooms looked exactly the same. But when Ellie tilted her head, looked through the dancing dust motes, she saw that she’d been viewing the small flower shop through the distorted lens of memory.

  The forest green shelves full of cheap glass vases, the laminate covered counters. The stack of stained plastic buckets behind the counter, the walk in cooler that someone—thank God—had thought to empty of the bright roses, the painted daisies, the mums and the bundles of baby’s breath and leatherleaf and eucalyptus that typically lined the benches inside.

  She hadn’t been overly excited about the prospect of dealing with the rotten sludge of decaying flowers if no one had thought to clear things out after Estelle’s death.

  But the cooler was clean, the faintest hint of bleach lingering in the frigid air. And through it, almost hidden in the corner—the door that led to the apartment upstairs. The place Ellie had called home for most of her life.

  The place she’d been unceremoniously removed from.

  Half turning to go back to her rental car, to get the small bag that held the clothes and toiletries that she’d brought, Ellie instead found herself drawn up the small, rickety staircase, and into the living room of the cramped apartment she’d once shared with Estelle. As with downstairs, things here seemed much the same—the dingy beige carpet, worn down from years of footprints… the peach paint on the walls, a color that had been popular before Ellie had even been born… the ceramic dishes of potpourri so old it had lost its scent. But over it all lay a sense of decay, of neglect, one that combined with the very faint scent of Estelle’s perfume to pull at Ellie’s skin, drowning her in its intensity.

  It was suffocating. Quickly Ellie crossed to the screened window that sat above a television… one so old she’d likely have to hire a crew of neighborhood kids to haul it out for her.

  If their parents, once Ellie’s contemporaries, would let them have anything to do with her.

  She flipped the lock, then put some muscle into turning the handle that cranked the window open. She considered popping the screen out to let more air in, but even if the metal frame hadn’t been sealed in place with thick layers of gummy white paint, she doubted it would have done much good.

  Years spent in the brisk chill of the Rocky Mountains had wiped the memory of the arid heat away. It was very nearly intolerable, sucking the moisture right from her skin, making her tongue swell with the need for a drink of water.

  Good thing she would only been here for a few days. Just long enough to figure out what to do with the mess that Estelle had left behind. She could already feel the anxiety that just being back in this town brought her, pressing down with a weight like water.

  The very thought had nausea roiling in her belly. Desperate for a breath of fresh, crisp air that she knew wouldn’t come, Ellie nevertheless pressed her face to the dusty mesh screen.

  The small street stretched out before her, a black ribbon of tar that she knew would be gooey from baking all day in the sun. In the distance she could see one of the town’s nine prisons… if she remembered correctly, it was the one that held Arizona’s death row. From this view, the complex consisted of a dismal series of concrete buildings, set far back from a fence made menacing by coils of wire that anyone with a brain knew were far more deadly than they looked.

  For the inmates housed in those dull, soul sucking buildings awaiting their punishments, there was no way out. No way past the towers of armed guards, the electrical fence. Though she couldn’t condone the things they’d done to be condemned there, Ellie nevertheless felt a sense of kinship with those souls, right in that moment. That hopelessness, the sensation that no matter how fast she ran, she would never make it free of the shackles of her past.

  Movement from below caught her eye. Looking down, she watched as a shiny white sedan emblazoned with the word Sheriff ambled down the street. Her pulse picked up just knowing there was a cop in the vicinity, thanks to the rebellious teenage years she’d spent in this very town.

  It accelerated even further when the police car pulled up right behind her rental car, a deliberate action on a street that was nearly empty. Ellie listened to her own breath rasping in, shuddering out as time seemed to sl
ow. She watched as a lean, lanky figure in well-worn jeans and a short sleeved blue button down that seemed to have lost some of its crispness in the heat unfolded those long legs from the car and circled her sedate rental, shading his eyes and peering in the driver’s side window.

  She noted the gun strapped to his hip. When he tucked his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels as if chewing something over, he looked right up at the window where she was standing, and her fingers clutched in the dusty curtains, a shock as intense as a lightning bolt nearly brought her to her knees.

  Even across the distance that separated them, Ellie could make out the intense green of his eyes—the ultimate confirmation that she was looking at the man who had savagely ripped her heart to shreds.

  Not a surprise, really, that he’d followed his father into law enforcement.

  He tilted his head to one side, considering, before striding forward, the motion all raw masculinity, pushing through the door to the flower shop beneath. Ellie cursed as her kneejerk reaction whipped through her—she wished she’d locked it, the better to keep him out. And yet…

  Wouldn’t this be for the best? This man was the reason she had most dreaded coming back to Florence. So she’d get the worst out of the way—no sense in looking over her shoulder the entire time she was here.

  The rationale didn’t stop her heart from pounding out a wicked tattoo that made her blood pound audibly in her ears.

  She couldn’t bring herself to turn away from the window, not even when she heard the heavy footfall on the stairs. The tread was familiar, even after nearly ten years.