Freedom of Love
Letters From Home Series
By
Maryann Jordan
Freedom of Love (Letters From Home Series)
Copyright © 2017 Maryann Jordan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. If you would be concerned about working for no pay, then please respect the author’s work! Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by: Sommer Stein
Editor: Shannon Brandee Eversoll
ISBN: 978-0-9984832-0-7
Dedication
As a high school counselor, I worked with many students who joined the military after high school. A few of them I stayed close to and watched as they matured during their enlistment. I know letters from home meant so much to them and they were the idea behind these stories. For those, and all who have served, I dedicate this story to them.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author Notes
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
Other books by Maryann Jordan
More About Maryann Jordan
Author Notes
When writing military romance, I desire to accurately portray the soldier’s jobs, duties, and situations, but know that in some areas I will fall short simply because I have never walked in their boots. I hope my readers will focus on the love story, while appreciating the service our men and women in the military.
Chapter 1
(January – Molly)
“Will the defendant, Molly Thurston, please rise.”
My legs were jelly as I rose from the hard, wooden chair I had been sitting in, glancing at the young, seemingly uninterested, public defense attorney standing with me. He appeared as bored with my sentencing as he had been during the proceedings. My fingers rested on the heavy, wooden table in front of me unsure if my legs would hold me up.
I focused my eyes on the judge, his short, silver hair and black robe fitting the image of any TV judge, but his dark eyes peering at me over the glasses perched on his nose made me realize this was no show.
Palms sweating, heart pounding, I listened as the judge sentenced me to ten months for involuntary manslaughter, the minimum I could be sentenced. I wasn’t surprised—I had agreed to plead guilty. And why not…Sam was dead and it was my fault.
The sentencing was still a bitter pill to swallow, but it was too late now to turn back. Not that I would anyway. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the tearful face of my fifteen-year-old sister, Rachel. Offering a wan smile that I know did not reach my eyes, I turned back to face the judge. The air in the the room felt thin as I tried to fill my lungs, desperate to not pass out.
The rest of the day was a blur, filled with being led around by sheriff deputies, moving from one holding cell to another. Cinderblock walls…bars…and a bench to sit on. A female guard came by to bring me a sandwich, but I was only able to eat a bite, fear keeping me from swallowing.
Just when I thought I was forgotten, a deputy came for me one more time. Finally, transportation to the penal facility. Escorted into the security van, I was handcuffed to the bar at the end of the seat. Keeping my head down as we left the jail, I avoided looking at the people on the street. The free ones who were going about their daily business.
I was the only inmate in the van as we traveled down the road. Eventually looking out the window as I felt the vehicle slow, I watched with trepidation as we approached my imposing home for the next ten months. A shudder swept over me and I swallowed deeply, glad I had not eaten the meal offered earlier or I was sure it would be re-appearing on the floor.
Moving from checkpoint to checkpoint, the van came to a halt outside one of the many brick buildings. The evening sun was already disappearing behind the mountains in the background and the long shadows only lent to the dismal vision in front of me.
My cuffs were released from the security bar and I was hustled inside. Lifting my gaze, I knew my freedom had truly been lost.
Sleep did not come that first night as I lay in bed. Despair filled my throat, threatening to choke me. Afraid to move and possibly disturb my cellmates, I lay as still as possible. For all my fears of prison, mostly fueled by TV and movies, I had been relieved to find that because I was not deemed a threat to society, I was assigned to a minimum security facility.
Finally, sure that my cellmates were asleep, I rolled to my side as quietly as possible. Tucking the blanket up to my chin, I shifted my gaze around the room as my eyes grew more accustomed to the dark.
I had never gone to college but had seen pictures of dorm rooms and had to admit, this room appeared similar to those images. Well, except for the barred window and the steel door that was locked.
The four beds were not bunked and each prisoner had their own locker and nightstand with two drawers. There was a sink in the room and a toilet in a small closet for privacy. I had been told I could have the door closed when using the toilet but that it must stay open at all other times. The cinderblock was painted pale blue and when I had been given white sheets to make my bed, I was grateful to see that the mattress was clean. A thin, narrow window was at the top of the cell, next to the ceiling. It ran the length of the room but was only about six inches tall. Sighing, I was glad for the sliver of a window. Just the thought of having a smidgeon of natural light was welcomed.
“Can’t sleep?” came the whisper from beside me.
Rolling back over, I nodded. “Sorry if I disturbed you, Ellen.”
Chuckling, my cellmate replied, “You don’t have to keep apologizing. You got lucky in here. The three of us have been together a couple of months and we’re not hard to get along with.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
“Well, don’t worry, Molly. You’ll figure it all out soon enough. We all do.” With that Ellen rolled toward the back wall and was soon snoring.
Closing my eyes, I tried to think of the way grandma taught me to pray when I was little. But the only prayer I could think of was simply, God help me. With a single tear sliding down my cheek, I hoped it was good enough.
“Molly, thank you for being on time for our meeting today,” Susan, the prison social worker said.
I looked at the kind face of the woman sitting behind the desk. Her office was neat, with the exception of piles of folders stacked on her desk and a side table. A coffee mug with a lipstick stain on the edge sat on her desk, its Smile, Somebody Loves You logo on the side mocked me. A potted plant sat on the top of a filing cabinet, its leaves angled toward the small window as though, like us, it longed for whatever speck of outside light it could attain.
Like every room in this facility, it was cinderblock but her office was
painted a pale green. I remember reading that green was supposed to be soothing. I wondered if the colors had been specifically chosen to create peaceful moods or if she were just trying to replicate the outdoors.
The smell of the room was floral and my gaze found the air freshener sitting next to the potted plant. Working in this facility, I assumed she would do anything to try to make this room seem less like a prison.
Susan was of indeterminate age to me, but the family photo on the shelf behind her showed possible adult children, and also grandchildren. Her blonde hair, slightly streaked with gray, was cut in a stylish bob. But what I noticed the most were her eyes—they didn’t look at me in a cold glare as I expected. Instead, when she smiled, her blue eyes felt warm.
Sitting up primly in my not-too-uncomfortable chair, I nervously clasped my hands together in my lap, waiting to see why I was called to this meeting while Susan’s gaze was on the file opened in front of her.
Finally looking up, she smiled as she slid her glasses off her face in an upward motion, using them to push her hair back like a headband, and said, “I know you have had several meetings this week and I’m sure your head is filled with everything you are learning and expected to do.”
She was right—I had met with security, including guards, been given an extensive list of rules, met with the prison chaplain, met with the prison doctor…and now the social worker. Nodding politely, I simply said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Her gaze never wavered and I wondered if she were trying to figure me out. I wanted to scream, Lady, I’m just what you see…a scared-shitless woman who’s so in over my head, I’m drowning. Trying to smile but knowing it fell flat, I said nothing, waiting until she spoke.
“I see you are in here for the involuntary manslaughter of your step-father.”
With the facts laid out in front of her, there was no reason to respond. Keeping my expression as blank as I possibly could, I swallowed deeply, forcing my gaze to stay on her face.
“I also see that you have a fifteen-year-old sister, now in foster care.”
I winced, unable to control the gesture, and I knew from the way her gaze raked over my face that she noticed.
She continued, “There’s usually a story behind a case like this. While I cannot undo what’s been done, you are court-ordered to attend counseling while you are here. Both individual and group sessions.”
Nodding, I repeated my standard response, “Yes, ma’am.”
“This is not part of a punishment, Molly, but to assure that you understand what you did that caused you to be here. And that you will be able to leave here in ten months, psychologically whole and ready to integrate back into society.”
What she didn’t know is I knew exactly why I did what I did. And that there was no reason to fear my re-integration back into society. Sam was dead. No one else had to fear me.
“You will also need to choose an area to work in while you are here and to choose a community service project to perform.”
For the first time since entering her office, I perked up. Licking my lips, I asked, “What kind of job?”
She sat, staring at me for a long minute before speaking again. “Usually women are assigned to the laundry, kitchen, things like that. But for you…” she cocked her head to the side, her sharp eyes pinned on me as though peering deeply inside. “I’m recommending the library.”
The library? Unable to hold back my smile, I let out a rush of breath. I would have accepted any job to stave off boredom, but somehow she picked perfectly. “Really? I love books. Thank you!”
She met my smile with one of her own. “I thought you did. You’ll need to report to the library tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp for your assignment.”
“You mentioned a community service project?” I asked, not having any idea what would be expected.
“You’ll come up with something, I’m sure,” she replied. Closing my file, she said, “Your first counseling session will be next week. I’ll have it on the schedule outside my office.”
Dismissed, I stood and, with a last thanks, walked back to my room, my sneakers making no noise on the shiny, waxed floors. Keeping my head down, I made it back without incident. The ever-present fear of prison fights or mistreatment by guards still fueled my imaginings. So far I had seen none of those, now wondering how truthfully TV shows portrayed the life inside these walls.
Breathing a sigh of relief when I entered my cell, I sat on my bed for a few minutes, relishing the quiet. While the security here at this facility was much less than I had feared, the ever-present cameras, guards, and locked doors were a frequent reminder of what I had given away.
“Molly, here’s another box for you to go through.”
I looked at the growing stack of boxes and grimaced at the other inmate. It had not taken long for Greta to figure out that I did what I was told and worked my full hours in the library, seemingly giving her an out to dump her work on me. But, to be honest, I liked the work so I kept my mouth shut. And God knows I don’t want any trouble!
“Sure, no problem,” I grumbled, noticing her victorious smile.
Lifting the heavy box of books, I grunted as they dropped to the floor, making a louder crash than I had hoped for. Looking up, I saw the librarian hustling over.
“Molly, what on earth are you doing back here?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Purdue. The box was heavier than I assumed.”
She pursed her lips as she stood with her hands on her hips, staring at me. Her eyes darted over to Greta, now busy shelving books to the side. “If the boxes are too heavy then just ask Greta to help you. Books are valuable, you know.” With those parting words, she whirled and walked back to the front.
I watched her walk away and had the thought that if anyone ever fit the stereotype of a librarian, it was her. Tall, thin, with the half-glasses that allowed her to peer at you over the top of the lenses. She always wore a sweater, claiming the room was freezing. Her slightly frizzy hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head. I could just imagine when she died, her saying, “Shhh, be quiet!” as she hurried through the pearly gates in her granny shoes.
The library was a large room with sturdy, wooden shelves on the left side and the librarian’s counter in the middle. The room was well lit and with navy carpet on the floor, it gave off a cheery appearance. From her vantage point perched on a tall chair, Ms. Purdue could observe the entire room. Computer station tables were on the right side, with lounge chairs near the magazines in the front. I worked at the tables near the back where the storeroom door was located.
Quite a few prisoners were completing their GED online and a few were taking college classes, so the computer stations stayed busy. Other than that, I was surprised at the lack of activity but realized not as many people like to read as voraciously as I did. But then since it gave me more privacy, I didn’t complain.
Sighing, I knelt down on the floor to begin working on the boxes of books that had been shipped in. It appeared that the women’s prison was the beneficiary of everyone’s cast-off books—and they sent them here by the box-loads. My job was to go through them and divide them into categories. Those that were too damaged or worn were put in a recycle pile. Those that were not appropriate were placed in another pile. And those that would interest the women in the facility were placed in a third group for the librarian to sort.
I had been at this job for a week and had to admit that I liked it…except for Greta, but even she wasn’t too bad. Just annoying and a huge suck-up to Ms. Purdue.
As long as I could stay busy, I managed to get through the days. But the nights were when the fear came slithering out. Fear for my sister now in foster care. Who’s she with? Are they good to her? Will she blame me for everything that has now happened to her? The long night brought no answers to these questions and so sleep came sporadically.
“Molly! Come on!”
Exhaustion caused me to sleep later than my cellmates, but Ellen’s excited cry had my eyes jerkin
g open. “Wha…what is it?”
“It snowed last night! Come on. As soon as we get finished with breakfast, the guards will let us take a walk.”
Unsure why the snow seemed to spawn such excitement, I hurried nonetheless. The energy in the cafeteria was definitely up and most inmates finished breakfast in record time. Not wanting to be left behind, I shoveled in the eggs and bacon. Jackie and Ellen were on the cafeteria detail during lunch, so with the morning off they pulled me along with them to the courtyard where many inmates were kicking the snow around with their shoes.
The icy crystals landed on my face and the cool freshness felt rejuvenating. Smiling, I leaned my head back, opening my mouth to catch the snowflakes, just like I had as a child. Unable to hide my laughter, I twirled around with my arms out.
The guards circled around the women, keeping an eye on all of us, but did not hinder our snow games. A few lightly-tossed snowballs flew through the air and several women laid on their backs to make snow angels. After thirty minutes, we were escorted back in, rosy cheeks and noses on everyone, but spirits elevated. When freedom is lost, it doesn’t take much to make someone feel happier, even for just a few minutes.
The next day in the library, I was assigned to go through the old newspapers and magazines, so Greta could place the new ones in the racks.
Carrying a stack out in my arms, I placed them on a table near the back so that I might go through them one at a time. Sitting down, I pored over the newspapers, reading the articles. It reminded me of sitting at grandma’s kitchen table on Saturday mornings when she had me read the weekly newspapers to her. A now unfamiliar smile curved my lips slightly at the memory.
Flipping the pages, I read about politics, world news, and who was dating who in Hollywood. As I got to the last paper in the stack a picture caught my attention. It was of a soldier reading a book with the headline stated, Books Needed For Soldiers. I flattened my hands over the slightly wrinkled paper, smoothing it out and read the article. Servicemen and women overseas were in need of new or gently used books and magazines. I finished reading and leaned back in my chair, my mind whirling. Here I am, in a prison and I’m surrounded by books while these soldiers are in a war, fighting for freedom, and have a hard time getting books to read. Shame washed over me, but the seed of an idea was born.
Freedom of Love (Letters From Home Series Book 2) Page 1
