by Beth Flynn
A Gift of Time
The Nine Minutes Trilogy, Volume 3
Beth Flynn
Published by Beth Flynn, 2016.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A GIFT OF TIME
First edition. July 13, 2016.
Copyright © 2016 Beth Flynn.
ISBN: 978-1536589160
Written by Beth Flynn.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Also by Beth Flynn
The Nine Minutes Trilogy
Nine Minutes
Out of Time
A Gift of Time
Standalone
The Iron Tiara
Tethered Souls (Coming Soon)
This book is lovingly dedicated to
The Niners
Not one single day has gone by where I haven’t felt your unconditional love and support for me and my stories. Thank you all from the bottom of my grateful heart.
and to
The little boy I met on a playground in 1974. The real Tommy.
A Gift of Time
Book Three in the Nine Minutes Trilogy
A Novel By
Beth Flynn
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places, actual events, or locales is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book. All trademarked names are honored by capitalization and no infringement is intended.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
RECOMMENDED FOR READERS 18 AND OLDER DUE TO STRONG LANGUAGE, SEXUAL SITUATIONS AND VIOLENCE.
A Gift of Time
Copyright © 2016 by Beth Flynn
All Rights Reserved
Edited by Jessica Brodie and Amy Donnelly
Cover Photo by Tara Simon
Cover Design by Sommer Stein with Perfect Pear Creative Covers
Cover Model: Lasse L. Matberg
Formatting by Allison Simon
A Gift of Time is the third installment in the Nine Minutes Trilogy. It is not intended to be a stand-alone novel, but could be read as one. Still, I highly recommend that you read my first two novels, Nine Minutes and Out of Time, to be able to understand the background stories of the main characters. There are many twists and turns in both books that can best be connected if read consecutively.
Throughout the Nine Minutes series, we’ve learned so much about Ginny, Grizz and Grunt. We’ve also learned about subterfuge, deceit, loyalty, and intertwining love stories.
What do you know about Ginny? Pull that out of your hat and get ready, because she will be taking you home on this final leg of the tour. A little bit of a secret—you will be happy to know that this last book is mainly her journey. Not so fast, though! All of your favorites are present, and will keep you on your toes right up until the end.
What should you expect when you dive into A Gift of Time? This novel is told in rotating POV’s, lending time for multiple pivotal characters to bring you the story. It is very different from Nine Minutes and Out of Time in that it is the resolution of Ginny’s love story. Yes, Ginny finds love. And she keeps that love. You will also find answers to many questions from Ginny’s and a few other characters’ pasts. I hope you enjoy this final ride!
This book is lovingly dedicated to
The Niners
Not one single day has gone by where I haven’t felt your unconditional love and support for me and my stories. Thank you all from the bottom of my grateful heart.
and to
The little boy I met on a playground in 1974. The real Tommy.
A Gift of Time Contents
Timeline
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Epilogue
The Iron Tiara Excerpt
A Note To My Readers
The Nine Minutes Trilogy Playlist
Acknowledgements
Timeline
1975
Ginny/Kit’s abduction
1985
Grizz’s arrest
Ginny marries Tommy/Grunt
Ginny and Grizz’s daughter, Mimi, is born
1990
Ginny and Tommy’s son, Jason, is born
1999
Moe’s remains found
2000 Summer
Grizz’s execution
Prologue
Ginny
2007, North Carolina
A very old and wise friend once told me, “It’s not by coincidence that everything comes full circle, back to the way it was meant to be.”
I remember holding her bony and gnarled hands in my own. Her strong grip had a strength that belied her age. Intelligent blue eyes met mine as she gave me those words. I saw a challenge in them as if she was daring me to defy or question her wisdom.
Looking back at that moment, almost six years past, I have to concede she was right.
The memory washed over me now as I sat on the cool grass, inhaling its sharp, crisp scent.
I’d always loved the smell of freshly cut grass, which would hang in the humid air like a blanket during the hot summer days in Florida. That’s where I grew up and spent most of my life—Fort Lauderdale, Florida. But I was a long way from there now. The sun warmed my shoulders and felt good on my face. I grabbed another weed, tugging it softly. It came up easily, and I tossed it to the side.
I glanced around the tiny cemetery and sighed as I looked at the gravestones. Some were bigger and newer, standing erect in tribute to a lost loved one. Some were worn and slanted, fighting to stay upright out of respect to the person or persons that lay beneath them. One thing they all had in common: Not one grave was bare. They each displayed some form of remembrance. Flowers—fresh and artificial. Flags, banners, personal mementos. Regardless of the dates, some going back to before the Civil War, each grave was cared for with high respect.
My eyes settled on a headstone two rows over that always caused an ache in my heart. It simply read “Our Children,” then listed seven names with a set of dates beside each one. Each child hadn’t lived past the age of two years old, the last one having passed away in 1932. I was fascinated enough about that grave to do some research when we’d first moved here. After all, they were family, and I was very curious to know what had happened. Well, they weren’t exactly my family, but they were distant relatives of my husband and children, and even though I wasn’t their blood ancestor, I still considered them my family.
I returned my gaze to the dark granite gravestone I sat before and found myself fighting back tears. Another ache in my heart. One that would always be there.
But along with the tears came acceptance. Acceptance of the gift we call life and all it brings, including death. His death.
I never expected to be sitting on a mountaintop so far away from the hustle and bustle of Fort Lauderdale. So far from the ocean and the feel of the sand beneath my toes. So far from everything that had been familiar and safe to me. But I’d more than willingly traded it for this existence, this new beginning. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I traced my left hand over the gravestone, over his name. In spite of the sun’s warmth, the hard granite was cool beneath my fingertips. My nails dug into the crevice where his name was etched, and almost unconsciously, my eyes focused on my ring finger. Two rings. One of ink and one of gold. Not too many women would ever know the blessing of being loved so deeply by more than one man.
Blessed to still have one of them in her life now.
Just then I heard them, and I quickly turned my gaze to the tiny white clapboard church adjacent to the cemetery. The majestic Blue Ridge Mountains served as a backdrop to the picturesque scene. As I watched, my husband walked down the wooden deck steps, a child clinging tightly to each hand. It was a Wednesday morning, and we had the old church and family cemetery all to ourselves. Our four-year-old daughter, Ruthie, stopped and looked up at him.
“Pick me up, Daddy. Pick me up!” she insisted.
I watched as he smiled down at her and effortlessly scooped her up, wincing when she accidentally kicked a tender area. He’d suffered a serious wound years ago, and it still caused him some pain and probably always would. It was a reminder of our old life. The life we’d finally put behind us.
Ruthie’s twin brother had already let go of his father’s hand and ran to me, plopping himself down hard on my lap. I buried my face in his hair and inhaled deeply. He smelled like soap, sweat, and maybe even some dirt. I smiled. I remembered telling my husband when I’d confirmed my surprise pregnancy, “I’m too old for this. We’re too old for this!” He’d just laughed then, and reminded me I was always the one talking about unexpected blessings, fresh starts, and new challenges. Well, I can say for sure having twins at our age was and still is a challenge. But I’ve never been so invigorated and optimistic about the future—in spite of certain things I’ve learned. And I’m loving every single minute of it. I didn’t love the extra stretch marks that came with having two babies in my belly, but there is even beauty in those. I feel like they speak to me: Look at the beautiful children you’ve made. Job well done, Ginny.
I watched as my son lifted his hand to the headstone and put his tiny finger in the name engraved in it, spelling it out loud and clear as he followed the grooves. When he was finished, he tilted his head back and looked up at me.
“Just like my name, Mommy. His name is the same as mine.”
“Yes, it is, sweetheart,” I answered him, smiling softly. “Yes it is.”
Part One
“You can’t start the next chapter of your life if you keep rereading the last one.”—Unknown
Chapter One
Ginny
2000, Fort Lauderdale (Three Months After the Execution)
I don’t remember how long I sat on the hot asphalt of Carter’s driveway and just stared at the ground. After awhile, I lifted my hip and pulled the blue bandana from my pocket where I had stuffed it just minutes ago. Or had it been an hour?
Thirty minutes ago, my childhood Bible was returned to me along with a letter from my mother, Delia. The letter revealed some sad truths about her past and mine. I'd read about a twin sister who died in the hospital after Delia abandoned her and I found out I was actually two years older than what I'd always believed. And now, having just discovered the missing motorcycle and Carter's unspoken confirmation that he was alive, Grizz was still alive, I could do nothing but sit and stare at the empty spot in the garage. It was all just too much.
I quickly looked back over my shoulder to see if Carter was close by. She wasn’t. I held the bandana to my face and started to cry again, this time with small but soulful, gut-wrenching sobs. The kind of sobs that come from a place so deep within your chest you didn’t know they existed until they confronted you with a ferocity that caused physical pain. The kind of sobs that if you stifled them, it caused your ribs to hurt and your back to ache. I hadn't even cried this hard after his execution.
I tried to fathom why that was. Was it because his death was final? Or so I had thought. I could neatly tuck my love and grief in an imaginary box and label it “In the Past.” Where was this new grief coming from now? What was I actually feeling? Betrayal? Hurt? Love?
No. I wouldn’t do that to myself. I couldn’t let myself believe, even a tiny bit, that I was still in love with him. I loved Tommy. I was in love with Tommy. Our love was real and not a consolation prize after Grizz’s arrest, incarceration, and supposed death. Yet…what was it? I wouldn’t let myself finish the thought.
I had to battle the urge to get Carter and insist she tell me everything she knew. I had to fight the instinct to dig for answers. Something bigger told me I shouldn’t do any probing, that Grizz’s secret was large enough to have repercussions should I decide to investigate—which was what my flesh wanted me to do, but my spirit knew better. No, I wouldn’t question. I wouldn’t ask. I would do what he apparently wanted and just file away the knowledge he was out there should I need him, but move on and live the life he insisted I have.
I sat up a little straighter then and resolved to do just that. You want me to move on, Grizz? You got it. Shoving the bandana back in my pocket, I picked myself up. I avoided glancing at the empty spot in the garage where his motorcycle had been—the spot where he had recently been—and I headed around the side of the building. I charged up the stairs to the guesthouse with a determined resolve I wasn’t feeling. I reminded myself that I was the master of illusion. I could and would act fine until today’s revelation eventually made its way to the back of my subconscious.
Yes, it was time to start convincing myself he was dead and gone. For good.
I swung open the door and let myself into the guest apartment. I strode to the windows, opening up the blinds, unlatched the window locks, and hoisted them open. They were still in good condition but stiff from years of disuse. I inhaled the hot, thick air as it floated in and thought about turning on the air conditioning.
A plan formed as I worked: First, I would
assess how much cleaning out I would need to do. I swung around, and with my hands on my hips surveyed the tiny living space. It was clean and neatly but sparsely furnished. I walked over to the small alcove that served as a kitchen. I started opening up the cabinets and found the bare necessities—plates, cups, and silverware. I knew I wouldn’t be cleaning out these things, but I was stalling for what needed to be done.
I walked to the small bedroom. The light was dim, but I couldn’t miss the small cardboard box sitting on top of the bed. I stood staring at the box that had suddenly become the size of a mountain in my head. I’d told myself cleaning out the guesthouse and garage was going to be a huge physical task that would require lots of sweat and muscle.
But it wasn’t huge. There would be no lugging things up and down the stairs. It all came down to that box. The box sitting on that bed.
We’d made love on that bed.
Don’t go there, Ginny. I eyed the room. The bed was stripped bare of its linens. Two small nightstands with matching lamps flanked each side. It was all outdated but in good condition. They could stay. The telescope I’d given Grizz as a gift sat in a corner. I pretended not to notice it. Carter should be using this space for when she had friends in town. It was time for the garage and guesthouse to be used again. I wasn’t following his rules anymore.
Slowly, I approached the bed. I wasn’t the one who’d packed his things up all those years ago. It had been Carter. She’d been living with me then and suggested we start moving some of his belongings out. I’d resisted it at first until Grizz told me to do it. I shook my head as realization dawned. Of course. Carter had probably been in touch with Grizz and told him I wasn’t moving on and then, voila! I hear from Grizz telling me to do exactly what Carter had suggested. Stupid and naïve. I clenched my fists at the memory.
