Here, I had fallen desperately in love with a girl and she had offered herself to me with her whole, beautifully tender heart. Here, we had shown each other how to be brave, what it was to truly be known. Here, we had learned how to live. Perhaps the land over the cellar was hallowed ground, but this place…this place was holy, too. This was the place where I had first found Eden.
When we were ready, we gathered our kids and went back through the opening in the rock. As Eden was ducking through ahead of me, she glanced back at the spring and then up into my eyes, her gaze tender and full of love. My breath caught. She smiled a smile I had seen a thousand times at this spring, and a thousand times since. I smiled back, realizing in that moment the depth of heartache and love, hurt and forgiveness we had experienced since the last time we were here. And my heart filled with gratitude for all of it, even the pain, because it had brought us here, to this very moment.
We ascended slowly and took the path to the main lodge. When we reached it, we stood looking up at what once had looked like the grandest place on earth. We walked around to the far side and Eden gasped softly. Morning glories vined up the wood, over the windows and all the way up to the roof, filling in the cracks, and covering up the ugliness. The whole side of the house was covered in deep blue beauty, each yellow center looking just like a light shining out from the middle.
And as I stood there with my family, I realized, in the end, it was the beauty that had taken over. It was the beauty we looked upon. And when we walked away from Acadia that day, it was the beauty we attached to our hearts.
Acknowledgements
It takes many people to complete a book and I am so blessed to have the very best on my team. Special, special thanks from the bottom of my heart to my storyline editors: Angela Smith who not only talked story arrangement with me to the point of exhaustion, but provided wine and emotional support often and tirelessly, and Larissa Kahle, who spends what little free time she has helping me to ramp up the emotions of my story and perfect the character development. Thank you to my developmental and line editor, Marion Archer. She is new to my process, but I'll never write a book without her again—never. Her expertise and enthusiasm—not to mention the little notes she wrote in the margin of my manuscript that made me laugh and swoon—not only taught me things, but made my story richer and full of more depth. And to Karen Lawson whose bionic eyes perfected my manuscript even further.
I am also lucky enough to have an incredible group of beta readers who provided invaluable feedback on Calder and Eden's story, and cheer leaded for me when I needed it most; Cat Bracht, Elena Eckmeyer, Michelle Finkle, Natasha Gentile, Karin Hoffpauir Klein, Nikki Larazo, and Kim Parr. And to my author beta, A.L. Jackson, who read the first draft of my manuscript, when it was just three hundred pages of my ramblings and before I'd even spell checked it. Her feedback and assurances gave me the courage to continue on.
Thank you as well to my wonderful sprinting partner, Jessica Prince. Many of these words would not have been written if not for her diligent nine a.m. texts that generally included one word: sprint?
Big thanks to my amazing formatter, Elle Chardou, for saving my sanity and my carpal tunnel.
Love and gratitude to my husband for his patience through this process—and for being understanding when every date night for three months included plot talk. You make it all fun—and you make it all possible.
About the Author
Mia Sheridan is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestselling author. Her passion is weaving true love stories about people destined to be together. Mia lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her husband. They have four children here on earth and one in heaven. In addition to Becoming Calder and Finding Eden, Leo, Leo's Chance, Stinger, and Archer's Voice are also part of the Sign of Love collection.
Mia can be found online at
www.MiaSheridan.com
www.facebook.com/miasheridanauthor
*The following is an exclusive excerpt of a forthcoming novel by S. Celi set for publication on December 9, 2014. This excerpt is subject to final editing and changes.*
Natural Love
By S. Celi
Property of Lowe Interactive Media, LLC
Copyright 2014
All rights reserved by the author
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
July 4
“You look beautiful tonight,” I heard myself say.
“Thank you. I’d hoped you’d like this dress.”
We stopped walking just under the trellis and next to a corner of the house. From here, we couldn’t see the rest of the party, but we could hear everything. Hundreds of people stood just a few feet away from us, and they’d come looking for us soon. We had commitments and expectations to fulfill, but at that moment, my eyes and my attention were on her.
Only her.
“Did you wear it just for me?” I said.
“Yes,” she said under her breath. “Just for you. I do everything just for you…”
She didn’t say anything more because I didn’t allow it. My mouth covered hers in a rough, intense kiss. I gripped her face with one hand and the small of her back with the other, crushing me to her in a split second of passion that didn’t have any boundaries, broke every rule, and defied everything that made sense in my life. My tongue twisted and shoved against hers, and she opened beneath me as our kisses deepened. Before long, I moved her up against the ivy wall of the house, and there we were, locked together in a moment that somehow we’d claimed as ours and ours alone.
I only broke the kiss when she moaned against my mouth. Something about the sound made me remember where we were. Who I was. What we were doing. How wrong it all was from the standpoint of everything I had ever been taught.
No. We couldn’t do this. No. No. No.
Someone might see us.
Had they already?
“I’m sorry,” I said as I forced our lips apart. I took an immediate step away from her, but it did little to calm us down. Her breath came out hard and fast, a series of quick pants as if she hadn’t wanted to breathe while we kissed.
And I don’t know what unsettled me more: the kissing or the look of extreme pleasure she had on her face.
“I am… I’m… I should go.” I said.
Without another word, I turned and disappeared down the pathway, leaving her alone against the ivy.
CHAPTER ONE
June
The house where I grew up sat at the end of a long, gravel driveway.
Chadwick Gardens had an iron gate at the entrance of the property, a large nameplate, and two long rows of hedges that guided cars up the road and to a circular drive that wrapped around a large fountain. Behind the fountain stood one of the largest homes in Hamilton County. A home that over the years had reminded every photographer who came to the house of a large estate somewhere on the moors of England, not a mansion on the outskirts of a mid-size Midwestern city like Cincinnati. When I saw the house again after two years away, I should have felt the foreboding, menacing melancholy that would come to define my time there. But I didn’t. I just felt impressed and even comforted.
Money. My family had money. A lot of it. We’d never lacked for material things, and the house always proved that to everyone. The land alone cost one million. In Cincinnati, the Chadwick name came decorated in cash, real estate, access, club memberships, exclusive invitations, and antiques. That summer, I stood poised to make my first of many claims to the fortune. After 24 years of just living in the shadows of Chadwick Gardens, the time had come to take a piece of what I always had known would be mine.
I just needed to hold it together long enough to prove to everyone in the family that I could handle it. I knew I could. Would. I would hold it together, get my hands on the fortune, and not let anything—or anyone—stop that.
&nbs
p; “Here we are, Mr. Chadwick,” said Henry, our longtime house manager. He sat in the driver’s seat of my father’s 1990 vintage Mercedes, and his clammy, liver spotted hands gripped the wheel as if he worried he’d return it to the garage with a scratch or, even worse, a dent. After all this time, that car had only 15,000 miles on it, and the interior leather had never cracked. My father only allowed it to come out for special occasions, and he loved that car more than he loved his children.
“We’re home.”
“Home,” I said from the back seat. “Home sweet home.”
Chadwick Gardens never failed to impress as the piece de resistance of a family fortune that hit $175 million in the last decade. People who drove up to the front of the house for the first time always had the same expression when they saw the house—open mouths and wide eyes. Some of them even struggled with what to say. Plenty of homes in Greater Cincinnati qualified as mansions, but few could be called “estates.” Chadwick Gardens left no doubt about its rightful place. And oh, how my Dad loved playing Lord of the Manor on this expansive property. Dad relished the idea of a dynasty, and he let everyone know that Chadwick Gardens was the right place to grow one.
Now that I had returned home, I could resume my role as crown prince. As long as things went my way.
They would. There was no other way.
“We’re happy to have you back,” Henry said. He still had his hands on the steering wheel.
“You are?” I glanced down at the clock on my iPhone. 5:33PM. Saturday. June 15th. Back on US soil for the first time in 24 months, and back home after a day and a half of travel. Whatever home meant now, of course.
“Yes, we are. Thrilled, really. It’s been so long since you’ve been home.” He swallowed, considering his words. “I know Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick were sorry they’re still in Europe for your big homecoming.”
I scoffed.
“Tell me how you really feel,” Henry said.
“They’re in Tuscany, still, right?” They’d emailed me an itinerary, but like most emails from them over the last couple of years, I had only skimmed it.
“Yes, they’re in Tuscany until tomorrow. Then on to Lake Como. And Mrs. Chadwick says they miss you.”
I caught Henry’s eyes in the reflection of the rearview mirror as the car pulled into the circle of the drive. “We both know they don’t miss me, Henry.”
“Mrs. Chadwick does. She told me last night over the phone.”
“But not my father. He hasn’t missed me a day in his life. And certainly not for the last few years.”
Henry sighed. “You know how your father is. He’s very … particular.”
“That’s an understatement,” I said as Henry parked the Mercedes. “More like unforgiving.”
“He’ll come around, son.” Henry pushed open the car door. “I promise. He’ll come around. Two years is long enough for things to change.”
“You’re telling me.”
“You could have come home some and tried to talk to him.”
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t have worked.”
“But traveling around Europe on your off time from the Peace Corps did?”
“It was only a few weeks,” I said, flinching. “Amsterdam in particular was very helpful.”
Henry chose to not press me on the implications of that comment, which would have launched me into a couple of watered down stories about the Venice of the North that didn’t include the red light district or the sweet taste of the pot.
“You could have timed your return so that your dad and Linda wouldn’t have been out of town.”
“No, I couldn’t have,” I said. “Too much at once.”
I tasted disgust in the back of my mouth. If I wanted to succeed, then I had to reenter life at Chadwick Gardens on my terms, and not my father’s. I’d only win this poker game by keeping my cards against my chest.
“But I still think—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I folded my arms across my chest. Conversation over.
“You know, I’ve been with this family for twenty years. And I see things…”
“This is the way I wanted it,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Have it your way, son.” Henry sounded defeated.
Good. Maybe he’d realize just how I’d felt over the last few years, too. Time might have moved on, but I hadn’t. Grudges had always been my strength, and over the last 24 months, I had nursed one the size of a boulder.
Henry opened the trunk.
“I know,” I said. “Not much to show for my life, huh?”
Banishment to a life with the Peace Corps hadn’t left me with much. Two years in South Africa gave me one large bag, one small bag, and two suitcases. All the stuff inside added up to less than $500, and I wouldn’t have cared if I had lost it all. In the Peace Corps, I had a life with meaning, but few material possessions; a life that differed in every way from undergrad at Wharton. At college, I lived in a house with three other guys, and my greatest challenge meant figuring out how to balance an expensive vodka habit, an endless parade of college girls, and the desire to get straight A’s so my father would keep paying for my education.
“Let me get that, Mr. Chadwick,” Henry said when I picked up my green soft-shell bag that doubled as a backpack.
“No. Please don’t.” I eyed him. Two years hadn’t been kind to Henry. Deep wrinkles and a sallow complexion told me that. “This is heavy. It’ll hurt your back.”
“This is my job.”
“No it isn’t,” I said, and hoisted the bag onto my own back. “You’ve always done too much, Henry.”
“This is my job.”
I shifted the bag so the weight distributed across my back. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
Still, he stared at me with a funny look I couldn’t place. “You’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” I reached for one of the suitcases in the trunk and pulled it out. “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“You just… back before you left… you never did things around here, Mr. Chadwick. You let everyone else do it.”
“People change.” I grinned at him. “And please, stop calling me Mr. Chadwick. I’m Spencer. I was Spencer when I left. I’m still Spencer. I’ll be Spencer until I die.”
He laughed.
“I mean that, Henry,” I said. “You’ve known me since I was ten.”
“That’s true.”
“You used to take care of me when I got sick, and one time I threw up on you.”
He smiled at the memory. “I’ll never forget that stomach bug. Hit this whole house.”
“So, stop calling me Mr. Chadwick, okay?”
“If you say so.”
“Thank you.”
Henry took the handle of my black roller board suitcase. I only let him do it because it had wheels. Then I pulled out the small bag and he slammed the trunk shut.
“And since we’re talking about it,” I said. “What else has changed?”
CHAPTER TWO
“Plenty,” Henry said as he walked up the slate steps to the dark wooden double doors with a lion’s head knocker. He pushed it open, and I followed into the house my father treated as the crown jewel of his fortune. He had a good reason for this. For all the beauty of its outside, Chadwick Gardens had twice that beauty on the inside.
The foyer of Chadwick Gardens opened out into two wings of the house. On the left, a few doors and twisted hallways led to a study, library, den, master’s suite, and ancient ballroom we never used. On the right, a dining room that seated 16 backed up to a butler’s pantry, kitchen, breakfast nook, and basement entrance. Next to the entrance for the dining room, a grand staircase carpeted in maroon brocade opened up to a catwalk, office, and five bedroom suites upstairs, including mine.
And at the top of those stairs stood my luminous, effervescent stepsister, Avery Jackson.
“Spencer!” she called to me, though we’d both already seen each other. “You’re finally home!”
I eyed her for a second, looking for clues. Had she lost weight? Did she get enough sleep these days? Did the past still haunt her? What about the scars and the cuts?
“Hello, Avery,” I said.
She bounded down the long staircase toward me, a tall vision in white jean shorts and a black, knit V-neck vintage top. When it came to Avery, I always noticed the little things—the small things about her. She had blue nail polish on her toenails, red on her fingernails, and the messy ponytail that held her blonde hair threatened to come undone at any moment. When she crashed into me for a hug, she knocked me off balance, and the backpack swung off my shoulders.
“Asshole,” she whispered in my ear.
“Nice to see you, too, dear stepsister.”
A few days before, I told her not to come to the airport when the plane arrived. I didn’t want the first time I saw her again after so long to happen in the clinical, cavernous baggage claim terminal of CVG. That wouldn’t be right—not warm enough. She argued with me, I insisted, and for once I won the fight.
And as she hugged me, I knew I’d made the right decision about our reunion.
“You’re too thin,” she said after we broke away from each other. “Didn’t they feed you there?”
“Have they been feeding you here?”
She sighed. “Already?”
My eyes fell on her collar bone, visible underneath the neckline of her shirt. “Yes. Already.”
“I’m eating,” she said in a low voice. “And I’m just fine.”
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