Chloe Adams is the perfect heroine for everyone who has ever wished they could step out of their comfort zone … and do it with daring, verve, and a sense of humor. Chloe is a heroine who approaches a devastating personal experience as an opportunity … and lives to talk, sing, and even laugh about it!
Siri Mitchell,
author of Kissing Adrien and The Cubicle Next Door
Chloe had me in stitches from page one, and sighing in satisfaction at the end—she made me want to be daring too!
Camy Tang,
author of Sushi for One? and Only Uni
Daring Chloe is an engaging, entertaining story! Turning the pages, I felt like I was a real part of the well-traveled Getaway Girls gang, a happy participant in every one of their exciting adventures.
Annette Smith,
author of A Bigger Life and A Crooked Path
Also by Laura Jensen Walker
Dreaming in Black and White
Dreaming in Technicolor
Reconstructing Natalie
(Women of Faith Novel of the Year, 2006)
Miss Invisible
A GETAWAY GIRLS NOVELS
Book One
Laura jensen walker
He that loves reading has
everything within his reach.
William Godwin
ZONDERVAN
Daring Chloe
Copyright © 2008 by Laura Jensen Walker
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
Mobipocket Edition February 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-31727-2
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Walker, Laura Jensen.
Daring Chloe : a Getaway Girls novel / Laura Jensen Walker.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-27696-8
1. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.A3595D37 2008
813'.6—dc22 2007047709
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
Other quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189 USA. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other — except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
* * *
08 09 10 11 12 13 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my sister Lisa, who shares my
reading obsession, with much love.
(Trixie Belden rocks!)
And for my Book Ends book club: Betty Jo,
Carol, Cheryl, Gabriela, Jamie, Janelle, Jennie, Lisa,
Michele S., Michelle W., Sarah, and Sheri.
Although I’ve poached a couple of the books
from our club, rest assured, none of the
Paperback Girls are based on you.
I do thank God for my books with
every fiber of my being.
Oswald Chambers
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part 2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part 3
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 4
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 5
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 6
Chapter 16
Part 7
Chapter 17
Part 8
Chapter 18
Part 9
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Book Selections in Daring Chloe
Acknowledgments
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Part 1
1
Customs of courtship vary greatly in different times and places, but the way the thing happens to be done here and now always seems the only natural way to do it.
Marjorie Morningstar
At 1:33 a.m., nine hours and twenty-seven minutes before my wedding ceremony, my fiancé dumped me. By text message.
The “Going to the Chapel” ringtone woke me, and I grabbed my phone off the guestroom nightstand before it woke my sister, Julia, asleep in the twin bed next to me. I opened one eye, fumbled for my glasses, and peered at the luminous green numbers on the digital clock radio.
Poor baby. Probably too keyed up over the excitement of the big day to sleep. I smiled and snuggled under the covers to enjoy a romantic text message. Chris had been a little stressed and distracted at the rehearsal dinner earlier, but that was to be expected. Wedding preparations were definitely stressful. Thankfully, tomorrow — today — it would all be over, and we could at last start our happily ever after.
I read his text, eager to see what sweet, tender things he had to say.
SORRY, CLO. CAN’T DO IT. TOO MUCH. GOTTA GET AWAY. PEACE.
“Ryan?” My fingers flew over my phone. NOT FUNNY. JUST A FEW HOURS AWAY, CHRIS. LOVE YOU!
Ryan Chandler was Chris’s best man and roommate. This kind of stunt didn’t seem like him, but it had to be. Right? But Chris didn’t answer my text. His battery must be low. I called him on his landline and got his answering machine: “Hey, it’s Chris O’Neil. I’m not around right now, but I’ll return your call when I get back, so leave a message.”
He’d changed his greeting. Gone were the sarcastic comments about picking out flowers and schmoozing extended family members. His voice sounded odd. Strained and strange. Not the excited tone of a man about to leave on his honeymoon. I shoved the covers off as I tried his cell. It went straight to voice mail. I texted again: WHAT’S GOING ON? YOU OK?
No reply.
Concerned, I pulled up Ryan’s number and dialed. He picked it up on the first ring. “Hi, Chloe.” There was no reassuring laugh in his voice.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, not wanting to wake Julia. “Where’s Chris? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Physically fine.” Ryan gave a heavy sigh. “Look, Chloe, there’s no easy way to say this. The wedding’s off. Chris doesn’t want to get married. I know the timing really sucks, but — ”
I dropped the phone. It slid off the comforter and clattered to the hardwood floor between the beds, waking my sister.
“Chloe? What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t answer. I
couldn’t breathe.
In my daze, it dimly registered that Julia leaned down and picked up the phone. “Who is this?” she demanded. “Oh, I see. Okay. Thank you.”
Julia flipped the phone shut and looked at me, her gorgeous tawny eyes wet and filled with pity. “I’m so, so sorry.” She flung the covers off and moved toward me, her silky nightgown swishing around her. She stopped when I raised my hand.
The hand with my engagement ring.
I let out a sob and sank back on the bed, gasping as my eyes gushed and my nose ran, snot mixed with tears falling on my oversized T-shirt that was beginning to fray at the hem.
“What’s going on?” My parents appeared in the doorway, my dad’s skimpy hair sticking up every which way.
I looked up at them through blurry eyes, unable to say the words.
“There’s not going to be a wedding,” Julia informed them.
“Not going to be a wedding?” My aunt Tess, champion and surrogate mother, strode into the room behind my parents and enfolded me in her wiry arms.
I laid my head against her chenille-robed chest and cried.
And cried.
And wondered if it was possible to text message a kick in the groin.
As I approached the kitchen the next morning, I could hear my twin cousins, Timmy and Tommy, Tess’s sixteen-year-old sons, plotting revenge.
“We’ll give Chris something to think about.”
“Oh yeah. And then some.”
“Now boys — ” my mother started, but broke off when she saw me in the doorway. “How are you feeling this morning, dear?” she asked.
“Just great. Especially for someone who just got dumped. It’s not every day a girl gets left at the altar. We should celebrate.”
Mom flushed and turned her attention back to frying bacon. Julia looked down at her lap.
“Take it easy, Chloe.” My dad squeezed my shoulder as he set down a cup of coffee in front of me. “Sniping at your mother won’t make things any better.”
“You’re right.” I gulped the French roast and scalded my tongue. “Sorry, Mom.”
Mom, who is all sweetness and light, content to cook and clean for her family, sew costumes for church, do crafts, and volunteer in the nursery, is completely my opposite. I’m the undomestic, uncrafty daughter with perpetually bad hair who hates sewing, cooking, cleaning, and especially nursery work. Mom reads Better Homes and Gardens; I read John Grisham. Mom reads the Reader’s Digest condensed version, and I read the unabridged, uncut, unsterilized version. And as such, our relationship is often about miscues and miscommunication.
Julia the Perfect is, of course, Mom’s clone.
When I got engaged, though, Mom was suddenly in my world and in her element, helping clueless me pick out flowers, bridesmaid dresses, the cake, everything. Now, with one late-night text message, that was all gone.
I looked at the kitchen clock — 8:25 — and wondered how I was going to get through the next couple of minutes, much less hours. I stared at the second hand as it made its agonizingly slow sweep around the numbers. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twelve. How could time be so interminable? So painful? Each sweep of the hand taking me closer to the scheduled time of my walk down the aisle was like a butcher knife through my heart. I wanted to scream, kick, and tear my hair. But that wasn’t my style. Instead, I pushed my messy hair behind my ears and glanced across the breakfast table to my redheaded cousins who’d stayed over last night along with Tess for the wedding.
The wedding that was no more.
“I heard the phone ring,” I said casually. “Was it Chris? Did you guys talk to him?” I tried to still the hopeful flutter in my breast.
“I’m sorry, honey, it was Ryan,” Tess said. “He called to let us know that no one would be able to reach Chris. He was heading out on a backpacking trip so he could get away and — ” she made quote marks with her hands — “ ‘think.’ Ryan also said he’d contacted the pastor and told all Chris’s friends and family what happened.”
“Didn’t waste any time, did he?” I slapped my mug on the table, sloshing the muddy brown liquid over the top. I’d actually known Ryan before Chris. We were friends in the same singles Sunday school class at church, and it was at a singles event — a hike along the Pacific Crest Trail — where Ryan had introduced me to his new roommate, Chris. One look into Chris’s gorgeous hazel eyes flecked with gold and I was gone.
Hiking wasn’t really my thing. A little too heavy on the bugs, lizards, and exertion. Plus, there was always the prospect of mountain lions waiting to pounce on unsuspecting city-girl me. No thanks. I’d rather stay home curled up with a good book. On that particular day, however, Shannon, a friend of sorts from the singles group who was nursing a major crush on Ryan, had pleaded with me to go along. “C’mon, Chloe, you don’t even really have to hike,” she cajoled, knowing full well my aversion to the great outdoors. “I know where they’re stopping for a picnic lunch, and we can park nearby and just walk in a little ways to meet up with them at the site.”
Shannon sweetened the deal. “I’m bringing my triple-fudge brownies.”
“With chocolate chips?”
“You got it.”
“Let me find my tennis shoes.”
Her hopes of getting together with Ryan hadn’t worked out — he saw her as just a buddy. But Chris didn’t look at me through buddy eyes. We both fell hard and fast, which didn’t sit well with Ryan. He thought we were infatuated and needed to take our time and really get to know each other. Looks like he may have been right.
Julia mopped up my spilled coffee with a paper towel. “Remember, Chris loves you. He probably just got scared. Lots of men get cold feet. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”
“Riiiiiggghht.” I laid my head down on the table. Some stray sugar granules dug into my cheek.
Tommy — or was it Timmy? — gave my back a couple of awkward pats. I heard his brother say with a Tony Soprano swagger, “Whaddya say, Uncle Jim? Let’s find this guy and teach him not to mess with our family.”
“Family?” My head popped up like a jack-in-the-box. “Oh, no. Everybody’s coming o — ”
The back door slammed. “Where’s our poor darling girl?” Aunt Gabby burst into the kitchen. “You poor, poor thing. How awful!” She swept me into her arms, her titanic chest heaving with indignation beneath her Hawaiian-print polyester muumuu. I appreciated the comfort, but come on: she was dressed in a Hawaiian-print polyester muumuu for my wedding ceremony.
An unearthly shriek pierced the air. “But I wanna wear my flower-girl dress and throw roses on the ground. You promised!”
Aunt Gabby released me to comfort her six-year-old Nellie Oleson spawn who’d followed her in. “Now, Erica, sweetheart, remember what Mommy and Daddy told you,” she soothed. “There’s not going to be a wedding, so you can’t wear your dress today. But you can wear it to church tomorrow instead.”
“That’s right, angel.” Middle-aged Uncle Bud squatted down in front of his daughter from the netherworld. “You can wear your pretty dress tomorrow and throw flower petals in the backyard after church.”
Uncle Bud and Aunt Gabby, my dad’s sister, never thought they’d have kids. They married in their mid-thirties and started trying right away, but to no avail. Then Aunt Gabby received an unexpected gift for her fortieth birthday; a blue line on her at-home pregnancy test. Seven-and-a-half months later, Erica, the light of their lives — and the bane of the rest of the family’s — arrived.
“Noooo!” Erica glared at me and then dropped to the kitchen floor, flailing her arms and kicking her legs. “Wanna wear it today, wanna wear it today!”
I love my family, but it was too much. They were too much. I fled upstairs.
Tess — she’d asked me to drop the Aunt prefix on my sixteenth birthday — followed me to my old bedroom that my parents had made into a guest room after I’d moved out.
I pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and my favorite blue fleece hoodie after yanking my flyaway be
d-head hair through a ponytail holder. “I have to get out of here.”
“I’m with ya. Let’s blow this popsicle stand. Just give me two seconds to change,” she said. “I’ll drive.”
And drive she did, hard and fast, in her old MG convertible. We didn’t talk. There was no need. It was impossible for Tess to hear me with the top and windows down anyway. Which was just as well. I don’t think my aunt had ever heard those particular kinds of words come out of my mouth.
I inserted my iPod ear buds, shut my eyes, and leaned back against the leather seat, lost in Rosemary land. Most of my friends had never heard of Rosemary Clooney, or if they had, only as gorgeous George’s aunt. But Tess had introduced me to her when I was a little girl. I pumped up the volume on the torch song Rosemary sang in White Christmas, “Love, You Didn’t Do Right By Me.”
Fifteen minutes later, my eyes flew open as the bottom of the MG scraped on a steep driveway. “Dunkeld’s? You picked Dunkeld’s Bookstore?”
“They have the best lattes around. You’ve said so yourself.” She picked up her purse with the pen-and-ink caricatured faces of famous women writers on the front. “I vote for a couple of medicinal lattes to take the sting out. And I have a craving for their cranberry scones.”
“I’ll just wait out here.”
“No you won’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. You have no reason to hide. It’s Chris who needs to keep his sorry self out of sight.”
Which is why he went backpacking. I shuddered at the thought of bugs, mice, and not even porta-potties in the remote wilderness areas where my fiancé — ex-fiancé — liked to hike. He knew I wouldn’t follow him there.
“Now come on. I need caffeine.”
“Okay. But put that thing on your other shoulder. Sylvia Plath is giving me the evil eye again.”
“She’s just wishing she could rethink that whole oven thing.”
Daring Chloe Page 1
