Michelle Irwin
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2014 by Michelle Irwin
First Edition December 2014
Published in Australia
Digital ISBN: 978-0-9941746-0-4
Also available in paperback:
Print ISBN: 978-0-9941746-1-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-9941746-4-2
Cover Artist: Soxsationalcoverart
Cover content used for illustrative purposes only, and any person depicted is a model.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The following story is set in the USA and therefore has been written in US English. The spelling and usage reflect that.
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 Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact:
Michelle Irwin P O Box 671 MORAYFIELD QLD 4506 AUSTRALIA
www.michelle-irwin.com
[email protected]
Dedication
To my husband and daughter, you come first and foremost in everything I do.
To my family and friends, thank you for supporting me in this endeavor. For putting up with the long hours, ignored conversations, and missed appointments.
To Jen, thank you for always putting your eyes as the first line of defense between my initial draft and the world at large. For your unwavering support and help. For reading my words so many times they must be burned into your brain. For talking me down from the metaphorical ledge more times than I can count.
To Soxie, thank you for taking my rambling suggestions and turning it all into a cover that I love.
To all my beta and proof readers: Jacky, Felicia, Isobel, Jade, Amanda, and Kylie, thank you for casting your eyes over my words and offering suggestions for improvements.
To Karen Harper, thank you for your editing assistance and guidance.
To all the blogs and people who have helped me along the way to spread the word and just for being awesome. I know if I try to name you all, I’ll miss one of you and then feel terrible.
To Belinda and Kristy, you are both new in my life, but you have both been supportive beyond measure and made me think this crazy little dream of mine might not be so completely crazy.
CHAPTER ONE
There was nothing quite as wonderful as watching requited love blossom. Or at least that was Evan's primary thought as he waited for the wedding to start.
Over the course of his tour of duty, Evan had witnessed many weddings; each one as different as it was the same. Although he had noticed that around the turn of the twenty-first century, the variance between celebrations had grown wider from bikinis on the beach to million-dollar affairs. This particular event was certainly one of the latter. It had set the bride’s parents back a pretty penny, as well as a few million ugly ones.
None of that pomp mattered to Evan though. For him the where and what didn’t matter as much as the why. No, he wasn’t there for the preening and perfection—the motives behind his attendance were much purer than that. He was just there to celebrate the love of the couple. After all, he was invested in it. He had played a more than significant part in bringing them together. Of course, they’d never thank him for what he’d done. He’d performed his task so perfectly that they would never even know that he’d been there or the way he’d interfered to unite them. It was easier that way.
The music that had played as the bridesmaids—all seven of them—walked down the aisle, swelled into a crescendo just before the doors opened once more to reveal the bride to the waiting congregation. Unlike everyone else, Evan didn’t turn to look at her.
Not yet.
There was something much more important to witness in that moment: the sight of the groom's face as he saw his picturesque bride in all her made-up and coiffed glory. That expression was all the payment Evan needed for the hard work it had taken to bring the couple together.
Almost all the payment he needed.
In truth, there was one other form of compensation he needed. One that neither the bride nor groom would miss, or even know he’d taken and would continue to draw on for the rest of their lives.
Standing as the bride neared him, Evan touched his fingertips to her shoulder in a feather-light caress. He closed his eyes for a second to enjoy the sensation of her increased heartbeat, which sped in response to his presence. The surge of love he absorbed, doubled and passed back to her through his touch was delightful. Over time, he’d come to appreciate how wonderful the union between his matches was, but it could never compare to this element of the job—the big payoff. It was what he enjoyed the most about weddings, but it was this part of his new life that he’d appreciated long before he’d been comfortable watching the happy couples speak their vows—something he’d never been able to do himself.
The moments of overwhelming joy, like weddings and births, were a big part of the reason that he’d spent the last fifty years diligently monitoring the ever-changing list in his mind. In truth, it was a combination of those moments and the fact that he wasn’t sure what the outcome would be if he didn’t follow the list to the letter, that drove him to attend these events. After an early taste of what that might be like, he’d decided that he didn’t want to risk it and had been a company man ever since. Over time, he’d become almost zealous in his efforts. Like a junkie jonesing for his next fix.
In reality, he didn’t have to be actually present at the wedding to reap the benefits. He could enjoy the sensations from miles away if he’d wanted to. With proximity though, he could amplify the emotions of the couple he’d united and make the payoff last that much longer.
Leaving his hand resting on the bride’s shoulder, Evan began to walk down the aisle at her side. If anyone else in the chapel had been able to see him, they would probably have wondered who the chestnut-haired stranger walking alongside Karen was. Evan was sensible enough to remain cloaked as he fell into step beside her though, so he was safe from prying eyes.
Besides, he and Karen were no longer strangers, at least not from his side of things. He knew her. In fact, he was quite intimately connected with her heart and soul. He probably knew her inner desires better than anyone else in the church, even the grinning groom waiting at the other end of the aisle. After all, she’d unknowingly whispered all of her secrets to Evan twelve months ago when he’d first been assigned the task of finding her perfect match. Evan had found her soul mate within a week, and brought them together within a month. Their first kiss had been just one of many wonderful experiences they’d unwittingly shared with him.
Finally, the moment was upon him.
Evan delighted in the wondrous emotions in the air when Karen’s father pressed the bride’s shaking fingers into her groom’s waiting hand. A pleasure shuddered down his spine and caused his limbs to tremble. He lifted his hand away from Karen so that his quivering fingers didn’t accidentally alert her of his presence. So close to the fulfillment of the promise to each other, Evan could taste the sweetness of the love between them that filled the air. It encircled his body, echoing through his heart. Blended with the love was the bittersweet sensation of the father losing a daughter but also gaining a son. The love in the room, from the couple and the family and friends supporting them, was, for the most part, pure. It
was real, and it was wonderful.
It was the tender moments like the one he currently shared with Karen and her groom that provided him with sustenance. Love might make the world go around, but it was also what kept cupids like Evan alive—for want of a better word.
If he was pressed to explain what it was like to taste the emotions of others, Evan would have likened it to a favorite meal after weeks of starvation. At least, he might have, had he still understood the concept of food. That need had been stripped from him when he’d died, and the memory of a well-cooked steak dinner had all but faded completely in the intervening years.
Although he’d never had any need to explain what the absence of love felt like for him, Evan knew it would have been impossible to explain it to any living soul. It was a little like hunger, but also completely different. In theory, he could survive without love and the associated happy emotions. His body didn’t need like the living did; he could survive without food and oxygen. Even sleep was little more than a way to pass the time if he was bored. He couldn’t die, exactly. Although emotions sustained him, he could go months, maybe even years, without them. So starvation might not have been the best analogy.
He would survive, but a loveless life was not a fun existence for a cupid.
No, he wouldn’t die, but he would go wanting.
He’d be empty.
He refused to let that happen—again.
Turning to leave the happy couple to say their vows, Evan closed his eyes and brought up the next name on the list in his mind.
Rebecca Lewis.
He smiled to himself, secretly loving the moment a new name appeared. He would never admit it to anyone, especially not the voiceless, bodiless entities he reported to—the ones that invaded his mind whenever they desired but wouldn’t come to him when he called to them—but he was glad he’d been offered this chance at salvation. A darker, much hotter, path might have been his fate otherwise.
Taking a moment to collect himself once he was outside the church, Evan focused on the name, Rebecca Lewis, and felt her lonely heart calling to him from across the distance. In that first instant of connection, he learned enough about her to ensure he’d be able to find her: name, age, occupation, and location. Nothing that allowed him to know her though. After all, discovering desires, hopes, and dreams always took more than a brief lock-on to her soul. That took physical contact and the ability to see beyond the lies people told themselves. It could take hours or weeks, depending on the person and how willing they were to open themselves up in order to find love.
What Evan had learned was that Becca was a few hundred miles away in Flint, Michigan. She was a medical receptionist who would shortly celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. It wasn’t nearly enough to start his search for her soul mate, but it was enough to give him something to mull over as he wandered the streets still basking in the glow of Karen’s wedding.
When he thought about Becca, he had to admit that her current location surprised him a little. It was much further than he’d ever had to travel before. The actual distance mattered little; he had his own unique way of travelling. It was just odd that it was so much further than he’d ever had to go before.
Regardless, he knew what he had to do next. He never questioned the names he was given—couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. There was no one to ask. All he knew was that if this name was next on the list, it wouldn’t leave until he’d found her a match.
Until that time, he wouldn’t receive his next fix of energy and the emotions of his other matches that still lived within him would have to sustain him while they slowly dissipated to the level of comfort found in long-term partnerships, or worse turned to heartache when one of the pairing died. A violent shudder raced along his spine at the thought. He knew better than most that there was nothing worse than losing a loved one—even if he was just a cupid losing one by proxy.
Spurred into action by the thought of the muted ache that would surge through his body during the absence of love, he refocused his thoughts on Becca. It was a well-practiced technique: fierce concentration on her name would call an image of her face into his mind. He could then use that image to cover the miles in just a few beats of her heart.
The instant he saw her face though, his eyes shot open and he exhaled in shock.
That can’t be right.
Almost seven hundred miles to the west, Becca loaded her camera equipment into her white Mustang, taking a second to wipe the sweat from her brow. Summer was supposed to be ending and yet the day was hotter than any had been in recent weeks.
Before snapping shut the trunk lid, she ensured the bag laden with various lenses, a small digital camera, and her favorite, a ten-year old Nikon FM3A film camera, was secure. As she did, her mind wondered to the impromptu photo session she’d just had, imagining how the photos she’d just taken might turn out when she was able to find the time to develop the rolls of film she’d finished.
While the world around her seemed to have almost uniformly moved on, switching to digital cameras and the immediacy they offered, Becca preferred the image quality and intimacy of film photography. There was something about being able to use her skills with the camera, manipulating the settings as she saw fit, to produce the perfect image—bending light, shade, and focus to her will—that made her feel powerful. Especially when she combined all the elements to reproduce the images she envisioned in her mind in the moments before pressing the shutter release and capturing the image forever.
Although there were a few correcting steps she could take while processing the photos, the reality was that she had only a few precious chances to get each shot just right before it was lost forever. There was no auto-correcting, no multiple takes, no three-hundred photos to get that one perfect shot. After all, the subject could be gone tomorrow, and even with a static object, the lighting conditions, weather, even the surrounding foliage, would never exactly match what she’d encountered during any given photo session. These were the reasons why it was so exhilarating for her when all of those factors combined and it just worked.
One of her favorite things in the world was that first instant when she opened the door to her dark room—known as a basement to most normal people. She would be greeted by the slightly acrid, but somehow immensely pleasing, chemical scent of the developing fluids—the scent that never seemed to leave the room regardless of the time between sessions—before being called into the space beyond by the promise of the perfect image.
Coming a close second were the times that she was able to lock herself away to process her black and white prints under the soft red light, watching the images form and blossom under her loving attention. That delay between expectation and result was a sometimes frustrating, but always a vital, element of her particular brand of photography. It was what made her crazy when the shots failed, but it was also what made her love it. It was impossible to capture that same feeling with digital. Half of her time editing on the computer seemed to be spent deleting images rather than breathing life into them.
By the time Becca slid onto the red leather seats behind the wheel of her car, she was already daydreaming about tomorrow’s photo shoot. Imagining the compositions of the still-life shots she would take occupied her mind for the majority of the not quite ten-minute drive that would take her from the Sunset Hills Cemetery back to her house on Van Buren Avenue.
Occasionally, she wished she had someone to talk to about these photo shoots, someone who would take an interest in why she found her particular choice in location fascinating. Instead, she mostly kept it to herself because she knew that most people thought taking photos in cemeteries was macabre or depressing. Although Becca could understand that, at least a little, she found the memory and mystery that shrouded all cemeteries to be inspirational. She loved history, adored singers that were popular long before she’d been born. When she was younger, her mother used to joke that Becca had an old soul.
While Becca didn’t quite agree with that sentiment he
rself, she did feel more at home at the cemetery than she ever had at any nightclub or party with people her own age. Besides, she often reasoned with herself, her trips, and her photos, weren’t about death. They were about celebrating those who remained. Even when the photos were of the graves themselves, she was capturing a slice of someone’s history through the lens. The short messages of love inscribed on memorials made her feel connected to all those people who’d come before.
Sunset Hills was a particular favorite of hers, partly because a few of her family members were laid to rest in the grounds, four of them side by side, and she liked to visit them. Usually her trips ended with her at their side, talking to them like they were still around.
Aside from her familial connection, it was the lush lawns, colorful blooms, and quiet serenity of that particular cemetery that made it one of her particular favorites to visit. Although she didn’t know the names of most of the flowers in the gardens, she could point to the ones that were most striking in black and white and which could only be truly captured in color.
She also knew the places to stand in order to get the best photos of the old man who came once a week to visit his wife. Becca realized she probably shouldn’t take his photo without permission, but her photography was a hobby, not a profession. Something about him compelled her to snap image after image, week after week. She wasn’t capturing his image to share with the world, but because there was an expression he wore while visiting the resting place of what must have been his great love, that captivated her. There was sorrow, but overwhelming it was another emotion which proved enigmatic to identify. She thought it was best named reminiscence, but maybe devotion or even undying love would have been better words.
Happily Evan After (Fall For You Book 1) Page 1
