Chasing Clouds
Copyright © 2018 Kathryn Andrews
Published by Kathryn Andrews LLC
www.kandrewsauthor.com
Cover Image – Perrywinkle Photography
Cover Design – Julie Burke at Heart to Cover
Formatting by Elaine York at Allusion Graphics
First Edition: July 2018
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Andrews, Kathryn
Chasing Clouds
ISBN- 978-0-578-20742-1
All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
From the Author
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Ways to Connect
Other Books
EVERY LITTLE GIRL dreams of her wedding, that one magical day with endless arrangements of sweet-smelling flowers, family and friends, and a big white dress with a skirt so gauzy and beautiful it’s meant to be twirled in, as if she were a princess. Music will play, birds will sing, and at the end of the aisle will wait a tall, dark, and handsome man who is so in love with her he’ll have tears shining in his eyes.
That’s the dream, right?
After all these years, my dream has become my reality, and today is the day.
Today is my wedding day.
A cool breeze drifts across the bare skin of my shoulders, I shiver, and goose bumps race down my arms. My eyes flick to the left, where one of the side entrance doors to the church was left open, letting in the southern February winds. The sunlight from beyond the door looks luminous and inviting, unlike in here, which is cloaked in darkness and shadows. The foyer is empty and still, with only the sounds of the organ playing from behind the two white wooden doors that will soon open and forever cement my fate.
I spent most of the morning quietly by myself, which is how I wanted it. No one understands—how can they? This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, but what they don’t realize is . . . it’s not.
I take a deep breath and let my eyes fall shut. The smell of pine wood fills my senses, reminding me just how old the church is and what my getting married here means to my family. Built in the mid-1700s, it’s one of the oldest churches in Savannah, and for more generations than I care to remember, my family has celebrated births, marriages, and the passing of life here within these walls. Just like all the other expectations bestowed upon me, there was never a question about where I would be married, just to whom.
Well, maybe not even that. Patrick has been their choice for years, and they slowly groomed him to understand what it means to be part of the Whitley family in Georgia as they pushed him my and Clare’s way.
Swaying my hips back and forth with the distant weight of hundreds of ancestors’ eyes, I focus on the rustling of my skirt as it swishes around me, the boards groaning under my feet.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Startled by her voice suddenly breaking the silence, my head shoots up and my eyes lock onto Clare’s. The concern and worry etched in her expression and the tension in her posture pull on my heartstrings. Even with as close as we are, she’s another person who doesn’t understand. I do have to do this.
“Yes, I do.”
“No, Camille.” She shakes her head frantically and takes a step toward me as my eyes sweep down over her and the pale blue strapless bridesmaid dress she wears. She’s so beautiful, just like I knew she would be, and I feel the sting of the tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t want this for you. This is not the life you were meant to have.”
Letting out a deep breath, I reach for her hand and squeeze. A warm buzz tingles my fingers, and it’s so familiar and comforting I find the strength I need to continue—to not walk away. She has to see that I’m doing this for her . . . for us, two halves of a whole that split apart and became the mirror image of the other.
“You’re the one who always says our destiny is written in the stars.” I smile at her. “This is my destiny.”
“And you always respond that the stars don’t move, we do. Therefore, you could just walk away. I’m begging you to please walk away. You’ll never be happy with him.”
“It’s not about being happy, you know that. It’s about being loyal to our family and doing our duty. We all play a role, we always have, and it’s time I step into mine.”
Her frown deepens, and her shoulders sag forward. She’s making me feel as if I’m letting her down, when the truth is I owe her this.
“Camille, this moral responsibility to our family is not you. It never has been, and there’s a difference between loyalty and being coerced. Please, I’m begging you, don’t marry him.”
Before I can respond, the organ stops, and Clare’s hand tightens around mine. The panic that fills her flows into me, and my heart starts racing as I think about her words. She thinks I’m being coerced? That’s the same as being bullied or threatened—is that how other people see it, too? With our eyes locked onto each other, she parts her lips as if to say something . . . but then the doors sweep open and she drops my hand.
No!
My fingers instantly cool and my ears burn to hear her unspoken words. What was she going to say? I need to know!
Her chin trembles, but she pastes on a smile as she slowly turns and walks down the aisle.
“Please—wait,” I whisper.
She hears the pleading
in my voice and glances back but doesn’t say anything else. The muscles in her face suddenly relax, her concerned eyes seem to warm, and for the first time ever I’m unable to decipher her thoughts. Her expression has done a complete one-eighty, and she looks almost happy, content. Given the conversation we just had, I don’t understand. I’m confused.
What just happened?
Does she know something I don’t?
With a wink and a small smile, she turns around and walks forward. I follow, stepping into a scene that’s my childhood dream brought to life.
The foyer is no longer drafty and dark. Golden light is pouring in through the stained glass windows that line the perimeter of the church, illuminating it and making it almost magical. The air is delicious with scents of honeysuckle, orange blossoms, and roses, and the classical melody of Mendelssohn slowly makes its way past the thrumming of my heart. The string quartet, the flowers, the candles . . . all of it is just so beautiful.
“Camille, it’s time.”
I tear my eyes from the sight before me and see my father standing next to the last pew with his hand outstretched. The magic of the moment fades away as I realize the beauty is only surface deep, and this wedding isn’t what I’ve dreamed about. It’s for show, not for love. His face doesn’t shine with adoration and happiness for his daughter on her wedding day; it’s full of arrogance. He’s not smiling, but his lip is curled in a way that appears more like a sneer, and it’s this tiny expression that reminds me I’m just a pawn for others to move as they please. My heart sinks.
Maybe Clare is right. Maybe my loyalties to my family are misguided. Being loyal implies the presence of support, trustworthiness, and faithfulness, but not a single family member reciprocates those things to me. Instead, they antagonize, lie, and boss me around.
Not wanting to waste any more time, my father walks over to me, wraps his arm around mine, and pulls. As if on autopilot, I let him lead me down the aisle. I was at peace with my decision, but now, after one conversation, I feel like this might just be my death march.
The entire church is packed, both sides of the sanctuary and the upper balcony filled to the brim. Along with the ghosts of my ancestors, I can feel every set of eyes on me. The weight of judgment falls upon my back and shoulders, and although some look happy for me and are probably thinking, She looks so beautiful, I know others are mocking me behind fictitious smiles.
From left to right, up, down, and all around, I’m assaulted by a stampede of emotions. Panic becomes the strongest, and then nausea sets in.
“I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” my father says just loud enough for others to hear as he squeezes my trembling hand. Maybe he is, or maybe he isn’t; I don’t know. I lost the ability to really believe anything he says five years ago. What I wouldn’t give right this moment to have the man in my memories and not the man currently walking me down the aisle.
Patrick moves into my line of sight. Terror streaks through my body, and the crowd becomes a blur. He isn’t exactly smiling—more like smirking—and my legs begin to shake.
Feeling the change in my steps, my father wraps his arm around my waist to steady me, and my breathing picks up. The air won’t come in fast enough, and my lungs feel as if they’re on fire. Squeezing the bouquet, I pull it against my chest and press as hard as I can.
Can’t people see there’s something wrong with me? Can’t they see this isn’t normal bride behavior? But then again, I’ve never been one for crowds, and they must think it’s just nerves.
Sliding my eyes off Patrick, I find Ali, my best friend from New York, and Brittany, my cousin. Ali’s eyes are sad, and she’s smiling at me in a way that screams pity. Brittany isn’t smiling at all—she’s crying. It’s then I realize I’m crying, too.
Moving my gaze back to Patrick, he sees the tears, and his expression falls.
For months I’ve been telling myself I can do this. I know how to do it. I was born and raised in this life, and I really don’t know any other. That doesn’t mean I don’t secretly want more, the thing every girl dreams about—true love—but right now, right this moment, looking into Patrick’s eyes, I feel nothing but fear. This can’t be all there is for me, can it?
I do deserve more, don’t I?
Then I remember.
I remember the real reason I’m here, and regret sinks in.
I know why. He knows why. Hell, everyone in this room probably does. And, here I am.
With his eyes locked on mine, his carefully constructed wall slips, and staring back at me is the boy I’ve known most of my life. Before all of this—the expectations, the planning, the political aspirations, the lying—we were friends, and underneath it all, even after all of this, he still wishes I were someone else, and he knows I desperately want to be anywhere else but here.
As my father and I reach the end of the aisle, the strings stop, and a deafening silence blankets the inside of the church. Patrick and I continue to stare at each other, lengthening the moment until my father clears his throat. This is his way of letting us know it’s time, and Patrick’s eyes slide from me to him as if commanded. The muscles around his eyes tighten as the two men communicate nonverbally, and I watch Patrick’s wall re-erect as he slips into the role he’s meant to play. His lips twitch at one corner, the telltale sign of a smirk, and just like that, whatever emotional moment we were having is over. He smells victory for the one thing he wants most in his life—his career.
“Who gives this woman to this man in marriage?” the minister calls out.
“Her mother and I do,” my father says.
Turning me to face him, he gently lifts my veil, kisses my cheek, and then returns the sheer curtain to its proper place. He avoids making eye contact, and given our opposing stances on this marriage, I understand why.
Stepping toward Patrick, my father shakes his hand and then places my right hand in his left. Patrick’s hand is cold, and I find this fitting since he’s become so coldhearted and disconnected. A shiver runs through me.
My soon-to-be husband leads me up the steps to the altar. Ali reaches over for my bouquet, my other bridesmaids fluff out the back of my dress, and we come to stand in front of the minister.
“Please be seated.”
There is a soft chorus of clothes rustling behind us, but not a single person says a word. Brittany sniffles from over on my left, and Patrick’s grip on my hand tightens.
“Dear friends and family, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of Patrick Easton Walker and Camille Odette Whitley in marriage. Over the years, these two have built a friendship and a commitment to each other that grew, matured, and eventually turned into love. Today, they have decided to create a new bond together, a new sense of family as they become husband and wife. If any of you has reason why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Silence fills the sanctuary, and it’s at that moment I realize this is truly wrong and I desperately don’t want it. I thought I could do it. I thought I’d come to terms with the situation and could be loyal to my family, but as the lump in my throat grows larger, I know I can’t. Waves of panic crash into me, each one stronger than the last, and my heart pounds so hard it’s as if it’s trying to beat right out of my chest. The fallout will be excruciating and irreparable, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.
I don’t want to get married to him. In fact, I don’t want to get married at all.
Looking for a way out, I glance around the altar toward both of the side doors. Patrick pulls on my hand to grab my attention, and his dark eyes sharpen just enough to tell me he’s onto me. His fingers tighten around mine even more, as if his hold alone could keep me from fleeing, and his whole body tenses. There’s a warning in his stare, and it causes me to pause. An unprecedented feeling courses through me: fear. I’m afraid for more reasons than I can count.
The minister flips a page in his book, and the silence that follows seems to stretch for years. Is this extra time my
chance? Am I being given one? Can I walk away? My eyes again shift to the side door, and I can’t help but wonder how many steps there are from the altar to freedom. If I took this chance, would anyone try to stop me? Or would they let me go?
Oh, who am I kidding . . . I can’t leave.
My eyes blur and with each passing heartbeat, I know my opportunity is slipping away, and Patrick is one step closer to succeeding in this. When I try to pull my hand from his, he just holds on tighter, sending pain shooting through my fingers. I stop breathing, waiting for the guillotine to fall, and he holds his breath with sweet anticipation.
“I do,” says a male voice, the words echoing from the back of the church.
What?
Shock reverberates through me like lightning striking, but it quickly dissipates as I exhale slowly, feeling nothing but relief.
Instant, all-consuming relief.
The noose around my neck unravels as my body experiences a visceral reaction to those two words, and I suck in new air, fresh air that tastes a lot like hope.
But wait!
Who?
A collective gasp from those in attendance zips around the sanctuary and seems to pull the air, along with my attention, toward them. Whispers and movements begin as people turn in different directions, looking for the speaker. It’s then that, from the back of the room, the man behind the voice steps out into the aisle.
Slowly, he begins to make his way toward us with his eyes locked on mine, and my breath catches. He’s incredibly handsome.
Patrick’s hand moves off mine and to my wrist as I face the beautiful stranger and watch him approach.
Do I know him? I don’t think so. He looks familiar, but it’s a vague recollection, as if I may know someone who looks like him but not this man specifically. He has olive skin, a shade on the darker side; dark hair, short on the sides but longer on top; and pale green eyes that make me feel certain I’ve never seen him before, because I would remember a gaze as striking as his.
“This has to be a joke,” Patrick spits out as the man comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps.
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