The Color of Heaven Series [03] The Color of Hope

by Julianne MacLean

  “Yeah, I know,” she said into the phone while she tapped the Plexiglas with the toe of her leopard-skin boot. “I’ll look for work as soon as we get there. A couple of weeks tops, Dad. That’s all I’m asking. We’ll find our own place, I promise.” She paused. “We just need a fresh start, that’s all.”

  Her gaze met mine. She shook her head and rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “No, I haven’t heard from him at all,” she said. “I don’t even know where he’s living. His phone got disconnected months ago. He could be in Mexico for all I know.” Another pause. “Yeah, yeah, he’s breaking the rules. No kidding. But what am I gonna do? Hire some fancy hot-shot lawyer to take him to court? You know I can’t afford that.”

  She continued to kick lightly at the side of the phone booth, then rested her forehead against the Plexiglas.

  “I gotta go,” she said. “But wait! Say hi to Nadia.” Mom held the phone out to me.

  “Hi Grampy,” I said.

  “Hi Nadia,” he replied. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure what to say myself.

  “Hurry up,” Mom whispered. “It’s long distance.”

  “Give the phone back to your mother,” Grampy said. “We’ll see you soon.”

  I handed the phone back to Mom.

  “We’ll be there in a couple of days,” she told him, and then hung up.

  When we stepped out of the phone booth, I looked up at the clear blue sky. The sun was shining, but the temperature had dipped below freezing and there were iced-over puddles on the pavement. I shivered and folded my arms across my chest.

  Mom dug into her purse for a cigarette, opened a fresh pack, and lit one. She took a deep drag and blew the smoke out with a great sigh of relief.

  “Let’s get some lunch,” she said. “Maybe we’ll meet a rich, handsome lawyer in there, and all our troubles will be over.”

  I glanced at the red-painted roadside diner, and took note of the pickup trucks and eighteen wheelers in the parking lot. “I don’t think rich people eat in places like this.”

  She nudged me playfully. “A girl can always dream.”

  “Don’t do what I did,” Mom said, wagging her finger at me as we crossed the border into New Mexico. “Don’t marry a loser. Find yourself a rich man. Doesn’t matter what he looks like. If he’s smart and he has money, grab onto him and don’t let go. That was my mistake. I let my hormones make my decisions for me. Your dad...” She smiled as she remembered earlier days. “Your dad was the best looking guy in high school. He had these broad shoulders and a swagger that gave all the girls nervous breakdowns when he walked by. I was lucky to be the one he wanted. And I loved him. I really did. But where did that get me?” She pointed at her purse. “Pass me another cigarette, will ya’? Thanks.”

  I dug through her purse for her cigarettes and a lighter, because the one in the car had stopped working ages ago. A few seconds later, she was inhaling deeply and blowing smoke out the open crack in the window.

  “Love just ain’t enough,” she said. “You listening?”

  I nodded at her, even though my twelve-year-old heart didn’t want to hear that. It was the last thing I wanted to hear.

  “You gotta choose a husband with your head, not your hormones,” she insisted. “You gotta marry a guy who’s going to be able to provide for you and not blow all your money on beer and cigarettes.” She darted a quick glance at me. “You understand what I’m telling you? Are you going to remember that?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I replied, because I knew it was what she wanted me to say.

  It did, however, make sense to me. I was only twelve, but I recognized the wisdom in her words. I remembered all too clearly how my father got drunk most nights and lost his temper, and how we never seemed to have any money left over for fun things, like going to the movies or buying new clothes. I didn’t want to end up married to a man like my father, but I didn’t want to end up alone either.

  As I gazed out the window at the frozen landscape passing by in a blur, I pondered the reasons for my pessimistic outlook. I’m sure there were happy girls my age who believed in fairy tales, but I wasn’t one of them. I think that because I was adopted, I had a greater fear of ending up alone, and a more passionate need than most to have a baby one day. A genuine blood relative.

  To know you were really related to someone by blood was something I’d never experienced. It was a mystery to me. Often I felt a piercing envy when I watched my friends interact with their siblings, even when they were fighting and screaming at each other.

  It was during those moments I felt the most intense emptiness inside me – a loneliness that nothing could touch.

  I longed for a sibling, but I knew I didn’t have any because I’d been told my real mother never had any other children previously. I was curious about her. What had she been like, and would she have kept me if she’d lived? Or would she still have given me up? And what about my birth father? Did he not want me? Was it because of my birth defect – the hole in my heart that turned me into a reject?

  It wasn’t something I ever discussed with my mom, not after the first time when she and Dad accused me of being ungrateful for everything they’d done, when no one else wanted me.

  I understand now that they felt hurt and rejected by my desire to know more about my birth parents, so after that I kept those questions to myself. I didn’t explore my feelings or try to gain a better insight into my soul, which probably contributed to my separation anxiety and fear of abandonment.

  Consequently, when something good finally came my way, I was afraid to trust it.

  Discovery

  Chapter Twelve

  Diana Moore

  WHAT IS HOPE, exactly? Is it the longing for something, such as the fulfilment of a dream? Or is it a sense of optimism within you, a sense of trust, an unwavering belief that everything is going to be okay?

  My name is Diana Moore, and for the most part, I’ve lived a charmed life. I was raised in a loving home by parents who adopted me as a newborn. My father is now a senator and my mother is a respected philanthropist. I had the best of everything growing up, and I was fortunate enough to pursue and succeed in a career I am passionate about. Today I am a successful divorce attorney, and I usually do well for my clients.

  To an outside observer, I have no reason to ever be unhappy. I am a healthy, attractive, and financially secure, independent woman.

  But how important are those things when hope and optimism leave you? What happens when you believe you’ve been blessed by a miracle, but then it’s immediately ripped out of your hands? How can you truly be happy when you’ve been betrayed in the worst possible way by those you trusted, and all your beliefs – in others and yourself – have been obliterated? What happens when you simply give up on people, and stop letting them in?

  I can’t answer that question for everyone, but I can share my own story. Perhaps you’ll take something away from it. Something that gives you a measure of hope.

  It was the spring of 2011 when my world first began to shift on its axis. I was twenty-five years old and working at a law firm in Los Angeles, with the lofty goal of becoming a partner one day. I knew it would take years, but I felt confident that it would happen eventually, because I was an ambitious, positive thinker, and I was performing exceedingly well. I’d even been dubbed ‘Rookie Superstar of the Year’ when I brought in more new clients than any other first year lawyer in the firm – ever.

  But I’ll give credit where credit is due. It probably had something to do with the fact that my father was a popular senator, and there were some who considered him to be a likely candidate for President. I was therefore a high-profile addition to the team at Berkley, Davidson, Simon, and Jones. New, young clients with relationship problems began calling the firm to ask for me specifically.

  That’s when I met Rick, but not because he was getting a divorce. I saw him for the fir
st time at a charity baseball game for the Children’s Wish Foundation in the fall of that year. As luck would have it, I was wearing a bulky sweatshirt and a pair of faded blue jeans with a baseball cap on my head, and I was sitting in the back row of the bleachers at a local little league ball field.

  “Holy cow, that is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” my friend Candace said, touching my arm and raising her water bottle to her lips.

  “Who?” I looked around the ball field.

  “Not on the field,” she said. “In the parking lot by the black Audi. Eight o’clock. Yep, right there, moving along the fence. Black suit, blue tie.”

  “Wow,” I replied, and nearly choked on the last bite of granola bar I’d popped into my mouth.

  The gentleman in question was tall, dark, muscular, and handsome. As he drew nearer, I saw that he was blessed with one of those extraordinary faces with well-defined, chiseled features and captivating blue eyes. He entered the ball field, stepped onto the bleachers, and his smile sent every woman into a swoon.

  “Who is he?” I asked, sipping my water.

  My friend Candace was an attorney as well, but she specialized in property law. She started at the firm a year before I did, and to our mutual delight, her office was situated next to mine, near the photocopy machine.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “but I’m going to find out.”

  Before you assume that Candace and I were a couple of fast women on the prowl, I should set the record straight and mention that she was happily married to a lovely man, and they were expecting a baby. That afternoon, Candace was eating for two and had a belly she could use as a tray to balance a small cheese plate. She was not looking for action. To the contrary, she was on a mission to hook me up with my future husband, so that we could all live happily ever after together, and our children could go to the same preschool.

  Later that afternoon, she attempted to set her plan in motion. When the game ended and everyone moved onto the field to thank the ball player, Buddy Gilroy – who had surrendered his afternoon to pitch for a team of little leaguers – Candace pretended to recognize Rick, and asked him if he worked at another law firm in our building.

  “No, I’m Buddy’s agent,” Rick explained with that killer smile as he shook her hand. “Rick Fraser.”

  Candace charmingly apologized for the confusion and introduced herself – and me – while complimenting him on the great work he was doing, arranging for his client to donate his time to such a worthy cause.

  Then Candace jolted with surprise and reached into her pocket. “My phone’s vibrating.” She whipped it out and said, “Can you excuse me for a sec?”

  As she backed away from us to answer it, I knew that was all a sham. Her phone hadn’t vibrated, and there was no one on the other end.

  Rick and I stood for a moment, watching Buddy sign baseballs for the kids while a news crew recorded everything.

  “Do all your clients do charity work?” I asked.

  “Most of them,” he replied. “Some have regular organizations they support, but others offer their time to anyone who asks. Buddy’s like that. When it comes to charity work, he has eclectic tastes.”

  “That’s great to hear.”

  Rick turned to me. “Which law firm do you work for?”

  “Berkley, Davidson, Simon, and Jones,” I replied. “I mostly handle divorce cases.”

  The sunlight caught a glimmer of something exciting in his magnetic blue eyes, and I felt a thrilling spark of attraction. It’s a wonder I didn’t faint from the rush of it.

  “Are you married?” he asked.

  “No. It’s not really on my To Do list at the moment.” I don’t know why I said that. I suppose I wanted to convey an impression of being light and easygoing. “Work keeps me pretty busy.”

  “Not too busy, I hope,” Rick said with a devastating grin. “I mean, you gotta enjoy yourself.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “That’s one of the first lessons you learn when you handle divorces.” He tilted his head questioningly, so I decided to elaborate. “I see too many couples that stop having fun together, and eventually their daily life just feels like drudgery. I don’t ever want to feel like that.”

  He seemed intrigued by my comment, and his gaze raked boldly over me. “So what do you do for fun, Diana?”

  There was no mistaking the flirtatious tone of his voice, the spark of interest in his eyes, and I responded in kind, with a provocative smile. “I’m always open to suggestions.”

  The attraction between us was palpable, and when Candace returned just then, I had to shake myself out of the spell I was under.

  Later, as we were walking off the field, Rick said, “We should grab a drink sometime.”

  “I’d love it,” I replied, and we exchanged cell numbers.

  When I got into the car with Candace, she grilled me about everything Rick and I talked about while she was pretending to chat on her phone, and I felt like an infatuated schoolgirl. I could barely contain my elation. I couldn’t wait for him to call.

  To my utter delight, my phone rang ten minutes later, and it was him.

  “Hey,” he said in a low and sexy voice that sent shivers across my body. “How about tonight?”

  “Tonight sounds great,” I replied with a smile.

  We arranged to meet for dinner.

  Over the next few months, Rick and I spent every possible waking moment together. On the weekends, we went hiking and biking, and for long drives up the coast. He introduced me to his friends, and I introduced him to mine. We enjoyed the same music and movies, and could barely keep our hands off each other.

  It was an instense physical relationship, and within six months, I had moved into his condo. It wasn’t a decision we consciously made; it simply evolved naturally because I stayed over most nights. When the lease expired on my apartment, it didn’t make sense to keep it.

  I was madly, crazily in love.

  And that’s when my life got really interesting.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “WHY HAVEN’T I met your sister?” Rick asked one night over dinner at one of our favorite sushi restaurants.

  “Because we live in LA and she lives in London.” My sister Becky was finishing a PhD in Classics at Oxford.

  “But she comes home for the summers, doesn’t she?” he asked. “Last year you disappeared for two weeks with your family, and you didn’t even invite me.”

  I sipped my wine. “You’d actually want to come?”

  Every summer, my family sailed from Bar Harbor, Maine up to Nova Scotia for Chester Race Week. It was a Moore family tradition, and a few years ago, Becky met her birth mother in Chester. It was a mind-boggling coincidence – or maybe it was destiny – that they both ended up in the same small town at the same time. A few puzzle pieces fell into place, and ever since then, our family considered the summer sailboat race in Nova Scotia to be a sacred thing.

  “But you don’t sail,” I said to Rick.

  “I could learn,” he replied. “I’m a quick study and a strong swimmer.”

  I laughed. “I certainly hope you wouldn’t end up doing the breast stroke in the chilly Atlantic. I’d never forgive myself.”

  He scooped up some rice with his chopsticks and grinned at me. “So I can come? I think your dad and I would hit it off.”

  Perhaps in that moment I might have suspected that Rick was into me because he thought my father could be the next president, but of course, that didn’t even enter my head. I was simply happy to know that my rich, gorgeous boyfriend wanted to meet and spend time with my family. It meant we were becoming more serious, and I couldn’t imagine a more desirable husband than Rick Fraser. Walking down the aisle to stand next to him and say ‘I do’ would be like hitting a home run, and I was a self-confident high achiever who believed I deserved nothing less.

  Most importantly, I trusted him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ON A WARM night in June of 2012, the telephone rang. It w
as my sister Becky calling from Nova Scotia where she had taken a summer job at the Chester Yacht Club.

  “How are you?” she asked. “It’s so great to hear your voice.”

  “It’s good to hear yours, too,” I replied as I moved into the living room and sat down on the black leather sofa.

  From Rick’s condo on the twenty-seventh floor, the view of the sunset never failed to amaze me. Vivid splashes of red and orange lit up the sky and reflected off the tinted glass windows of neighboring skyscrapers.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “How’s sailing school?”

  My sister was teaching kids to sail in summer day camps, and working on her college thesis on the side.

  “It’s a lot of fun,” she replied.

  “And how’s Kate?”

  Kate was the birth mother Becky had met a few years back. Since that life-changing event, she’d spent her summers in the vacant in-law suite in Kate’s home overlooking the water.

  Naturally we were all overjoyed when Becky found her real mother because her adoption records had been sealed for years, and before that she had no idea if her birth mother was dead or alive.

  Unlike me. At least I knew my birth mother was dead. She died in childbirth and I was an orphan. There was no hope I’d ever reconnect with her.

  Was I envious of Becky’s good fortune?

  Yes, most definitely. But above all things, I was happy for my sister because I loved her dearly. We were as close as true blood sisters could be.

  “Kate’s great,” Becky replied. “She and Ryan are really happy together. They’re so easy to get along with, and Ryan lets me use his Jeep anytime. But enough about me. How’s your gorgeous man?” Becky asked. “You texted me that he wanted to sail up here with you in August. Are you two getting serious?” I recognized a note of teasing in her voice.