Clean Inspirational Romance: Escape to Paradise (Inspirational Happy Sweet First Love Second Chance Romance) (Contemporary New Adult Love Inspired Holiday Short Stories) (15 page)

April was due to graduate in a year. Both she and Robert agreed that she was too far along in high school to leave, but that Casey would alternate weekends, having April take the three-hour train ride to New York, while Casey would come to the Cape on the odd weekends. She’d rent a small apartment on the Cape to serve as a home base.

Casey loved New York and she loved her job even more. It was so wonderful to finally take a slice of life and forge her own adventures. She made new friends at the station, a few who recommended she get a complete makeover and start her life in the city as the new Casey Larson.

She spent her free time visiting museums and galleries and walking through Central Park in all kinds of weather. In some ways, she was trying to make up for lost time.

One day, as she was walking back to her studio from work, she passed a bookstore with a sign out front announcing that best-selling author Paul Neal would be there for a signing that evening.

She stopped dead on the sidewalk, staring at the sign.

Her brain tried different scenarios on for size, trying to decide which felt more comfortable.

Should she keep walking, pretending she never saw the announcement, or should she rush home, put on a chic, casual dress and show up for the signing?

She decided a compromise felt best. She’d go home, freshen up, and then show up at the bookstore, just skirting the edges of the store without committing herself to approaching Paul.

The book signing started at 7:00 and she showed up a half hour late, just to be safe. When she walked in, she found a row of books to hide behind and peeked out through a crack.

She felt ridiculous, but it was wonderful to see him again, still in a scruffy beard and casual clothes, but indeed looking more than a decade older. He was still handsome, she thought, and she could tell by the way he was talking to his fans that he was still gentle and charming.

She opted out of approaching him, but was still glad she got to see him again, if only from behind a stack of books.

She began to make her way back down the long aisle, answering a text to April as she walked. At the end of the row, she saw a pair of shoes in front of her and when she looked up, there stood Paul Neal.

He was grinning in a sweet way.

“You weren’t going to leave without saying hello, were you?” he said.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” Casey said, stammering for words. She was utterly dumbfounded that she had been caught stalking him in a bookstore. How had he known she was there?

“I saw you walk in,” he said. “How could I not have spotted those infamous blue eyes? I saw you on the news this afternoon, Casey. I knew you were in New York and was hoping you’d stop by to say hello.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I guess I wanted to see you again without the drama of approaching you. I feel ridiculous.”

“I want to talk to you,” he said, looking as if it were important to him. “I have a few more hours here. Let’s meet up next door at The Green Door at 10:00. Would that be okay?’

Casey spent two hours walking the streets of the West Side, thinking about their weekend romance, wondering if she really wanted to spend time with him tonight. As silly as it was, her heart had been broken when he’d written her that last letter. Somewhere inside, she knew she wasn’t enough for him. She was a single mother then, living a life of unfulfilled dreams—even somewhat desperate.

But today she was her own person, forging ahead with her plans for her life, no matter how late they had been in coming. She was in her early 40s, and even though she’d put off fulfillment for many years, she felt good about her choices. Her daughters were bright and beautiful and she’d helped them get a good start in life.

She walked into the bar at 10:10, and there was Paul, waiting for her with a beer in front of him. He looked tired but relieved that she’d shown up after all.

“Tell me everything,” he’d said. “I’m dying to hear about your new life.”

Casey recounted the last decade to him, letting him know that she was happy with the way it had all worked out.

“Most important to me were my children,” she explained. “Jackie Kennedy once said that if you screw up raising your children, you can’t be good for much else. I believe that—that if you bring children into the world, it’s your responsibility to turn them into happy, responsible adults. I don’t live a life of guilt now. I put them first and I don’t regret that.”

Paul listened to her thoughts, and admitted that now that he was a father, he had come around to her point of view. He told her he was separated from his second wife and was struggling to see his daughter as much as he would like.

“You don’t live in the same town?” Casey asked, somewhat incredulous.

“No, they’re in Seattle,” Paul said. “I moved back to Northern California. It’s the only place I can write.”

That’s what Casey needed to hear. She’d never gotten to know him enough to see who he truly was. And while she didn’t judge his choices, she realized that they could never have been together. Casey’s priorities were different than his. She couldn’t have lived his life.

“You know,” she said, looking for her purse and getting up from the barstool. “I have an early day tomorrow.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?” he asked. “I’m going to be in town for a few days.”

“I don’t think so, Paul, but thanks for asking. Let’s just leave it at this: we’ll always have Hurricane Betsy. It was the best weekend of my life so far, but I know that might not always hold true. I still have my whole life ahead of me.”

She walked out into the streets of Manhattan and stood at the corner to flag down a cab. She felt good—for the first time in a very long time. She knew that life was full of surprises and that Paul had come along at a time in her life when she needed to be reminded that she was still beautiful, still worthy of a little magic in her life.

She owed him a debt of gratitude for that. But in that moment, she was even more grateful for having always known who she was.

THE END

Bonus Story 4 of 10

I look down at the words written on the page in front of me. I have had to read them nearly a dozen times to make sure I’ve understood them correctly.

My dearest Ruth,

I can no longer stand not being in your presence. As it is, I wait with baited breath for your letters to arrive. Now, I beg you to please accept my proposal...

He wants to marry me. Abel O'Connor of Medina, Texas wants to marry me, Ruth Watson of Ridgefield Connecticut.

I can barely contain the enormous grin which spreads easily across my face. Nor can I ignore the happy butterflies dancing in my stomach which fly out in a string of giggles.

I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. My father is asleep downstairs and, if I wake him before he’s ready, there will be hell to pay.

Of course, there will also be hell to pay if I don’t get dinner started in time. Father insists on dinner being ready as soon as he wakes from his overlong afternoon sleep (usually preceded by far too much whiskey).

It’s been like that ever since Mama died, a sort of hell on earth living with Father. But, all that changed when Abel came along. Abel and his eloquent, sweet, wonderful letters.

As quickly as I can without smudging the ink on the paper, I jot down acceptance of his proposal to Abel and fold it neatly. I will have to take it to Pastor Jamison tomorrow so that he can post it for me.

Our church pastor is the only one who knows that I’ve been writing to Abel consistently for two months. It was Pastor Jamison who posted Abel’s advertisement for a wife on the church door. It was also Pastor Jamison who encouraged me to write to the young man, despite not telling my father. Pastor Jamison even arranged to have a photograph of me taken to send to Abel. It made me blush when Abel praised my appearance in his next letter.

The reply to Abel’s proposal in my hand represents the first time I have ever intentionally disobeyed my Father. My hands tremble as I seal the envelope shut and rush down the stairs to begin preparing dinner.

No sooner have I gotten the pot out to begin the soup when I hear a stirring from Father’s bedroom. My heart leaps into my throat. He’s coming and I’ve barely started.

My hands begin to shake again as I fire up the stove and pour the leftover stock into the pan. I continue to shake as I hear his footsteps come closer and closer. Finally, they stop just behind me. I don’t turn around to look, but, I brace myself for a beating.

“What’re you making, Ruthie?” he asks.

I’m surprised. He never calls me Ruthie when he’s cross. In fact, he hasn’t called me Ruthie since Mama died two years ago. That’s when the drinking started. That’s when I became simply ‘Ruth’.

“Potato soup,” I answer, trying to keep a tremble out of my voice. I am sure he will find something to say about my choice of meal. He always does. Before he answers, I close my eyes and try to bring to mind a line from one of Abel’s letters. This is a technique I have learned to shut out my father’s insults. I combat them with thoughts of Abel’s gentle words of praise.

“Better have some bread to go with it then,” Father says. Once again, he does not sound the slightest bit angry. Despite myself, I turn around to look at him in surprise.

He looks every bit as poorly as he always does. His black hair, which used to be combed and slicked back when Mama was here, is now a tangled mess. A dark stubble lines his face, which he always used to take such care to shave every day. And, despite his frequent naps, dark shadows still play beneath his eyes.

But there’s a spring in his step today that is rarely there. He looks at me, and to my surprise, a slight smile appears on his lips.

“You’ll want to make enough for three as well,” he says. “And clean yourself up a bit when you’re done. We’ve got a guest for supper tonight.”

“Who will be joining us?” I ask curiously. I hope it’s Pastor Jamison. He’s been asking my father to invite him round for supper since Mama died. Father always refuses. He also refuses to go to church with me on Sunday. He says a God couldn’t save Mama from dying of cholera is not worth worshiping.

My heart swells with the thought that the good pastor might have gotten through to him.

“Mark Ashton,” Father says. My heart falls immediately. Mark Ashton, the old tavern keeper in town is the other reason my Father’s taken to drink. Father goes to the tavern every night after supper and often stays drinking until dawn, leaving me to do the early work on the farm on my own.

I know Mark Ashton keeps Father drinking in hopes that I’ll come to the tavern to retrieve him. It’s no secret that Mr. Ashton is...fond of me. Even before Mama died, he was trying his best to get me to accept his various proposals.

And, after Mama died, Ashton took full advantage of my father’s frequent visits to the tavern.

Father and Ashton have become increasingly close of the past few months. I would be lying if I said I could not see where that friendship was heading.

I try not to let Father see my disappointment. I merely nod to him and turn back to the soup, thinking of a bread I could bake quickly enough for supper.

“He’s taken quite a shine to you, you know,” Father says behind me. My heart falls further at this and I nearly drop the spoon I’m using to stir the pot.

“Who has, Father?” I ask, pretending as though I don’t know.

“Don’t play dumb,” Father says a familiar growl returning to his voice. “You know exactly who I mean. And, you’d better be on your best behavior tonight or you’ll answer for it.”

I don’t turn around to look at him, but, I can imagine the expression on my Father’s face. I’m sure his face is red, angry and puffed. And I know he’ll grow angrier the longer he has to wait for an answer.

“Of course, I’ll be on my best behavior, Father,” I answer.

“Good girl,” he says. “Mr. Ashton will be joining us in two hours. Make sure supper’s on the table and you’re looking your best.”

“Yes, Father,” I answer again, without turning to look at him.

I hear his feet pad back to his bedroom. The soup will take nearly two hours to be ready. I’ll have to leave it on the lowest heat possible to keep it warm. My mother’s Irish soda bread is the simplest and quickest bread recipe I know. That won’t take long either.

That means I might have time to slip out the back door and rush my letter across the street to Pastor Jamison at the church. I was planning on waiting until tomorrow, but if what Father says about Mark Ashton is true, I don’t have much time before I receive another, much less welcome marriage proposal.

While the bread rises on the window sill and the soup is simmering on the stove, I run up the stairs, grab my letter and slip out the back door. I very much hope that Pastor Jamison can get my letter to Abel before my Father seals my fate forever.

Chapter 2

“You ungrateful little cow!” Father screams at me as he throws another of Mama’s porcelain plates at the wall behind me. I duck just as the plate breaks behind me.

“Father, please, listen! I can’t–”

“You get a perfectly good marriage proposal and you say no?” Father asks. I’ve never seen him so angry. I know he’s been drinking; in fact, he’s just come from the tavern. That must be where he heard I had turned down Mark Ashton.

“I didn’t say ‘no’,” I plead, my voice trembling. I stand and move back against the wall. “I only said I needed time to consider–”

“Consider what?” Father spits back at me. “Do you think someone else is going to come along? Someone richer, someone younger? Do you think anyone else would even think of marrying a poor, ugly thing like you?”

This has become his favorite insult since Mama died. Occasionally he’ll look at my stringy dark hair, flat chest and tall awkward frame and lament that he created such an ugly child.

I struggle to remember the words Abel wrote to me.
You have to be the loveliest woman I have ever laid eyes on
. That’s what he wrote after I sent my picture to him.

I try to believe Abel’s words praising not just my looks but my eloquence and kind disposition over my father’s gnawing insults. It is surprisingly difficult. I do not know why my father’s taunts are far easier to believe than my fiancé’s praise.

As my Father stumbles closer to me, I close my eyes to try and remember the joyous, incredible treasure Abel has sent me in my bedroom, hidden under my pillow.

I try to remember that there is a train ticket for me there. A train ticket for Medina, Texas and I leave tomorrow.

But, try as I might, I can’t hold onto thoughts of my prize when my Father grabs my arm and painfully begins to haul me up our wooden steps.

“If you need ‘time to consider’,” he sneers as we climb the stairs finally reaching the door to my room. “You can do that considering in here.”

He tosses me in my room. I land on the hard floor and look up just in time to see him grab the key from its place by my door.

“I don’t care how long it takes,” he says still standing in the doorway. “You won’t leave this room until you’re ready to marry Mark Ashton.”

With that, he slams the door behind him and I hear him pound his way back down the stairs.

It may seem odd but, being locked in my room doesn’t bother me one bit. Pastor Jamison and I had already arranged for me to sneak out of my room tonight. All I’ve done by turning down Mark Ashton’s proposal is ensure that my Father left me alone earlier than planned.

Quickly, I rush for my sheets. I tied them into knots after my visit with Mark Ashton that morning, in preparation for tonight. I open my window and throw the sheet ladder out the side.

There are no downstairs windows on this side of the house and, even if there were, I know my Father. He’ll either head back to the tavern in the other direction or he’ll go back to the kitchen and his own private stash of whiskey.

Sure enough, I make it down the ladder without incident and head to the church.

When I knock on the door, Pastor Jamison opens it for me. He is white-haired with a weather worn but rosy and very pleasant looking face.

His pale blue eyes widen slightly upon seeing me at the door. He had not expected me to come before nightfall. He smiles nonetheless.

“Come in, Ruth,” he says hurrying me into the meeting hall. I see him look around cautiously before closing the door behind him. It is a small town and, if anyone sees me enter the church or leave the town boundaries tomorrow morning, Father is sure to get word of it.

“Has something happened?” Pastor Jamison asks as I follow him to the church closet. There, he picks out a blanket for me and places my packed knapsack gently inside.

“Not really,” I answer. “Mark Ashton proposed and I turned him down, obviously.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Pastor Jamison says darkly. I have a feeling the entire town of Ridgefield knows by now. “I trust your father did not take that well.”

“No,” I answer. “He locked me in my room. He thinks I’m still there.”

“Then, let us pray he remains convinced of that at least until tomorrow morning,” pastor Jamison says.

He carries the blanket and pillow as well as a small lantern to a pew in the back of the church.

“I’m afraid this is the best I can do,” Pastor Jamison says. “I had hoped to have a bed for you at my home next door but...in the end, I thought it best not to risk you being seen.”

Pastor Jamison knows as well as I do what will happen if my Father finds out what I’ve done. Not just to me, but to anyone who helps me. Even the pastor.

I smile at him and touch his arm in gratitude.

“This is wonderful,” I tell him. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Pastor Jamison looks down at me, gives me a smile and pats my hand. It’s a fatherly gesture. One I can vaguely remember receiving from my own father when I was very young. Before he turned into what he is now.

“I assume you’ve told your young man in Texas about your...circumstances?” Pastor Jamison asks. I feel my face color and I look down at my feet.

I’m not quite sure how to tell the pastor that Abel has no idea who or what my Father is. He knows that my family is not wealthy but, as for the rest of it...he believes my mother is still alive and that my father is as he once was.

I’ve told Abel that my father is a man of few words; strong, silent but caring. Abel believes this because that’s what I’ve told him. When he wrote to me of the joy he had in his brothers and his warm memories of their father and mother, I could not bear to tell him the truth of my own sad state.

Pastor Jamison, apparently, does not need me to say any of this. When I look up at him it is clear that the truth is written on my face.

“You know it is never good to begin a marriage with a lie, don’t you Ruth?” he asks as though I am five years old again and being scolded for spilling milk on the Sunday School classroom floor.

“I haven’t lied,” I feel the need to insist. “Not exactly. I simply have not told the whole truth.”

“In my experience,” Pastor Jamison tells me. “The truth tends to come out sooner rather than later. It would be best to tell your fiancé the truth about your circumstances as soon as possible.”

I look down and begin to fidget with my dress sleeve, completely unwilling to look my pastor in the eye. Pastor Jamison has a way of making you feel guilty about things you know you shouldn’t have done, even if you have a million excuses for doing them.

“Alright,” I answer quietly. “As soon as I get off the train, as soon as I see Abel, I’ll tell him the truth.”

I finally take a chance and look up into the old man’s eyes. He gives me a gentle smile and pats me on the shoulder.

“I know you will, Ruth,” he says. He sets the lantern by my side and moves towards the door of the church.

“I’ll be back at dawn with the carriage to take you to the station,” he tells me as he reaches the door. “Until then, good night.”

As the door closes, I feel my stomach tighten at the thought of what will happen tomorrow. Not tomorrow, exactly, but, three days from tomorrow when I will see Abel.

Because, even though Pastor Jamison is sure that I will tell Abel the truth, I am not. How can I tell my fiancé that I married him, in part to escape an abusive father? And, worse yet, how can I tell Abel that I’ve lied to him?