Destiny by chance: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel (33 page)

It was a coming together of family and friends, with food and fellowship for all.  There were bounce houses and games and stages for bands who had donated their time for the benefit.  There were tears and triumphs.  It was an incredible celebration of life, and everyone was invited. 

It was the fourth time Destiny had been to California since the accident, seven years ago.  And the fear that once kept her away was no longer there.  The desire to simply stay away was gone.  They drove through the city in a rented mini-van, since they were now a family of five.  Bill knew the streets well, as this was now their fourth trip to the OneLegacy event.  Every March since the year after they were married, they traveled here, incorporating visits to the parks and the sites into what was meant for something else. 

When they arrived at their destination, Bill turned to her, took her hand and smiled.  “Ready?”

Destiny smiled in return and slid from her seat, before moving to the back side of the mini-van, to unstrap her two-year-old son.  “William Rhett Ireland,” she said, shaking her head; Cheerios, and cookies all over his face, his body, and his car seat.  “You’re a mess.”  Destiny brushed off what she could from his front, and strategically she straddled him across her hip. 

Sydney emerged from the back, bringing with her two small backpacks, one for each of her siblings, to carry for the short hike to the location of the actual ceremony. Sydney stood at Destiny’s side, now almost as tall as her step-mother, and still growing.  Her features were softer now, and to her father’s dismay, she wore, albeit light, makeup.  Her hair even had a streak of red in it, thanks to her Auntie Lisa, as she now called her.  Sydney reached over and brushed the Cheerios from her brother’s bottom and back.  She tickled him, and he wriggled in Destiny’s arms.

Bill unleashed his four-year-old daughter from the other car seat, her mass of dark curls tickling his nose.  He tried to find a comfortable position in which to hold her, but found it difficult, as she hadn’t stopped wriggling since he had picked her up.  She reached up and held his face in between her small hands and pulled it to her so that she could give him Eskimo kisses.  “I wuv you, Daddy,” she beamed.

“I wuv you, too, Sweetie,” he said, balancing her as she danced in his arms while he tried to close the door. 

They walked as a family to the ceremony site, greeting people they recognized along the way.  Michelle, one of the volunteers they remembered from past visits, welcomed them by the stage, hugging each of them as they arrived. 

“There’s someone I think you should meet.” Michelle motioned for them to come with her. 

Destiny nudged Bill with her shoulder, since her arms were otherwise occupied, and the whole family began to follow her.  There was a small crowd of families close to a bounce house that was filled with young children.  Isabelle wriggled with excitement in her father’s arms until he set her on the ground.  He glanced at Sydney, who rolled her eyes, then followed her little sister who was headed straight for the bounce houses.

Michele walked up to a young red-headed girl and tapped her on the shoulder.  “Evelyn.  Here’s the lady that you wanted to meet.”

The young freckled-faced girl turned and smiled.  “Are you the lady who wrote me?” she asked, looking into Destiny’s eyes.

Destiny felt her body go limp, but somehow she managed to stay standing.  She turned to Bill and then handed their son to him before turning back to the young girl.  She had to be close to Sydney’s age.  Tentatively Destiny approached her.

The girl held out her hand.  “I’m Evelyn.”

“Destiny,” she murmured, taking Evelyn’s hand.

“You wrote me about your son’s donation.” Evelyn was soft-spoken, almost whispering.  “I got his heart.”

Destiny’s eyes filled with tears as she stepped closer.  She slowly reached her hands out again and Evelyn placed hers in them.  “Can I—,” she asked, her voice breaking.  “Can I hug you?”

Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears.  “I actually was hoping I could hug
you
.” She stepped toward her quickly and then wrapped herself around Destiny.

Within moments, all eyes around them were filled with tears as they watched the emotional meeting. 

Destiny held Evelyn tightly as the young girl cried softly against her chest.  “Thank you,” she kept saying again and again.  She held Evelyn carefully, rocking her gently.  “No, thank you!” she cried. 

And for a brief second in time, a glimpse of a moment, a breath of her life, she held her son in her arms again, felt his heart beating against hers once more. 

And all was right with the world.

Reviews are the lifeblood of any author, so if you enjoyed Destiny by chance, I would really appreciate if you have a few minutes to give a review on the site from which you downloaded the book... it only takes a moment!

And if you loved Destiny, sharing is caring, right? At the time of publishing, the Kindle eBook version of Destiny is only $2.99, so why not share Destiny’s heartwarming story with a friend?

I’ve also included a preview of
Letters from Becca
in a few pages… Keep reading!

Join my newsletter and be notified of future releases and new books:
www.margaretfergusonbooks.com/subscribe

Like my Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/margaretfergusonbooks

If you are struggling with the trauma of sexual assault or know someone who is or has, I pray that you will remember Deuteronomy 31:8: “He will never leave you or forsake you.  Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged.”

I know that I in no way can even begin to convey the horror of rape and sexual assault.  I pray that if even one person is touched by Destiny’s story and her courage, then I have made a difference. 

If you are a victim, please speak up… if not for yourself, for the next victim.  Courage comes in many forms… may you find the courage you need to stand up to your abuser…

ALWAYS report rape and sexual assault… there is ALWAYS a safe place to go.

Call: 
911
or
877-995-5247
from anywhere in the United States

https://www.safehelpline.org/about-rainn

Thanks Armando Villareal for self-defense lessons for Destiny when she needed them.

To Dana Nelson, Assistant District Attorney for Travis County.  Thanks for your time and your patience with all my questions.  It helped to make my story more real and more true to life. (I hope!)

Rhett Curtis Hering is the real name of a beautiful young man whose life was cut too short in a tragic accident December 28, 2015.  His mother is one of my Facebook friends, and it was through her heartfelt story of loss and the incredible memories that she shared on Facebook that I got to know her and her son.  It seemed so very appropriate that Destiny’s son’s name was changed in memory of her precious son.  Lorna, I can’t imagine your pain.  I pray that God gives you and your family some semblance of peace in small and big ways, every day.

The young girl who received Rhett’s heart is named after our Grandma, Evelyn Whited.

Oh, and as a side note, Lisa, was in part fashioned after my sister, Tommie.  She’s strong and sassy and definitely eclectic.  And as a tribute to my sis, whose natural hair color I haven’t seen in twenty-five years, she has multi-colored hair!

The full name of the main character Bill is William Bryan Ireland; a combination of a great, great grandfather’s name on my mother’s side, and a shout out to my husband, Bryan. 

Bryan, I love you… thanks for hanging in there again!  Now let’s go write the next New York Times bestseller!

First and foremost, I must thank Kat Adair, who has not only been
the
force in creating my website, my newsletters, laying out all the e-books and paperbacks. She’s been an amazing inspiration.  She’s incredibly talented,
AND
amazingly patient.  Not only am I not always (or should I say,
ever
,) the most technically savvy, (how many times did you have to run my computer by remote because I messed something up?), but she has an incredible eye for mistakes.  Even after I, my editors, my husband, the grandkids, the dog, everyone has seen the manuscript, she can be formatting and glance at a page and find a mistake.  When I’m ready to put the works out that you are reading, she’s going above and beyond to assure that everything is perfect, to assure that it’s professionally done, so that I shine.  But she’s the one who shines.  She’s incredibly talented and I’m lucky to have her.  (So are you, Bobby.)  She’s been a great blessing and an even better friend.  Love and appreciate you, Kat…

Secondly, I must thank, Bobby, Kat’s other half, who has been a true force and a great friend in helping—first in pushing me, then encouraging me, then supporting me as I pursue my dreams of being a published author.  Not only has he missed his own deadlines, to see that I hit a target date, but he’s given up endless hours coaching me on marketing.  Not to mention giving up his better half to work on my novels, putting himself second.  You have been incredibly selfless in this, and I can’t begin to repay you for your sacrifices and your encouragement.  I have the utmost respect for you and for your talent as a writer.  You are a true friend and I love ya (Points in heaven, my man… points in heaven!)

I especially want to thank my editors, Marcia and Cathy.  Cathy and Marcia came on-board, on
Letters from Becca
and I feel my books are cleaner and stronger because of their keen eye.  You are both very talented, and I appreciate you beyond measure.

Alex, you have been amazingly patient when working on my graphic art.  You are a dream!  I can talk you through what I want and you meet my vision every time, taking bits and pieces of pictures and ideas and actually creating art for my books!  You are so talented, and I appreciate you more than words can express! 

The soft hues of the morning embraced the two small children as they played on the rocky banks of the Pedernales River.  The small girl, her white dress tattered and yellowed with time, cautiously slid her feet across the massive smooth stone in the cool water.  The young boy, his faded blue oversized overalls rolled up unevenly to his knees, walked quickly over the smaller stones in the falls just a foot below where she attempted her crossing.  It was a race to see who could get across first.  A small mixed-breed pup whimpered and bounced on the banks, unsure of the bubbling water running past.

The young girl, seeing the boy was ahead, quickened the pace, her tiny feet splashing as she ran the rest of the way.  He met the challenge, rushing faster to find sure footing in the clear water.

“C’mon Taffy,” he called over his shoulder.  The puppy bravely jumped in and scampered behind him, scattering minnows and tadpoles in every direction.

The young girl had arrived just moments before him, perching on the stony banks on the opposite side.  The rock escarpment was still cool, not yet warmed by the day’s sun.  The young boy jumped his last step to the stone just below the ledge on which she stood.  He looked up to her and smiled.

“You win
this
time, Becca,” he said, leaving the challenge hanging in the air for their trip back.  He picked up a stone and chucked it into the flowing waters as Taffy shook the water from his ragged coat.

Becca brushed back her matted, golden trusses.  She was a year younger than him, and almost six inches shorter.  Her momma told her she was born too early and was a miracle in these parts, seeing as there was only one doctor within thirty miles, and he arrived five minutes after she had pushed her out.  Her momma told her she’d always be small and that she was lucky to be alive.  Becca looked at him and smiled triumphantly.  “You can’t beat me, John.  I’m too fast!”

“What are you looking so smug about?” he asked her.

“You’re bigger than me, and you can’t even keep up,” she retorted proudly.

“Hrrmmpphh,” he growled and climbed the small ledge to where Becca stood.

“You’re awful sassy for being so little,” he chided.

She smiled at him.  He nudged her with his shoulder as a smile crept onto his lips.  Taffy jumped up, pawing at his pant leg, whimpering and whining to be picked up.

The wind blew silently around them until it reached the trees just beyond the rocks, making itself known in the rustling of the leaves dried from the three-month drought.  But the wind carried another sound, and the children stopped suddenly and turned to each other.  It was a terrifyingly familiar sound.  They both raced back across the river, not caring who arrived first, the puppy splashing on their heels.  They raced toward the old weatherworn house on a small hill but stopped suddenly beside, then stepped behind, a set of massive hundred-year-old oak trees that obscured their view.

John peeked around the corner, then turned back, out of breath.  “Stay here,” he instructed.

Becca nodded, kneeling beside him.

The louder his father yelled, the more intense the crying became.  John turned to Becca, but only for a moment.  Her hands flew to her ears as she hugged herself tighter into a ball, crouched against the grooved wood of the ancient oaks.  He turned away, resolute, then took a deep breath and ran the last twenty feet to the window.  He ducked beside the house, its paint peeling and flaking under his fingertips as he cautiously touched the green sill.  He carefully peered in.  The warm wind blew the sheer curtains through the open window, reminding him of his mother’s laundry drying on the line out back.  Had the wind been blowing the other direction, John would have smelled his father’s approach.

He ducked out of sight as the tall, unshaven man stood just feet away, his sharp tongue attacking the waif of a woman he dragged with him.  She, like her daughter, wore clothes that were at least two sizes too big.  She cringed before him, her shoulders stooped in defeat under his barrage of obscenities.  John cringed as his father struck her, flat-palmed in the face, sending her flying to the floor.  John’s fists slowly clenched in anger.  How many times had he felt that same wrath, the same unprovoked rage?  He called her a
‘lazy cow,’
among other things, belittling her repeatedly.  He pulled her up by the arm just to slap her again, letting her go so she would receive the full impact of the fall.

John gasped out loud, causing his father to turn his direction.  John, realizing his mistake, put himself flat against the wall.  The man slowly walked toward the window; John’s only saving grace the large table inside by the window that prevented his father from seeing him.

“Is that you, Johnny?” came the frighteningly familiar voice.  “You come on in here, boy,” he said angrily, looking both directions, but not seeing anything from his vantage point.

John heard his father walking across the wooden floor, the sound mixed with the sobs of the beaten woman.  He ran as fast as possible to the tree, then wrapped himself around Becca.  They huddled behind the oaks, hoping the three towering trees that had grown from one trunk were enough to hide their presence.  They heard hinge springs squeal from stretching and then the screen door slam shut on the front porch.  Becca stayed silent and immobile under his body.

“Where are you, Johnny?” the man called out, slurring his words.

“Be quiet,” John whispered.  “He can’t see us here.”

“Johnny, you’d better be doin’ your chores, boy,” he ranted.  “You’d better be doin’ your chores,” he repeated, more to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow.  After looking around for almost a minute and satisfied that he had been mistaken, he walked back to the door and swung it open so hard it hit the front porch window sill before slamming shut behind him.  John felt Becca sobbing beneath him, her small body trembling with fear.  He moved to peek around the tree, but Becca grabbed his arm and pulled him tighter to her.

“Please don’t leave me,” she pleaded.  “Don’t ever leave me.”

“Shh,” he said, “I’m right here, Becca.  I’m not going anywhere.”  He held her close, rocking her gently.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

Taffy chased John and Becca around the old oak and pecan trees in the expansive barnyard, toward the chicken coop and then into the red barn.  Most days his father’s pickup truck would be parked by the old milking barn.  But this evening it was gone, usually signifying an early departure to work or to the local tavern, which always meant that they could play unhindered, without fear of being accosted randomly—at least until he returned.  His father had become more violent in the past few years, having even broken John’s arm once by twisting it too hard when he didn’t close the door to the chicken coop.

Becca’s mom bore weekly evidence of his drunken tirades.  He would make excuses for his behavior, usually saying work was so hard to find that he was frustrated.  John didn’t know how his dad held a job as often as he drank, but what did he know?  He was only eleven.  Last night the screams were louder, the hitting more violent.  They had not been the victims of his anger that night.  They had only escaped it because Becca’s mom was the first person he saw when he arrived home, the first person to question where he had been.  The first person to call him a liar.

Becca stopped, out of breath just inside the door to the old milking area.  The barn that used to house dozens of cattle at one time and bring income to Becca’s grandparents now sat empty, except for a few bales of hay and the nests of their laying hens.  It used to be a working farm with milking cows, egg-laying chickens and hogs raised for slaughter.  After Becca’s grandfather died, her mother (with the help of her older brother), sold off some of the land and most of the milk cows to pay off the mortgage on the property.  Becca’s Uncle Ben made sure they had enough cows and chickens to bring their mother a reasonable income.  It helped that Becca’s grandmother and her mother were seamstresses and regularly sewed for a few of the wealthy German townsfolk of Fredericksburg.

Becca’s father had worked in one of the many local orchards since arriving in the area in 1936.  He was in charge of planting and maintaining the peach trees, since he was knowledgeable, having worked in other orchards prior to that.  Becca’s father was a handsome man, six-foot-one with dark hair and dark eyes.  She didn’t remember him, but her mother kept a picture of him in her jewelry box.  He wasn’t of German descent like her mother’s family, but having been around the culture all his life, his parents made sure he learned the language.  His father, Becca’s grandfather, had moved there from San Antonio when the town was chartered to work on the railroad joining Fredericksburg to San Antonio.  Becca’s father never admitted to Mexican blood, but he had a darker complexion and spoke with just a hint of an accent.  Although the Mexicans had settled here once, it was German country now.

Becca’s mother used to tell her the story of how they met, of falling in love with her father.  Louis Martin was his name, though there were rumors that his real name was Luis Martinez.  Since no one ever saw a birth certificate, they called him Louis, nevertheless.  It was a romantic tale, or at least it was to Becca.  Her mother had been delivering three new dresses to the boutique in town when her car broke down next to the orchard.  Louis had been checking the fruit on the trees by the road when he saw her and offered assistance.  Her mother told Becca it was love at first sight.  He drove her to town in his truck, then brought back one of his friends who was a mechanic to help get hers started again.

Louis made sure he was at that same place every day so that he would see her when she passed by with deliveries.  He wooed her for months, until her parents conceded and allowed them to be married.  Becca would learn much later from her mother’s sister, her Aunt Betty, that the tale was far less romantic.  Sometimes it’s better to leave children with their dreams of reality, even if they weren’t true, versus spoiling their fantasy of it.  She would never know her father because he died within a year of her birth from acute respiratory failure caused by pesticide poisoning, though no one would admit that was the reason until years later.

Becca climbed through the stanchions separating the feeding troughs and through the tall narrow windows above and hung out of them as though she were going to fly.  John caught up with her, grabbing her from behind.

“Careful!” he yelled.

“You worry too much,” she said, allowing him to pull her back in.  Taffy yelped and whined because he couldn’t reach them.  “I’m not a baby,” she whined.

“No, you’re not,” he agreed.  “But if anything happens to you,
I’ll
get in trouble,” he explained.

Becca climbed back into the trough, ran to the end and leaned into the cattle stalls.  “Last one to the house is a rotten egg!” she challenged, climbing the rungs that held the cows’ necks in place and jumping onto the concrete barn floor.

John dropped into the trough from the windowsill, swung across the wood stall beams and raced after her, Taffy on his heels.  He caught her at the barn door and tugged her back so as to pull ahead of her.  They raced together, laughing as they turned the corner to the house.  Then they stopped.

The noise was a clap or more like a slap.  Even Taffy stopped at the suddenness of it.  They looked at each other, then slowly walked toward the house.  The sun was setting in their eyes, so there was nothing but glare before them.  The glare and the mist of the dirt they had kicked up floated in the air, shimmering in the setting light.  They walked slowly at first, and then faster when they saw the body crumpled in the doorway.  At the porch steps, Becca screamed out loud, “No!”

John grabbed her, trying to hold her back, but he couldn’t.  She kicked and screamed and cried until he finally released her, and she fell at her mother’s side.  He stared at the gun on the porch by her body and for a moment contemplated taking it.  For a moment he contemplated using it.  His father had killed her, as sure as if he’d pulled the trigger himself.  He turned Becca around and hugged her tight.

“Who’s going to take care of me now?” she sobbed.  “Who’s going to take care of me now?”

“I’ll take care of you, Becca,” he promised.  “I will.”

Betty looked around the house, one last time.  For the past three weeks, she had gone through her sister’s belongings in their childhood home.  She had to sort what she wanted, what she would save for Becca, and determine the ultimate destination of the rest.  Her sister had lived at home since before their parents had both died, having been their caretaker when they both became ill.  None of her family had ever indulged in fine trinkets, so most of her possessions had been pictures and a few pieces of fine jewelry that had been their grandmother’s.  That and a few random pieces of second-hand furniture was all that they had acquired through the years.

John’s father hadn’t shown up that first night of her death.  Or the next.  Or the next.  He had run his truck off the road after overindulging at the tavern that evening, having driven straight into the woods at the curve instead of turning.  One of the local farmers found him three days later, disoriented and bleeding, wandering down a country road.  The Good Samaritan took him into Fredericksburg to the doctor—the same doctor who had declared Becca’s mother dead.  When they told him what had happened, he broke down and cried.  Then he was arrested.