Books from the Heart

By Suzanne Whitfield Vince

A Collection of Women’s Fiction Stories, Including:

My Mother’s Journals
A Mother for Grace
Life, Take Three

"Make yourself a cup of tea and get ready to lose your heart." Amazon Reviewer
"Suzanne Vince is an outstanding storyteller." Kindle Review
"Breathtaking and wonderful!" Amazon Reviewer

About My Mother's Journals:
Before her mother’s shocking deathbed confession, before her father’s stroke, before a long string of miscarriages, Olivia Hunter’s life had gone exactly according to plan. But lately, no matter how hard she tried, nothing was working out the way it was supposed to. And it’s about to get worse.

About A Mother for Grace:
Shuffled from one orphanage to another and finally abandoned into foster care, Grace Adams finds comfort only in her dreams, only these dreams are unlike anything Grace could ever dare to imagine. From a Nazi concentration camp in World War 2 to a Geisha house in Feudal Japan, in her dream world Grace is loved and protected by one person: a woman named June Crandall with a face she is unable to forget.

About Life, Take Three:
Attorney Isabel Stevens’s life is in a downward spiral. On the worst day of her life, she is killed in a fatal car crash. After discovering a loophole in the No Returns policy in heaven, Isabel is given a one-time opportunity to relive the last day of her life. The only rule? Everything must happen exactly as it did the first time around.

With the help of a guardian angel, Isabel begins to see where her life went off course. When the day is up and she returns once more to heaven, she pleads for the opportunity to go back and make things right. Her wish is granted. Will she succeed and live to see another day? Or will she defy the agreed-upon terms and suffer the consequences?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne Whitfield Vince
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370613564

Suzanne Whitfield Vince

Suzanne grew up in Park Forest, Illinois—twice an All-American City—in a hectic and chaotic but loving family. After graduating from Loyola University of Chicago with a Bachelor’s degree in Business Administration (major in Accounting), she said goodbye to snow shovels and ice scrapers and followed her parents out to California. Suzanne currently live in Sacramento with her husband and our four furry children. She still have my day job—for now—but spends most of her free time writing.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Olivia

Before her mother’s shocking deathbed confession, before her father’s stroke, before a long string of miscarriages, Olivia Hunter’s life had gone exactly according to plan. But lately, no matter how hard she tried—and she tried plenty—nothing had worked out the way it was supposed to. But at least she still had her job. And she was good at it. Damn good at it.

And of course there was Jonathan. Good old faithful Jonathan. The man she had loved since he was a boy and she was a starry-eyed girl with a rainbow in her pocket, the end of which held a pot of gold—her happily ever after—just like the one her parents had enjoyed.

Or so she’d thought.

As she pulled into the parking garage of the Michigan Avenue high-rise office complex that housed the Barron and Banks Advertising Agency, a thought niggled at her insides. It wasn’t a clear thought, not the kind you could put your finger on. It was more like a taunt than an actual thought.

After she maneuvered the car into a space that seemed better suited for a Hot Wheels version of the silver company-issued BMW, she pulled down the visor, snapped open the lighted mirror and applied fresh lipstick.

Careful not to thump the car next to hers, she poured herself out of the car, squeezed her arm through the rear door and extracted her suit jacket from the hanger. Her power suit. Chanel. She wore it only when she gave a presentation, and so far it had been lucky every time.

Today would be no different. She’d worked hard on the Herman Miller campaign and she knew her ideas were cutting edge, just like her client’s products, which had always been at the forefront of design and functionality.

Olivia strode purposefully through the lobby, past the guard at the front desk, gave the man a tight smile and jabbed at the elevator button three times.

She stepped inside the mirrored elevator, set down her leather portfolio containing the storyboards for today’s presentation and punched the button to the 27th floor. As the elevator ascended, she straightened the wide collar of the creamy silk blouse she wore under the navy wool suit and smoothed her perfectly coiffed hair. It was 1990, and while most women still wore their hair big, she bucked the trend and wore her long blond mane the same way she always had—in a tight, sleek ponytail.

On the way to her office, Olivia stopped at her secretary’s desk. Good morning, Fran. She handed the perky young assistant the portfolio and an 8-inch floppy disk containing her notes for the presentation. I’ll be in my office, but please hold my calls.

As she marched down the hall toward her office, she heard Fran mutter under her breath. Wouldn’t think of it.

Olivia rolled her eyes, whirled back to confront the girl who had been gunning for her job since the day she started, and then thought better of it. This was not the day to put Fran in her place. She would—and she would enjoy it—but it would have to wait. Today’s presentation would make or break her bid for the VP of Marketing job and she needed to stay focused.

As she paced the length of her considerable office, she rehearsed her presentation one final time. As creative director for the agency, she enjoyed a handsomely appointed corner office, which boasted a magnificent view of the Chicago lakefront. A view she had fought hard for. A view she seldom noticed anymore. And then, satisfied she was ready, she squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and strode confidently into the conference room across the hall where the attendees awaited her arrival.

Olivia looked around the room at the expectant faces. Icy fingers of dread crept up her spine. Something was wrong—the same something that had been bothering her before—but she still couldn’t put her finger on the pulse of it.

She glanced at Fran, who manned the computer, and noticed the lopsided smile on her face. Her heart sped up, and then sped up some more. Her mouth went dry, and a tingling sensation prickled her fingertips. What the hell was happening? She’d never felt like this before.

Oh, God, am I having a heart attack?

She poured water from a pitcher into a glass, landing about a tablespoon of water in the glass, and greedily sucked it down. Her back to the bewildered guests, she drew in a few deep breaths and steadied the staccato of her heartbeat to a more manageable tempo. She could do this. She was a professional.

The heart attack would just have to wait.

She turned, faced the audience, pasted on a smile and spoke with a trembling voice. A disembodied voice. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Olivia Hunter and I’d like to welcome you to the future of modern office design. She swept the drape off the first storyboard and revealed a sleek, sexy, futuristic version of Herman Miller’s latest executive office chair.

She was about to continue when she noticed her boss’s mouth form into a perfect oval. He leapt from his seat; the Herman Miller chair ricocheted backward, bounced off the credenza behind him, and tumbled to the floor. As he rushed toward her, she watched Fran’s lips curl upward into a slow, satisfied grin.

Her eyes traveled back to her boss, who moved toward her with intention, as though he might tackle her. Time froze and so did her heart. Maybe she was having that heart attack after all. Or maybe she’d already had one and her boss was rushing to save her life. Whichever, she felt as though she was somehow disconnected from her body, watching herself from above.

Oh God, maybe I’m dead.

When her boss—John Walker—finally reached her, he grabbed her firmly by the arm, yanked her out of the conference room, and nearly dragged her down the hall to his office. He lowered her into one of the gray-blue Herman Miller office chairs in front of his desk and paced the room like a hunter stalking its prey.

"What in God’s name were you thinking, Olivia? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve just cost us the biggest account our firm has ever—will ever—have. How could you do something like this to me? Oh, Christ, who am I kidding? I had a bad feeling about giving you the Motorola account in the first place. You haven’t been yourself since...I mean, with everything that’s happened, I didn’t think...but you said you could handle it. Son of a bitch, I should have listened to my intuition. I should have given it to Whitebloom. I should have given it to anyone but you. Oh, Christ, Olivia. Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ."

His words hurled through the air in rapid-fire assault and struck their intended target square in the chest. She blinked, sucked in air through the narrow opening of her throat.

"The Motorola account? That was today?" Shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

She wished she’d just have a freaking heart attack already. A massive one.

Please, God, just kill me now.

Johnny, I—

"Don’t Johnny me, Olivia. There is nothing you can say that will make this better. I’m sorry, I know we’ve known each other for a long time, but I’m afraid you can kiss that VP of Marketing promotion goodbye. In fact, I’m going to have to let you go. You need to take some time to get your head screwed on straight."

Olivia held up her hand. Whoa, hold on, Johnny. It was a mistake. A simple mistake. It won’t happen again. If you just give me a few minutes, I’ll be ready to…

Simple mistake? Johnny’s voice rose an octave higher. "It’s the freaking Motorola account, for God’s sake. No, Olivia, it’s over. I need to save face here and maybe, just maybe, I can save the Motorola account if they know someone else is handling it. Someone who knows their accounts a little better than you apparently know yours."

Her shoulders sagged. Defeated, she rose from the chair and shuffled to the door on unsteady legs. She turned back toward her longtime friend and boss. I’m sorry, Johnny. I’m so very sorry.

His back to her, he flailed his hand in a dismissive gesture; she slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

In the hallway, the looky-loos—no doubt hoping to get a glimpse of her browbeating—jumped into action, as if they all just happened to have been passing by this very spot at this very moment. She ignored their furtive glances, stood tall and filed down the hallway with a confidence she did not feel.

Once inside the confines of her own office, she shut the door, snapped the lock, and drew the blinds. She crumpled onto the luxuriously soft white leather sofa, and let the room rotate around her in slow, deliberate circles while she tried to wrap her head around what had just happened.

How could she have let this happen? How could she—a seasoned professional—make a mistake of this magnitude? Without thinking, she floated her hand over the tender spot in her abdomen, the place where she’d given herself an injection of follicle-stimulating hormones that morning. Was that it? Had her desire, her obsession, of becoming a mother taken over her senses? Rendered her useless for anything else? She wanted to cry, but she would never give any of them the satisfaction of watching her lose her composure.

A knock at the door brought her crashing back to reality. Olivia took a few deep breaths, smoothed her skirt and pulled the door open. Tina Brooks, her best friend and human resources director, stood on the other side. She held a small box. The kind that once held copy paper but would now hold the memories Olivia had collected in her sixteen years at the agency.

Thought you might need this, Tina said.

Olivia stood back and let Tina pass, and then closed the door behind them.

Thanks, she said, taking the box.

Liv, I’m so sorry—

Olivia put a hand up to stop her. It’s okay. I did this to myself. We both know how distracted I’ve been lately. Maybe it’s a good thing, she said, wishing it were true but knowing full well that her career was the only thing keeping her from completely falling apart month after month when she failed to get pregnant.

Yeah, maybe with all the stress lifted, you and Jonathan will be able to conceive.

Jonathan. Oh God, what was she going to tell him? He would understand—of course he would understand—but he’d been trying to convince her for some time now that she was too focused on getting pregnant. Everyone who knew her said the same thing.

Let it go for a while, sweetheart. Focus your energies on your work and we’ll try again in a year or so, Jonathan had said.

But she couldn’t–wouldn’t–admit he’d been right. That her obsession had cost her the job she had come to love. That she had failed at yet another thing in her life.

Maybe Tina was right. Her job required her to work long hours and could be very stressful at times. Maybe not working would increase her chances of getting pregnant. Maybe this really was a blessing in disguise.

She’d go home and make Jonathan’s favorite dinner—Beef Bourguignon—and an apple pie for dessert. Then she’d explain to him, as convincingly as possible, all the reasons why her not working was a good idea. In other words, she’d lie through her teeth.

Liv?

Olivia looked up in surprise. She’d forgotten that Tina was there. Huh? Oh, yeah, you’re probably right.

After Tina left, Olivia surveyed the office and then placed two items into the box. Both were wedding pictures—one from her own wedding, the other from her parents’. Everything else was a remnant of a life that was no longer hers. A life she knew she would mourn. A life she would try to forget.

She drew her Louis Vuitton Cerises Pochette handbag from her desk drawer, slung it over her forearm, and tucked the box containing her meager belongings under her other arm. She stopped and took one last look out the window. The sunlight shimmered off the water like a kaleidoscope and she shook her head in disbelief. When had she begun taking all of this for granted?

Olivia bit her lip to ward off the emotion that she’d worked too hard to contain, pulled open her office door, and promenaded down the hall toward the elevator.

As she passed Fran’s desk, she noticed the smirk on the girl’s face as she stared intently at her computer screen. Olivia paused, waited, but the girl did not look up. And the realization struck her like a thundercloud. The bitch knew that she was about to slit her own throat. The bitch could’ve saved her.

That fucking bitch.

After punching the elevator button three times, it dawned on Olivia that she had no means of transportation. Not just to get home, but to get around after she got home. Downstairs in the lobby, she stopped at the security desk where the same man who greeted her every day—his name tag identified him as Carl—smiled up at her with bright sparkly eyes.

May I help you, Ms. Hunter? he asked in a voice that also sparkled.

She tried to return his smile but it slid to the floor, leaving her face with what was most likely a zig-zaggy grimace.

I need a taxi, please. Would you mind calling one for me?

It would be my pleasure, Ms. Hunter, Carl said.

Olivia turned to leave but stopped and turned back toward the counter. Carl looked up from the telephone and smiled.

Was there something else, Ms. Hunter? he asked.

Olivia met the man’s gaze and held it. Thank you, Carl.

Carl’s brows bunched together. For what, ma’am?

She shrugged. For everything you do. I don’t think I ever said thank you before.

CHAPTER TWO

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi delivered Olivia to the BMW dealership on North Clark Street. Before she’d even finished paying the driver, a red-faced man with a large fleshy nose and a long comb-over covering his mostly bald scalp greeted her. His name tag identified him as Ted, the assistant manager of the dealership.

Olivia slipped her petite hand into his pudgy mitt and narrowed her eyes. Well, Ted, today is your lucky day. As you can see, I have no means of transportation, which means I will be buying a car from you. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. You can give me the car I want for one hundred dollars over cost and we’ll make this quick and clean so you’ll have ample time to sell more cars today. Or, we can spend the rest of the day haggling over price before you eventually agree to give me what I want. Either way is fine with me. I have no place to be. So, what will it be?

Ted’s jaw dropped and Olivia could see the wheels turning in his mind. Tell you what, he said, make it two hundred over invoice and you’ve got yourself a deal.

The corners of Olivia’s mouth turned upward. Deal, she said.

Ted swept his arm out in front of him. Well then, let’s go pick out your car.

While Ted went to run her credit, Olivia went to the ladies’ room and nearly shrieked at her appearance. Her bright red lipstick looked as though a three-year-old had applied it and her hair was completely disheveled, giving her the appearance of a clown. No wonder Ted had so readily agreed to her terms. She looked like a crazy person. A clown on crack.

Forty-five minutes later, Olivia drove off the lot in her brand new, midnight-blue 325i convertible with the top down, her hair tightly secured. Giorgio Armani sunglasses adorned her face. She drove exactly two blocks before she pulled over, put the top up and retied her hair. Maybe the convertible hadn’t been such a good idea.

Sprinklers dotted the lawns and children of all ages—recently sprung from school for the summer—chased the water as it arced back and forth in a never ending stream. As Olivia pulled into the driveway of the two-story, pale yellow house with pristine white shutters in Hoffman Estates purchased two years before, she realized that she’d forgotten to remove the garage door opener from the company car she’d driven to work that morning. And the hide-a-key, hidden under the rear passenger wheel well.

That left her with two options: drive back to the city or break into her own home.

She was not going back to the city.

Luckily, Jonathan had not yet fixed the kitchen window latch, so she dragged a metal trash can around the back, kicked off the lucky shoes she always wore with her lucky suit, and climbed on top of the can.

After removing the screen and prying open the window, she slung one leg over the ledge and inside the house. When her foot found purchase inside the kitchen sink, she pulled herself the rest of the way in and closed the window behind her.

Once inside, she sat down in one of the wicker chairs at the butcher-block table to gather her breath and noticed that she had torn her stockings. She touched the skin that protruded from the tear, and cried. Big gulping sobs that had waited forever to be cried. Not since her first miscarriage had she cried. Not when she lost her next child, or the one after that, or the one that she’d had to deliver stillborn did she cry. Especially not then because, if she had, she’d have fallen apart, broken in half, and would never have recovered. And she didn’t cry when she had failed to get pregnant again after that, or when the first round of IVF failed to take. But she cried now, over a torn stocking.

But it was more than that. She cried for all the little souls she’d lost, for all the little souls who would never run through the house squealing in laughter, for her own broken soul.

A sharp rapping at the front door froze her tears in their tracks. She glanced at the Cartier watch Jonathan had given her for Christmas last year. Who on earth could be knocking at her door at one o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday? She quickly scrolled through her mind for possibilities. A delivery man? She didn’t remember ordering anything, but—

The assault on her front door continued, followed by a familiar voice.

Yoo-hoo, is anyone home?

It was the local busybody, Betty Applebaum—the last person she wanted to see right now with her mascara-streaked cheeks. She probably looked like Ace Frehley from the rock band KISS.

More banging. Mrs. Hunter, are you in there? There’s a strange car parked in your driveway and I saw someone climbing through the kitchen window. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.

I’m fine, Betty, except for the man who has tied me up and is holding me at gunpoint, but thank you for your concern.

Betty Applebaum was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

After a few more rounds of knocking and pleading for her to open the door, Olivia finally heard footsteps trailing down the walk and sighed in relief. Then she trudged up the stairs, stripped out of her lucky suit, now streaked with dirt, and slipped into a steaming hot shower.

When she emerged from the shower, she dried herself off, combed her hair into a sleek ponytail and climbed into a crisp, Liz Claiborne tracksuit.

And put on her game face.

All business now, Olivia unloaded the groceries she’d stopped to purchase on her way home and the box with the two picture frames from her office, setting it on the old oak dining table. After tossing a load of laundry in the washer, she prepared the apples for the pie she was going to make for dessert.

When she finished the pie, she set it on a rack and pulled the clothes from the dryer before starting a second load. She folded the clothes with retail-store precision and carried them upstairs. She placed them into their respective drawers, making sure that none of the stacks within a drawer touched, then carefully slid the drawers closed and went back downstairs to begin the Beef Bourguignon.

With dinner prepared and ready to go into the oven, she glanced at the clock. It was four o’clock, three hours before Jonathan would arrive home from work. Having folded and put away the second load of laundry, she dusted and vacuumed the house, killing another hour before her husband got home.

Then she carried the box with the pictures into the living room and set it on the apricot-colored leather sofa. She pulled the wedding photo of her and Jonathan from the box, carried it to the fireplace mantel and looked at the picture—really looked at it—in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to in a long time.

She looked at her eyes in the picture—bright and shiny and filled with love and hope and dreams—and she couldn’t help but smile now. Her parents stood beside her, alive, healthy, smiling, happy. It had been a perfect day.

The last perfect day of her life.

With the picture still in hand, she sat down on the sofa and remembered the first time she’d laid eyes on Jonathan. She was nine when the Hunters moved in across the street. As the moving van pulled up, she crossed her fingers and hoped that the family had a child. Hoped for a new best friend. She had never considered the possibility that it might be a boy.

But when a wood-paneled station wagon pulled up behind the van and the family members filed out of the car—first dad, then mom, and then a boy who looked to be around her age—she tossed aside her disappointment and raced across the street, laying claim to the new kid on the block.

I’m Olivia Warner. She stood firm with her hands on her hips as she tried to decide whether the khaki pants and the beige sweater vest with the white shirt and tie were cool or nerdy. In the end, she thought they were a sign of intelligence, and she liked it.

We’re going to be best friends, okay? she said with an air of confidence.

That was the moment, Jonathan had told her, that he fell in love with her. She, on the other hand, had to kiss a few toads along the way before she discovered that he was her one and only. But once she did, she knew she would love him for the rest of her life.

If Olivia had had it her way, they would’ve married right after high school, but Jonathan—always the practical one—insisted they wait until he was done with law school.

But that’s seven more years!

Yes, and imagine how much more I will love you then, he said. And so she followed him to Northwestern University, and then to Yale where she took a job as a marketing intern while he attended law school.

Two months after his law school graduation in 1976, Olivia and Jonathan were married on a stormy, windy-city afternoon in July. As they walked down the aisle as man and wife, they were filled with dreams for a future that included dual careers—his idea—and a brood of children—her idea—and enough love to carry them through any storm that came their way.

As she placed the photo on the mahogany mantel, she realized that she had spent too much of the past fourteen years dwelling on all the things she didn’t have—children, namely—and not enough on the things that mattered. She had Jonathan. They had each other. And despite the hard times and all their losses, their love had endured.

Maybe all she needed to do was hit the reset button. Maybe it was time to consider adoption, as Jonathan had suggested for years. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to hear the patter of tiny footsteps streaking through the house and smiled from the inside out for the first time since she could remember.

Yes, she decided, it was time to look forward, not back. And for the first time all day, she decided with certainty that losing her job had indeed been a blessing. She straightened the cushions on the couch and returned to the kitchen. Jonathan would be home in less than an hour and she was now running behind schedule.

CHAPTER THREE

The savory aroma of Beef Bourguignon filled the kitchen, reminding Olivia that she hadn’t eaten all day. After peeling each stalk of asparagus and placing it in the steamer, she opened a bottle of wine, a 1983 Jordan Cabernet—Jonathan’s favorite—and poured them each a glass. She knew she shouldn’t drink, but a small glass wouldn’t hurt her. Her doctor had even said as much.

The timer on the oven chimed in sync with the old-fashioned grandfather clock in the dining room. Seven o’clock, which meant that Jonathan would be walking through the door momentarily. She pulled the Bourguignon, topped with a crispy pie crust, from the oven and set it on a rack to cool. Then she flipped on the burner to cook the asparagus, removed her apron and paced the length of the generous kitchen, waiting like an anxious puppy dog for the arrival of its master.

She was surprised to feel the acceleration of her heart and the clammy moisture lining her palms. She’d literally done this thousands of times—made dinner for her husband and awaited his arrival—and with the exception of the first time she’d cooked for him, she’d never been nervous, or anxious. But tonight was different. Tonight was a new beginning. Tonight was a celebration.

Thirty minutes later, Jonathan was still not home. Anxiety gave way to fear. He’d never been late without calling. She lifted the receiver of the phone, checked for a dial tone, and hung it up. Then she picked it up again, dialed the first three numbers and hung up, sure that she was overreacting.

For God’s sake, Olivia, it’s only been thirty minutes.

Yeah, but he’s never been late.

Thirty little minutes!

Yeah, but...

Ignoring the inner voice she resumed pacing, wearing tracks into the off-white Berber carpeting that blanketed the living room floor. By eight o’clock, she could stand it no more. She picked up the phone, dialed his number at work, and waited. No answer.

Something’s wrong. I can feel it.

With an unsteady hand, she reached for the crystal wine goblet and took a few gulps. She alternated between pacing and gulping until the bleating of the doorbell stopped her cold. Her eyes darted over to the grandfather clock, which told her it was almost nine o’clock. Too late for Betty Applebaum.

She took one tentative step, and then another, until she reached the front door. Still clutching a now-empty wineglass in her hand, she peered through the peephole. It was the police.

The glass slid from her hand and splintered into a million tiny fragments as it struck the marble tile in the foyer.

Her hand froze on the doorknob. Fear tumbled through her as she imagined Jonathan lying on a marble slab in the morgue. The thought sent icy shivers up her spine, but what else could it be? If he’d been maimed in a car accident, they would have called her, told her where he’d been taken. But no call came. And here they were.

She yanked the front door open and stood, rooted to the ground, her body now a quivering mess, and gaped at the two young officers.

Good evening, ma’am, one of the officers said. Are you Mrs. Hunter?

Her mouth snapped closed and she nodded.

May we come in? There’s something we need to speak to you about. I apologize for the late hour. I hope we aren’t disturbing you.

Disturbing me? Disturbing me?! My husband is dead and you’re worried about disturbing me?

She stepped through the broken glass on kitten-heeled slippers and ushered them in. One of the officers led her by the arm into the living room and poured her into the overstuffed leather chair next to the sofa. She melted into it.

Mrs. Hunter, we had a report of a disturbance at your residence this afternoon. Called in by a Mrs. Betty Applebaum. Did you—

She laughed. Big gurgling sounds of laughter erupted from her throat and she clutched her sides. The officers looked at each other in obvious confusion.

Mrs. Hunter? the one whose name tag read Giacomo asked. Is everything okay?

When her sides hurt from laughing, she nodded. Oh yes, she said, giddy with relief. I’m fine. I thought you came to tell me— She laughed again and noticed Officer Giacomo roll his eyes at his partner.

When she remembered that Jonathan was still not home, the laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. I’m sorry. I thought you came to tell me something else. I bought a new car this morning and forgot to retrieve my garage opener and the hide-a-key from the old one, so I had to climb in through the kitchen window.

Officer Giacomo nodded. I see. He jotted something down in a small notebook. Well, I guess that explains it. Is there something else we can help you with tonight?

In the silence that followed, she heard the opening of the garage door. She flew off the sofa, raced toward the kitchen, and then stopped and turned to the officers. No, thank you. Everything is fine now. Do you mind showing yourselves out?

As the front door closed, she hurried into the kitchen and waited on rubbery legs for Jonathan to appear. Her heart thundered inside her chest. She was going to launch herself into his arms, pull him close, smother him with kisses. She didn’t care that the dinner was ruined or that he was nearly three hours late. All that mattered was that he was home. Not lying on a slab in the morgue, but home. Home, sweet home.

But when he finally walked through the door, she was unprepared for what she saw. She inhaled sharply; her hands flew to her mouth. Everything about him was uneven, disheveled. His sandy brown hair—normally held neatly in place with gel—now stood on end. His tie hung limply around his neck as though he’d forgotten to tie it, and his sweater vest was crumpled and stained with...blood, or something red. Wine, maybe. And he smelled like a distillery.

Jonathan, are you all right? She took a step toward him, reached a hand toward his cheek.

He stepped back. Don’t, he said in a voice she did not recognize.

Panic gripped her, held her, consumed her.

He sidestepped around her and moved to the table. He lifted the glass of wine to his lips and guzzled the contents.

She watched him, unable to move or speak.

When he finished the wine, he poured himself another glass and turned to her. I have something to tell you, he said.

I...I have something to tell you, too. She wanted to tell him about her day, about losing her job, about how she’d had to break into their house like a common criminal—in her lucky Chanel suit of all things—and about busybody Betty Applebaum. But most importantly, she wanted to tell him what a fool she’d been, how sorry she was that she’d been so busy focusing on all the bad things that had happened that she hadn’t been able to see the good in her life. But she saw now, with absolute clarity, that the most important thing in her life was him, them, and that it didn’t matter if they ever had children as long as she had him.

But instead she said, You first.

He scrubbed a hand across his stubbly cheek and stared at her with eyes that were flat, one-dimensional. Lifeless eyes. Eyes that told her she was not going to like what he was about to say.

She steeled herself, bracing for the news. Did he have cancer, or some other incurable disease? He’d gone to the doctor last week but he said everything was fine. Had he lied? Was he going to die? Oh God, please don’t let him die.

He drew in a deep breath and pushed it out hard, opened his mouth to speak but no words emerged.

She wanted to shake the words out of him. Just say it, my darling. Whatever it is, it will be okay.

His eyes traveled to his Oxford loafers, brown and shiny. Liv, I...had an affair.

CHAPTER FOUR

Joe

Consciousness dawned warm and cozy, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. Without opening her eyes, Joe Stratton smiled, stretched lazily and reached her arm across to his side of the bed. And then she remembered. He was gone. Killed in the line of duty three months before.

A fresh wave of grief greeted her like an unwelcome visitor; it wove its tentacles around her heart and squeezed. She wondered whether it would ever go away. Whether she’d ever stop feeling like a part of her was missing.

Instinctively, she reached her hand to her swollen belly and smiled through her tears. In four months, their child would be born. Hers and Tim’s. Maybe then the ache in her soul would lessen its grip, at least a little. At least enough to do more than just breathe in and out, which is about all she’d been able to manage these past few months. At least enough to properly care for herself and her baby.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and clicked on the television because she couldn’t stand the quiet. The throaty voice of Carla Bixby, the channel 5 weather girl, filled the room. Only sunshine and blue skies for the next seven days, Carla purred, and temperatures in the mid-80’s. Back to you, Dirk.

Joe, short for Josephine but spelled incorrectly as Joesephine on her birth certificate, shuffled on slippered feet into the bathroom. As she stepped into a steaming shower, a memory tugged at the recesses of her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to push the memory forward.

Only sunshine and blue skies.

Her eyes flew open. It had something to do with the weather, but she couldn’t remember what, specifically. And there’d been a woman—someone she’d never met—and she wanted Joe to do...something. But what?

Only sunshine and blue skies.

The memory clawed at her mind, begging like a caged animal to be set free. She squeezed her eyes closed again, harder this time, but still nothing came. She pushed out an exasperated sigh and turned off the water.

Oh well, must not have been that important.

After finger combing her short blond hair into place, she slipped into her bathrobe and made her way downstairs to make herself a cup of peppermint tea.

The rest of the day was just like the day before, and all the days before that. She dressed in one of Tim’s favorite shirts and a pair of baggy sweats, boxed up some of his things, changed her mind and put everything back where it belonged. Then she opened the door to the nursery and, too overwhelmed by all that still needed doing, she closed the door, crawled into bed and fell into a deep sleep, where Tim was often waiting for her with open arms.

But this time it wasn’t Tim who waited for her. It was the woman from her dream the night before, only this time she was much more...real, vivid. Soft brown curls framed the woman’s face and hazel eyes with golden halos surrounding them bore into hers. Her skin was translucent. She was the most beautiful woman Joe had ever seen.

Hello, Joesephine.

The words were unspoken but somehow Joe heard them. She sucked in a whoosh of air and took a step back. Who...who are you, and how do you know my name?

The woman smiled. Don’t be afraid, dear. You are safe with me.

But who...who are you? Joe took another step back.

My name was Virginia.

Was? You mean you’re a...an angel?

Yes, dear. That’s right.

Joe’s breath came in uneven gasps. Wh...what do you want?

I need for you to retrieve a small box that was left behind in the attic. It’s hidden behind the HVAC system. But you need to do it before the rain comes.

But the weather forecast calls for only sunshine and blue skies for the next week. There is no rain on the horizon.

In two days, a great storm will come. Your roof will leak and my journals will be ruined.

That damned Carla Bixby. She couldn’t forecast her way out of a paper bag. Your...journals? But, how did your journals end up in my attic?

The answer will be revealed to you when the time is right. But for now, please Joesephine, will you just do as I ask?

Joe’s mouth gaped open and she nodded. Yeah, sure. If I remember when I wake up, that is.

You’ll remember this time. Thank you, Joe. And congratulations on your pregnancy. Your son will be the greatest joy of your life.

A son? How do you know—

The woman disappeared and the rest of the words froze in her throat.

A son. She had suspected it was a boy. A smile formed on her lips and she rubbed her belly.

A son.

The last of the afternoon light faded, taking with it the warmth that had filled the room. Joe awoke, disoriented. She rubbed sleep from her eyes as the dream faded. She blinked a few times and sat up with a start. The television was still on and Carla Bixby was giving the evening weather forecast.

And then she remembered.

The attic. The journals. The storm.

A son.

She snatched the remote control from the bedside table and clicked over to channel 7, and then to channel 2, but they all gave the same forecast.

Only sunshine and blue skies.

Either the weather people were all incompetent or she was crazy. Or she really had been visited by a ghost. But either way, a promise was a promise.

She picked up the phone and dialed her father-in-law’s number. He picked up on the second ring. Without telling him about the dream, she explained that she needed help with a few things and could he come by tomorrow to help.

Be glad to. See you around ten, he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the month following Tim’s funeral, Joe and her father-in-law had clung to each other, and checked in with each other several times a day. But eventually, seeing each other became too painful, a reminder of what they had both lost, and the phone calls trailed off.

Tim had been everything to both of them. For Joe—an only child who had lost her parents in an automobile accident during her last year of high school—Tim had been her best friend, her lover, her confidant. For her father-in-law—having lost his wife during childbirth—Tim had been his only reason for living.

And then Joe discovered she was pregnant. At first she was afraid to share the news with anyone for fear that the grief and self-neglect of the first two months following Tim’s death would cause her to miscarry. But when she passed the first trimester and the doctor assured her that the baby was healthy, she shared the news with her father-in-law and the baby became a lifeline for them both. A new reason to go on living, even when everything inside them resisted.

The doorbell rang precisely at ten, and when she pulled the door open, her heart seized and her legs nearly slid out from under her. Tim had been the spitting image of his father, and seeing him still took her breath away.

As they sat across the kitchen table from each other, sipping coffee and nibbling the store-bought Pecan Sandies she’d neatly arranged on a plate, her father-in-law reached across the table and took her hand.

How’s my grandchild today? he asked.

His eyes, once vibrant and alive and the deepest blue she’d ever seen, were now pale and dull and empty, and when she looked into them, she saw her own pain reflected back to her. The promise of a grandchild had brought some life back into them, but Joe wondered whether she would ever see them twinkle again.

It’s a boy. She surprised herself with the admission.

He arched an eyebrow. So, you decided to find out after all?

She shook her head. No, I just know.

A slow smile met his lips and he nodded. So, what’s on the agenda today?

Well, for starters, I need something from the attic. After that, I was hoping maybe you could help me build the crib for the baby?

What exactly am I looking for? her father-in-law called from inside the attic. Joe climbed the ladder and poked her head inside.

A small box, about yay big. She used her hands to show the dimensions, just as Virginia had done in her dream. And she said...I mean...it’s behind the HVAC system. And while you’re over there, will you take a look at the roof?

His eyebrows knitted together. The roof? Didn’t the previous owners put a new roof on just before you bought the place?

A slow burn crept into her cheeks and she grinned sheepishly. Yes, but I had a dream that a big storm came and the roof leaked. Could you just humor me and check it out?

He chortled and nodded. Anything for the mother of my grandchild. Now please, climb carefully down that ladder and wait for me downstairs.

Thirty minutes later, he emerged from the attic, with a small box. Where do you want it?

Joe’s mouth gaped open. She couldn’t believe he’d actually found it. She was sure it had been just a dream and that she was crazy for listening to the voice inside her head. Right here. She patted the top of the kitchen table.

Her father-in-law laid the box on the table and moved toward the garage. I did see a little evidence of water damage on the drywall up there, so I’m going to climb onto the roof and get a better look.

Uh huh, okay, thanks. Her eyes never left the box. When she heard the door to the garage slam shut, she reached her hand to the lid, and then yanked it back. The woman told her to retrieve the box; she didn’t say to open it. But she needed to be sure it contained what the woman—what Virginia—had said it contained, didn’t she?

Yes, she decided, she needed to verify the contents, and once she did, she would put the box away and respect Virginia’s privacy. And if it was filled with old bank statements or other such nonsense, she would call her shrink.

Joe stood, reached a trembling hand to the lid and peeled it slowly back. When she glanced inside, she gasped and slammed the lid back into place.

Holy shit. I’m not crazy. I really was visited by a ghost.

When her father-in-law returned to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks. Joe, are you okay? You look a little pale.

She was vaguely aware of his voice, and her eyes floated over to his. She saw the concern on his face and quickly gathered her senses. Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. Did you see anything?

His brow furrowed and he nodded. I think pregnancy has made you psychic. There is a tear in one of the shingles on the north corner of the roof. It needs to be replaced or it will leak with the next heavy rain. I’m going fishing for a few days, but when I get back I’ll go up and fix it for you.

Joe pushed up from her chair so quickly that it toppled over. No. She bent down and lifted the chair up. It has to be tomorrow. A big storm is coming on Wednesday.

Her father-in-law stared at her for a long moment before nodding. Okay, I’ll fix it tomorrow before I leave then.

Joe sighed in relief. Thank you, she said. But if I were you, I’d postpone the fishing trip.

CHAPTER SIX

That night, as she crawled into bed, Joe thought only about the box of journals, tucked safely in the back of her closet. She wanted to read them in the worst way, but she didn’t want to betray Virginia’s trust. And then she laughed at the absurdity of it. She did not want to betray a dead woman’s trust. A dead woman. She didn’t believe it ghosts, didn’t even believe in heaven, although since she’d lost Tim she wanted to believe that someday, somehow they would be reunited.

As had become habit lately, she set the sleep timer on the television for ninety minutes and clicked off the bedside lamp. It had been an exhausting, event-filled day, and she fell easily into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The ringing of the doorbell the following morning woke her and she shot out of bed like a circus clown from a cannon. She shrugged into her bathrobe, marched down the stairs and yanked open the front door to silence the incessant ringing.

Her father-in-law stood in front of an army of men. Each of them carried an armload of some supply or other. She scrunched up her face and cocked her head to the side. Wh...what time is it?

It’s almost noon, kiddo. Time to rise and shine. We’ve got a roof to fix and a room to paint before the storm of the century arrives, he said, a slight mocking tone in his voice.

She eyed the odd assortment of men and then met her father-in-law’s gaze. These your fishing buddies? She pointed to the platoon of men who stood on her stoop and wore lopsided grins and fishing vests.

Yep. Now, you gonna let us in or do we have to storm the place?

Joe laughed for the first time since she could remember, and noticed the glimmer in her father-in-law’s eyes. Not a full-on twinkle, but a beautiful, shiny light that she hadn’t seen in far too long. She stepped aside, held the door open and let the men in.

By the time she’d showered and dressed in a pair of Tim’s sweatpants and an oversized Navy t-shirt, the men had the walls of the nursery taped off and were ready to paint. When they shooed her out of the room, she decided to go downstairs and make herself useful. An hour later, she laid out a mountain of pancakes and two pounds of bacon for the men.

By four o’clock that afternoon, the men had finished their work and left her in silence. Before they left, Joe pleaded with her father-in-law once more to reconsider postponing their trip.

Don’t worry, sweetheart, I bought a dozen decks of cards and a few extra cases of beer. Rain or shine, we’ll be fine.

Grateful that he was finally getting out of the house and spending time with his old Navy buddies, Joe lifted her arms in capitulation and grinned. Okay, then. Try not to take all their money. She knew her father-in-law had been quite the card shark in his day.

Joe pushed open the door to the nursery, a little afraid of what she would find. After all, it wasn’t every day that a dozen ex-Navy men decorated a nursery. Her nursery. She closed her eyes, stepped in, and flicked on the light switch. She held her breath and opened her eyes. When she saw the sight before her, she nearly collapsed.

It was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.

The room was painted in a baby-soft blue, with a delicate crown molding along the perimeter of the ceiling. The white-slatted crib sat against the wall—the centerpiece of the room—adorned with a Winnie-the-Pooh mobile and filled with stuffed animals. Above the crib, block letters spelled out the word Dream. In one corner was a wooden rocking chair, the same chair Tim’s mother had bought to rock him but never got the chance to.

There was more, so much more, but when she saw the framed baby photo of Tim on top of the dresser, her eyes pooled with tears. She clutched the photograph, crumpled into the rocking chair and wept. Her tears were bittersweet, laced with joy and anguish and fear and a longing so powerful it consumed her. Swallowed her whole. She let the emotion wash through her and rode it like a wave at high tide. Eventually she drifted into a restless sleep.

In her dream, she heard Tim’s voice call to her, but she could not see him. Before her a wall of fog obscured her view; behind her was a dense jungle.

His voice called to her again. She turned toward it, and as she stepped closer to the woods, the voice got louder. She clawed her way through the dense brush and after what seemed an eternity, she emerged into a clearing, miraculously unscathed from all the branches that had scratched her limbs as she weeded her way through.

In the clearing, Tim awaited with an outstretched hand and an ethereal glow that surrounded him, transformed him. He was utterly beautiful. Like nothing she had ever seen before. Joe ran to him, slipped her hands into his, and he led her through a magnificent field of sunflowers.

Where are we going? she asked.

I have someone I want you to meet. Come on. He led her through the field. We’re almost there.

On the other side of the field was a lake with crystal-clear water that reflected the bluest sky she’d ever seen. Isn’t it magnificent? he asked.

She turned her attention back to her husband, met his gaze and held it for a long moment. You’re magnificent. I want to stay here with you. Please, Tim, can I stay?

Tim shook his head. No, sweetheart, you have to take care of our son. But someday we’ll be together again, I promise. His gazed shifted past her and a smile met his lips. There she is, he said in a voice that exuded warmth, tenderness, love. A voice she thought he’d used exclusively for her.

Joe whirled around to see this she who had captured her husband’s attention, and when she saw the woman, she drew in a rush of air.

There before her stood Virginia.

Y-you, Joe said, her voice an accusation. Her gaze shifted from Virginia to Tim and back again. How do you two know each other?

Virginia stepped forward, brushed a hand across Joe’s cheek. You’ll understand once you read the journals, Joesephine.

You...you want me to read them? Are you—

And just like her last dream, Virginia disappeared and took Tim with her.

Joe was jolted awake by a crack of thunder so loud that the ground beneath her rattled. She was confused at first about where she was, but the soft light glowing in the nursery brought her back to the present. She held the picture of Tim before her, kissed it, and rose from the chair, putting the photo back in place.

As rain pelted the windows, she thought about her dream—the last several dreams, actually—and she began to understand why she’d chosen this house. She knew from the moment she’d set foot inside that there was something special about it. She and Tim had looked at more than