Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 2

  She turned and looked at him. He had come to a halt uncomfortably in the foyer, gazing into the living room. The occasion marked the first time he’d entered the house since the divorce was final. She wondered if he realized it. For such an intelligent man, sometimes the obvious escaped him.

  “Do you mind if I take a look around?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  He pulled a small notebook and pen out of his shirt pocket. “We need to identify anything that needs fixing before it goes up on the market. We’ll agree on the repair, then I’ll get estimates and we’ll split the costs 50/50.”

  She frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with this house.”

  She detected a flash of annoyance in his expression before he tamped it down. “I’m not expecting any big repairs. But all houses suffer wear and tear. And the more sparkling and spotless we can make the house look, the better chance we’ll sell it quickly. And command a price we like.”

  Sparkling and spotless. His house wasn’t, and his wife wasn’t. So he divorced the wife and was selling the house.

  She hated the catch in her voice as she said, “Well, go ahead then. But I don’t want to have to spend a bunch of money on repairs to a house I’m not even going to live in anymore.”

  “We’ll split the costs.”

  She rolled her eyes and huffed a stream of air. “Let’s face it, Tim, you’ll have a lot more disposable income coming out of this divorce than I will. I need to put myself on a budget and stick to it. The last thing I want to spend my hard-earned money on is repairs to this house.”

  He fixed a long glance on her. “How about I take it out of the child support I owe you? You won’t really use it this summer anyway since Jaz won’t be home.”

  Her face burned. “Oh yes, Jasmine’s internship in Paris. It was awful nice of you to make the decision to send her overseas without even consulting with me. I believe that’s in violation of the custody agreement.”

  He looked down at his feet. “Okay, you’re right. But officially, we weren’t divorced when she talked to me about it. I figured you were on the same page as me, supportive of her opportunity.”

  Water under the bridge. The internship was a unique opportunity. He was financing it so what was she objecting to, really? She shook her head. “You’ll keep the home repairs to a minimum, please?”

  He nodded. “Nothing crazy. It’s a sales strategy. My realtor advised it’s the smart thing to do. It’ll attract more potential buyers.”

  “Your realtor?” Irritation crept into her voice.

  “Yes, uh …,”

  “I believe we were supposed to agree mutually on a realtor. That’s what the judge said.” Her new life slapped her in the face and she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. To prevent him from detecting it, she turned and headed for the kitchen.

  “Leslie.”

  She ignored the summons and didn’t stop till she reached the refrigerator. For something to do, she opened the freezer and stared at its contents.

  “Les.” He stood so close behind her she could smell his cologne. She’d bought it for him last Christmas. For that matter, she’d bought the shirt he wore, and she’d dragged him out to the mall to pick out and try on the shoes. She was giving her very best effort to hold it together when he squeezed her forearm.

  Her tears finally escaped, rolling slowly down both cheeks.

  “Ahh, Les. Please don’t.” His voice softened, tenderized till it was a whisper that caressed her broken heart. He pulled her close and buried his face in her hair, and she went with it. Her body and mind turned to mush as she breathed him in, fitting so naturally against him. He’d held her like this a million times over the lifetime they’d shared.

  But now, it was wrong. That stack of papers still sitting on the kitchen table over there declared it, and they’d both signed.

  She pushed away and turned her back. She was taking a moment to recover when he said it. “I’m sorry, Leslie. You didn’t deserve this.”

  How many times had she ached to hear those words, that sentiment? How many times had she laid alone in her dark bed, wondering what she’d done to push him away? Had she let herself go, had she let the spark leave their marriage? Was it somehow her fault he’d strayed?

  “It’s something I’m going through right now. Something …, I don’t know, something I can’t seem to control.”

  She wanted to scream. Drag her fingers through her hair, grab hold of the ends and pull. Let loose with the worst-sounding shriek of her life.

  Instead, she turned to face him. “It’s been a long day. I’m going upstairs to take a bath. Please finish up here and leave.”

  He nodded and she scooted past him up the stairs to soak.

  * * *

  The next morning, the alarm shrilled at 6:15. She groaned and reached over to silence it, stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. Why oh why had she let her school day alarm awake her? She lay motionless, wondering if her body would allow her to slip back into slumber. Peacefully. Obliviously.

  Because if she slept late, it would mean fewer waking hours she’d have to fill.

  Twenty minutes later, no luck. Not only had she not drifted back to sleep, she was now wide awake. Where was a yawn when she wanted one? She flipped back the comforter and stalked out of bed.

  In the kitchen, she made coffee and sat down with the paper. She marked a few sales she could visit at the mall. That would kill time. She flipped the page and marked a fundraiser walk she could sign up for. Exercise plus feed the hungry – what could be better? Next page, garage sales were advertised. Maybe find a hidden treasure.

  She pushed the paper away and sighed. She got up to refill her coffee cup and glanced at the digital clock on the coffee maker. 7:05 AM. She let a frustrated breath escape.

  She needed a project. A job that would absorb her for days, maybe a week. Something to take her mind off her empty, lonely summer stretching out interminably in front of her.

  Then it hit her: one monstrous task that couldn’t be ignored. Giving the house a top-to-bottom cleaning, and throwing out the old stuff she wouldn’t want in her new home.

  By the end of Day 1, she was comfortably sweaty and slightly sore at the knees. By the end of Day 2, she scanned the pile of stuff and marveled at how much junk had accumulated. On Day 3, as the estate sale service was driving down her street with their truck full of her discarded stuff, she made a conscious effort to control the sensation of panic gathering in her stomach and threatening to erupt into her lungs and throat. She watched the truck disappear around the corner, turned and walked into her nearly empty house.

  Who wanted all that old furniture in a perky new condo anyway?

  On Day 4, the phone rang. She tiptoed over the newly shampooed carpets, passed the rented shampooer and picked it up.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Tim’s deep voice said.

  “Hi.”

  “The realtor’s bringing someone over on Monday.”

  “Who?”

  He paused. “Who? I don’t know who. A potential buyer.”

  “Oh.” Of course. It didn’t really matter who they were as long as they could afford to buy the house.

  “Wanted to warn you. Their appointment’s at noon. You can be there if you want, but usually it’s better if the owner is gone.”

  “Okay.”

  So it began. Friends had told her horror stories about having to keep a house in “showcase-ready” condition while still occupying it. Never a dish in the sink, never a piece of clothing on the floor … it could affect a sale.

  She made her way to the kitchen and poured herself a diet soda. Carrying it with her, she moved through the rooms of her home, surveying her hard work of the last few days. She’d enjoyed getting absorbed in her task. It was good to keep her mind occupied, work hard and look at the results. Clean, fresh, uncluttered rooms. One last task: a fresh coat of paint in the living and dining rooms, and she’d buy the house herself! Or, she’d want to if she were a buyer.
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  Instead, she was the seller.

  She squeezed her eyes shut over another threat of tears. She inhaled a deep breath and waited for the sadness to pass.

  One step at a time. Paint the walls, and then what? Wait for the parade of strangers through her house, disturbing all her family memories? Listen to their whispered comments, “The closet’s too small, the roof will need to be replaced soon,” and try like crazy not to be defensive?

  Now that her hard work was done, the mystery still remained of how she would fill her days over the whole summer. That’s when it dawned on her: take a trip.

  Hit the road!

  With no destination in mind, get in the car and travel. Who cares how long it took to get there? Just go. Avoid the reality of realtors and buyers. Get away. And come back when it seemed the right thing to do.

  The thought lifted her mood, and with her plan made now, she grabbed her purse and headed to the paint store.

  Chapter Two

  Travel day. Leslie awoke before the alarm, a flutter in her stomach. As she showered, the day outside transformed from early morning darkness to a full-fledged gift from God. She tucked the last of her cosmetics into her suitcase and zipped it up, a solid beam of sunlight penetrating the slats of her window blinds and forming stripes of optimistic daylight on the carpet.

  She stared at them, stilling, took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Lord, be with me on this trip. Guide me along the way. Keep me safe from harm. Help me to find meaning in my new life. Help me to accept my situation. Oh, and let me have some fun along the way.”

  Her lips curled into an amused smile. Tugging the blinds closed, she dragged her suitcase down the stairs.

  Leaving the house and closing it up had a strange sense of finality to it, even though she knew she wouldn’t be gone that long. Call it a vacation, similar to the trips she’d taken every summer of her life. But this was nothing like any other trip she’d ever taken. First, she was alone. Because of her marriage in her early twenties and her prompt pregnancy, she’d rarely been alone during her adult life. She was Tim’s wife, Jasmine’s mother. Period. When she traveled, it was with either or both of them. That was about to change.

  Second, she didn’t have a travel plan. She didn’t know where she was going or when she was coming back. She would open her heart to the direction of God and not worry about the details. It was what it was.

  Aimless wandering? Or inspired discovery?

  When she pulled the door closed behind her and tugged to make sure it was tight, she headed for her SUV before the anxiety could take hold. She sat in the driver’s seat and considered her options. She and Jasmine had talked about a trip to the beach this summer. Why not do it herself? It was early enough in the season, she shouldn’t have trouble finding accommodations. If she found a place she liked, she could stay awhile. If not, she’d keep moving.

  An initial decision made, she started the car and headed toward highway 79 South outside of town. Maneuvering onto the highway and avoiding the heavy traffic occupied all her thoughts. She must’ve hit morning suburb rush hour. But as she continued to head away from Pittsburgh, the congestion eventually cleared and she let out a deep breath.

  Leslie turned on the radio, jabbed at a few of the pre-programmed radio buttons, but quickly tired of the static and commercials. She switched over to her CD collection and smiled when a familiar song came on. She was a fan of the music collections that included the number one hits of a particular year or decade. Tim had subscribed her in a year-long program one time and she received one CD a month till she owned more music than she could ever listen to in a lifetime. But it was amazing how her memory – so sketchy at remembering other things – allowed her to sing each and every song lyric word for word.

  She eased down her window and opened the sunroof and for the next hour, exercised her dormant memory and vocal chords by singing song after song from the 1970’s as loud as she wanted.

  When the CD ended, she pulled off Route 79 for a cup of coffee at a McDonald’s drive-through. Jump back on the road. So far, this trip was a great idea.

  Leslie rejoined 79 and drove for another hour. Due to her early start, it was only mid-morning when she crossed over the state line to West Virginia.

  “Hip hip! Hooray!” She couldn’t help but yell it. It was a family tradition during vacations so ingrained in her that she did it automatically. Every time they crossed over a state line, Tim would yell the hip hip, and she and Jasmine would respond with a hooray. On longer trips they may yell it six or seven times each way. It wasn’t quite as satisfying to yell it with only herself to respond. But the sentiment was the same – safe travels, seeing the country. There was good luck and fortune to be had crossing over each state line. She repeated it for the full three repetitions: “Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! We’re in West Virginia!”

  About a half hour into West Virginia, a car quite a ways in front of her switched lanes, then swerved back again. Curious, Leslie kept an eye on the vehicle as she approached it. Was the driver texting? Falling asleep? It was too early in the day for drowsy drivers, unless this one had stayed up driving all night and desperately needed a break.

  As she kept her foot on the gas pedal and maintained an even speed, she was making steady progress catching up with this questionable car. It was losing speed. A brief skyward prayer slipped from her lips, “Lord, help this driver. Keep us both safe.”

  When she was mere yards away, the car suddenly veered off the highway and came to a stop on the graveled shoulder. Relief slipped through her. The driver obviously needed a break, and now was taking one. Perfect. Leave the highway safe for those who needed to use it.

  She moved to the left lane to give a wide berth. As she passed the car, though, her eyes locked in on the scene and in a few seconds, she knew the last thing she could ever do was continue driving.

  The driver sat with his head lolling on the headrest, mouth open. In the passenger seat was a little boy, crying and frantic, looking over at the driver with terror.

  Leslie gasped and on instinct, moved back to the right lane and made her way to the shoulder. She came to a gravelly halt, put the car in reverse, flipped around in her seat to look through the rear window, and speeded backwards till she arrived at the car.

  She put the car in Park just feet in front of the car. And sat motionless. What did she think she was doing? A woman, traveling by herself, trying to help a stranger. It could all backfire on her if that stranger tried to harm her. Tim would’ve never stood for it if he were here. Too spontaneous — too unpredictable. Tim stood for self-preservation in this world, never took risks that could put him or the ones he loved in danger.

  She jumped out and ran, but even as she did, she could hear Tim’s admonishments in her head. When she reached the driver’s side, she tugged at the door handle. But it was locked. She peered in through the window. The man’s body shook and shook in the driver’s seat, uncontrolled convulsions. She pounded on the window with the palms of her hands which did absolutely nothing to help the situation.

  The only way she’d get into that car was to appeal to the child. She ran around to the passenger side and tapped on the glass. Instead of looking her way, he set his single-minded focus on his dad, wailing a tortured cry, the tears making wet tracks down his face. The sealed window muffled his terrified weeping.

  More tapping couldn’t coax him to look her way. Time was of the essence. She ran back to her car and grabbed her cell phone out of her purse. She keyed in 9-1-1. Moments later, a dispatcher asked for her emergency.

  “I’m on Highway 79 heading south in West Virginia. There’s a man in a car here having some sort of attack. A heart attack or something. He’s got a little boy in the car, and they need help.”

  “Please clarify your location. What exit are you near on 79?”

  Leslie felt her heart rate spike. Of course, it would be helpful if she could pinpoint her exact location so the ambulance could come quickly and pick them up. B
ut she had no idea. She hadn’t really been paying that much attention. She was just passing through.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m trying to think of the last exit I passed but I don’t remember.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait! I know.” She’d only been in West Virginia a half hour. “I crossed the state line from Pennsylvania about 30 miles ago.”

  “That’ll get us there. I’ve dispatched the ambulance and rescue squad. They should arrive in … about seven minutes. Meanwhile, can the patient hear you when you speak to him?”

  “No! He’s locked inside the car with a child. The boy’s freaking out and the man is unconscious.”

  “Please stay on the scene until the rescue squad arrives.”

  Leslie tucked the cell phone into her pocket and jogged back to the car. The boy had undone his seat belt and was kneeling sideways in his seat. Dad was thrusting and convulsing, a line of spittle trailing down his chin. The boy yelled through his tears, but the words were muffled behind the locked door and she couldn’t make out the meaning. But words didn’t matter. The boy was traumatized, that much was clear. Leslie’s love for children gave her an ache in her heart for this nameless, helpless child.

  She stayed, hands on the window, eyes peeled on the poor little guy inside and moments later, she heard sirens. When an ambulance pulled up behind the car, two uniformed men jumped out, quickly assessing the situation. One EMT grabbed a device and made quick work of slipping it into the car window and unlocking the door. The other pulled a stretcher out of the vehicle and rolled it to the driver’s side.

  As they hoisted the man out of the car, the two lifted him onto the stretcher and strapped him on. The man was moaning, unconscious, blood dripping out the corner of his mouth.

  The child stood, hunched over inside the car and hopped onto his dad’s now vacated seat. He sobbed, his eyes wide with terror. Leslie held a hand out to him. He startled and gazed up at her, confusion clear on his face.