Welcome to my reading room! During the winter months, I invite you to sit a spell and read a variety of free first chapters from my book selections.
The first one is taken from my novel, Masquerade, where an infertile woman grieves over a past abortion her husband knows nothing about. When she finally works up courage to tell him, tragedy strikes, followed by a surprise that leads her on a quest for answers.
~~
Schreiber, Indiana
September, 1983
CHAPTER ONE (Excerpt taken from my novel, Masquerade)
Regret barged into the bedroom and
refused to leave. Like one of the boxes Celeste had carried from their trailer
to their new house, a dark secret weighed heavy on her heart, especially in the
last year.
She surveyed the pile of cartons beside
the bed and located the one marked “Framed Pictures.” Tearing away the tissue
paper, she smoothed her hand over the cool glass surface lodged inside the
pewter frame, corners adorned with inlaid sapphires. A bride and groom smiled
back at her. Mr. and Mrs. Joe Tatem.
In spite of her dismal mood, she was
determined to enjoy her anniversary.
The heady aroma of English Leather
entered the bedroom as she studied the portrait. She spun around and faced her
husband. A silly grin ruffled his lips. She smiled and melted into Joe’s arms.
She reached up and pressed her index finger into the dimple in his chin.
“Okay, you can come out now.” His voice
teased her. “But first, put this on.” He gently turned her around and tied a
bandanna over her eyes.
“What are you up to, you big sneak?”
With one hand around her waist and the
other on her arm, Joe carefully guided her. Clutching the frame against her
chest, she felt the floor beneath her bare feet change from carpet to hardwood,
then back to carpet again.
Joe’s warm breath came near. His lips
met hers in a lingering kiss. Then he released the blindfold from her eyes.
“Happy Anniversary, Tater Tot!” His nickname for her ever since their dating days at Purdue University.
Her mouth flew open at the
display before her. Several pots of burgundy, yellow, and white mums wrapped in
shiny gold foil marked off a circle on the shag carpet. The wedding ring quilt
gifted by her grandmother on their wedding day rested on the floor inside the
circle. The room glowed with candles of varying sizes, too many to count, some
atop boxes, others on the floor. “Close to You” played softly on the stereo.
Joe eased the frame out of
Celeste’s hands and set it among the flowers, then swept his rough hands over her forehead and cheeks, finally
coming to rest on her shoulders. “Surprised?” His arms slipped around her
waist, and he pulled her close.
“Uh . . . very. When in the
world did you have time to buy all this and set it up?” With working extra
hours at Schreiber Metal Works, he’d barely had time to breathe, let alone plan
a celebration.
“Ah, have you forgotten? I’m
a man of many talents.” He waggled his dark eyebrows in a Groucho Marx
expression.
She frowned, fighting back
tears.
His hands slid down her
arms. “What’s wrong?” Lightly squeezing her palms, he stepped back, head
tilted, and studied her.
Heat filled her face. Their
fifth year wedding anniversary required something better than pizza, but with
the move and the beginning of a new school year, she’d been swamped with work.
“I didn’t have much time or energy to come up with something all that special.”
“What? No filet-Mignon? How
could you?” Mock horror swept over his face.
Determined not to be
outdone, she playfully slapped him on the arm and started for the kitchen.
“Wait right here”—hands splayed in front of her husband—“I’ll be right back.”
“No problem. I’ll just slip into something more
comfortable.” His eyes sparked, and excitement rippled through her body.
When she returned carrying a
heart-shaped pizza, he sat in the circle, one hand anchored on his right knee,
the other resting on his left thigh. At the sight of him, she almost dropped
the tray. Wearing silky boxer shorts, could he look any yummier?
“Come here, you.” His mouth
curled into a playful grin.
Kneeling, she set the
silver-plated tray between them. He gripped the back of her head and smothered
her lips with a kiss. A delightful tingle traveled from her head to her toes.
Joe released her and sat
back. “What’s this?” He stared at the pizza. “Creative. I Love You spelled out with my favorite topping, black olives.”
Using the pizza wheel, he cut two slices, handed one to Celeste, and bit into
the other. A cheese string trailed from his lips. When Celeste leaned over and
swept the gooey mozzarella from his chin, he caught her hand and kissed it.
Lips hungry for more, his mouth traveled down the side of her face. He blew a
raspberry into her neck. The stubble tickled her skin. Giggling, she scrunched
her head and shoulder.
She pushed on his chest.
“Calm down, lover boy. Let’s enjoy dinner first.”
He took another bite, his
gaze fastened on her. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Smells like the
beach.”
“It’s not perfume; it’s
lotion with cocoa butter.”
Reaching for her arm, he gently
buried his nose in her skin and breathed deeply. A satisfied sigh escaped his
lips. He plowed through another pizza slice, then smeared his hands on his
shorts.
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The record now over, he rose
to reset the needle for a second round of the Carpenters. He retrieved two wine
glasses and an ice bucket hidden behind the grouping of mums and lowered to the
floor across from Celeste. He spun the goblets and set them between them.
Warmth filled her heart. She
brushed the crushed ice away from the bottle. “Ooh, Barbaresco. I’m impressed.”
She lifted the bottle from its cradle, gripping the base with one hand and the
neck with the other. Seemingly out of nowhere, a haunting scene flashed before
her eyes.
Her mother pulled the covers
down, urged her into bed. Here, drink
this. Her severe face grew large like a character in a horror movie. It’ll help the pain go away . . . pain go
away . . . pain go away . . . away . . . away . . . Her voice echoed in
Celeste’s mind.
Joe reached for the bottle,
bumping her back to the present. “You’re sweating.” He peered at her face.
Celeste swiped her upper
lip.
“Brings back memories, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, don’t you
remember? Our honeymoon. The resort staff put a bottle of Barbaresco on our bed
along with two chocolate kisses.”
She blinked and ran a hand
through her shoulder length hair. “Of course.” She managed a wobbly smile,
torment cramping her abdominal muscles. In her mind, she shoved the skeleton in
her closet into an empty box and tossed it in the trash.
After using a corkscrew to
open the top, Joe poured a small amount into a glass. Swirling the red liquid
under his nose, he inhaled deeply. “Hmm . . . cherries, hickory, slightly hot
at first”— he flashed his eyes at her—“then spicy, not so different from you,
my love.”
“Let me taste that.” She
grabbed at the glass.
He stuck his hand out. “Not
so fast. These things take time.”
“What things?” Her husband
sure was dragging this out.
He poured a second glass and
handed it to her. Leaning forward, he crossed arms with her and took a sip.
“You know, just like at our wedding reception.”
“Yes, yes, I get it.” She
conjured up another smile and took a quick sip, then unhooked her arm and set
her glass down.
He puckered his brow. “You
seem fidgety.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Nothing. Maybe a little
anxious to—”
“You sly dog.” He shot her a
silly sideways glance.
She reached for her glass.
No timid sip this time. A swig filled her mouth and wormed its way down her
esophagus, settling into her stomach. Pain
go away . . . go away . . . go away. Jumping up, she ran from the room.
“Hey, where ya going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Rounding the corner of the living room into the kitchen, she nearly slipped on
the shiny hardwood. Once in the
bedroom, she maneuvered around several boxes and yanked open her vanity drawer.
She sorted through socks and underwear until she unearthed their wedding album.
The black nightie Joe had bought her on their first anniversary lay folded
beside a velvet box filled with costume jewelry.
She shrugged out of her baby
doll blouse and slacks. Anything to distract her mind. Pushing the pain of past
memories aside, she envisioned the look on Joe’s face when she stepped into the
living room wearing the lacy lingerie. The sight of her would certainly make up
for any momentary angst he might have detected earlier.
One final glance in the
vanity mirror, a quick swipe of soft plum lipstick to accentuate her porcelain
skin and jet-black hair, and she was set. Grabbing the album off the bed, she
slinked back to the living room.
“Whoa.” Joe’s mouth flew
open.
Sidling over to him, she
dropped to her knees and placed the album in front of them. He drew her close
and kissed her neck.
“Pictures first, remember,
like at our wedding.”
“No fair.”
“Look who’s talking. You’ve been dragging out this entire
evening way beyond frustration. Well, two can play this game.”
“Okay, okay.” He huffed and
sat back, hands limp in his lap.
“Look at this.” Celeste
pointed to a photo of the two of them standing under an archway in a late
summer garden. Eyes shining, she held a bouquet of white lilies. Pink and white
roses snaked around white latticework. “And the powder pink roses accented the
hot pink gowns my attendants wore—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He drew his
finger down her back as she leaned over the album.
“You’re not even looking,”
she huffed.
He snapped to attention.
“I’m looking already. I’m looking.”
“That’s more like it.”
Smirking, she turned the page. Four faces leapt off the page, her mother’s one
of them. Dread flooded her abdomen, spiraling her into a dark hole.
Closing the album, she laid
it aside.
“What?”
“You’re not interested
anyway.”
“Those are just pictures,
Celeste . . . uh, beautiful pictures, that’s for sure. But hey, I’ve got the
real thing right here. Let’s make some new memories, how ‘bout that?” He pulled
her into a warm embrace, then released her. Standing, he urged her to her feet,
wrapped his arms around her, and began to sway to the music. “Do you know how
beautiful you are?”
She couldn’t speak through
her tears. Wasn’t that the
same question he’d asked over and over again that weekend? The weekend that
changed her life forever?
###
Her hand on the banister, Sonya Miller
paused on the bottom step in the foyer and sucked in a sharp breath. This was
one of those days when she wondered if she’d survive to the end of the
homeschool year, and it was only September. Six kids, ages ten and under, kept
her mopping floors, grading papers, reading stories, and wiping noses.
She lowered to the step and scratched
Snarls, the family’s retriever, behind the ears. He panted and pawed at her
skirt. His shiny brown eyes tented by raised brows mirrored her worry.
“Are you as weary to the bone as I am?”
She offered a weak smile, rubbed his nose. “It’s okay, boy, we’ll manage
somehow.”
She gazed out the window. The last
golden rays of the sun gracefully bowed to the entrance of the full moon, and
still no Sam. How she wished her husband could give up the gas attendant job,
so he could spend more time at home. But they needed the extra income to make
ends meet. On top of that, the promised payroll increase at Harvester Foods
never materialized. Hopes raised, then mashed like a pile of boiled
potatoes.
Snarls nudged her hand, and she smiled
into his furry face. “I hate to complain,” she confided to her faithful friend.
“It’s uncomely, I know, especially for a woman. Besides, Sam keeps food on the
table and a roof over our heads.” She stroked Snarls’ back. “Without his
financial support, the family would be sunk. In all fairness, he does pitch in
around the house on occasion. A load of laundry here. A math lesson there.”
Feet pounded the floor overhead. Harsh
words erupted between her two eldest sons, then a door slammed.
She stood, her ear cocked toward the
upstairs racket. “Boys, I want you in bed by the time I get up there,” she
yelled, and Snarls barked in response.
“Yeah, you tell’em, boy.” She sighed,
pressed the small of her back, and trudged up the steps, Snarls skittering past
her. Her foot landed on a ball, and she grabbed the railing for support. A
sharp pain shot up her calf. Grimacing, she stooped and rubbed her ankle. How
many times had she told those kids not to leave toys on the stairs? Definitely
time to incorporate another safety lesson into health class, since many
household injuries, even deaths, stemmed from falls.
Better yet, apply a penalty for this
“ball” infraction. First, she’d have to root out the careless little culprit.
But not tonight. In the morning. Things always looked better in daylight.
She lifted her face to the high ceiling
of the old farmhouse stairwell. “Lord, bring Sam home . . . please,” she
muttered through clenched teeth.
Sam was a good husband, so why the
growing feelings of resentment? She forced her mind to wrap up in the thought
of his strong arms, her head pressed to his chest, ear absorbing the steady
rhythm of his heartbeat. A heartbeat they both shared.
More scuffling overhead, then a loud
thump. Another argument to arbitrate without Sam. If bodies didn’t litter the
floor by now, they would by the time she reached the boys’ room. She’d make
sure of that.
She reeled in her temper and plodded up
the remaining steps. Calm down, Sonya.
Deep breath. Counting to ten now.
At the top of the stairs, all was quiet
except for Tommy’s nasally breathing which sounded from his crib. She frowned.
Must be allergies again. She’d set up the vaporizer. Slipping a strand of hair
behind her ear, she peeked in the bedroom shared by two children. Lily knelt on
a mat and looked for something under her bed. When the floor creaked, she
turned her head toward Sonya. Eyes wide, she blinked slowly. “Pooh?” she said
in a loud whisper.
Sonya opened the closet and pulled out a
stuffed Winnie-the-Pooh from under a pile of toys. She helped Lily slide under
the covers, then sat on the bed and tucked the yellow bear with red shirt under
the little girl’s arm. “How ‘bout you keep Pooh on your bed instead of tossing
him in the closet?” Sonya pulled the covers up as Lily plunged under holding
her favorite toy.
“I not mix him in the closet.”
Seven-year-old Lily spoke with the mental acuity of a three-year-old.
“Mix him?”
Lily unplugged her thumb from her mouth.
“Like salad.”
Sonya snorted a soft laugh. “Right.” She
wove her fingers through the child’s curls. “You go to sleep now.”
Lily smiled around her thumb and clamped
her eyes shut. She was a dear little girl, but perhaps they’d jumped too
quickly when they signed on to be foster parents to a special needs child.
Certainly they had their hands full caring for their biological children. Yet
they’d always felt compassion for unwanted kids. Neither she nor Sam could
ignore that heart tug.
Lily’s eyelids flew open. “We forgot to
pray.”
“Yes, I guess we did.” Sonya had been
too tired to follow through with the family’s nightly ritual, which typically
took place right after supper.
“Let’s sing our prayer.” Lily maneuvered
to her knees, her eyes shining.
Sonya glanced over her shoulder at the
crib. Tommy, now awake, fingered his blanket and peered through the slats.
“Okay.” She scratched her head, sifting through her memory files for a song.
“When
I am Afraid, I Will Trust in God. Let’s sing that.” Still on her knees,
Lily bounced up and down on the mattress.
Sonya nodded. She couldn’t count how
many times Lily had reminded her to turn to God in the midst of fear. And she
was doing it again.
As Lily sang, Tommy clapped his chubby
hands. When she finished, she reached under her pillow and drew out a sheet of
white paper. Crooked letters formed with various crayon colors spelled Lily. She beamed and handed it to Sonya.
“Good job writing your name. I’ll post
this on the refrigerator.”
Lily flew into Sonya’s arms. For a few
seconds, the twosome rocked and hugged. Sonya breathed in the shampoo-sweetness
of the child’s hair. At last, they released one another, and Lily slithered
under the covers. “Night, Sonny.”
“Good night, Lily.” She smoothed the
child’s damp ringlets from her forehead. Passing the crib, she touched Tommy’s
plump cheek and covered him with his blanket. His chest rose and fell on a
sigh.
A scrubbing sound propelled Sonya to the
bathroom where six-year-old Mia and four-year-old Hannah stood on stools
brushing their teeth. Thankfully, they’d obeyed when she shooed them away from
the supper table and told them to get ready for bed. “About done, girls?”
Mouths foaming with toothpaste, the
girls nodded, spit into the sink, and stumbled over each other to get to the
towel. With a tap on their bottoms, Sonya sent them giggling out of the
bathroom and into their bedroom.
In the hallway, a light from Matthew’s
and Anthony’s room drew her attention. She uttered a silent prayer for grace.
Both boys lounged on their twin beds, one reading and the other fiddling with a
model airplane. Snarls lay in a ball at Matthew’s feet. Whatever argument had
previously taken place was either resolved or kept under tight wraps in mom’s
presence. Relieved, she tapped the doorjamb. “Lights out, boys.”
“Ah, can’t we stay up until daddy gets
home?” Anthony flung his hands onto the chenille bedspread. Ever the dramatic
one, her second son clung to Sam like a koala to a tree.
“Not tonight, honey. We’ve got another
school day tomorrow, and I want you rested.” She moved into the bedroom. “Now,
get under those covers and get to sleep.” She made a scooting motion with her
hands.
The boys groaned, but obeyed. Sure, they
scuffled at times, but didn’t all boys? They were good kids, really. Not much
to complain about on that score. But sometimes she felt like a single parent,
and single moms with six kids to teach and care for were sure to burn out
sooner or later. Nerves on edge, tears so close to the surface. She shouldn’t
be feeling this way so early in the school season, especially after the summer
break. Even though they couldn’t afford to take a vacation, they’d made up for
it with trips to the park and the lake, with enough snow cones sloshing around
in their bellies to carry them through to next summer.
She backed out of the bedroom, flicking
the light off as she exited. After checking to make sure Mia and Hannah were in
bed, she started down the stairs. She collapsed into the living room rocker and
stared out the window. How long she sat there she didn’t know. At last, the
front door pushed open and in walked Sam, apology stamped all over his face.
Something in her bristled, and she
fought against a rising tide of anger. Yes, she could fuss at him for not being
there to read a Bible story to the children, sing, and pray, but what sense
would that make? He couldn’t help it if he had to work late. If only she could
contribute somehow to the household income. Maybe that would ease her husband’s
workload and give him more time with the family.
But buying Sam more time with the kids
might cost Sonya her sanity. And the way she felt lately, it might not take
much to push her over the edge.
Masquerade available in paperback here.
Masquerade available as an ebook here.
