Since You've Been Gone
Page 1
PRAISE FOR SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GONE
Since You’ve Been Gone is one of those heart-stirring stories that makes us question everything we know to be true in life. At the same time it wakes us up, it also teaches us the power of resiliency and faith. As any good author manages to do, Christa Allan gives us the tools we need to move through the world with eyes wide open.
—Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Feathered Bone
Poignant and steeped in mystery, Since You’ve Been Gone will make you laugh, cry, and know God has a plan for us all.
—Liz Talley, RITA Award finalist and author of Charmingly Yours
Since You’ve Been Gone will grab your heart from the first line and won’t let go until the very last page. Christa Allan pens a beautifully written story of heartbreak and redemption that will stay with you long after you’ve closed the book. Incredible prose, characters who become your friends, and a tale that makes you laugh and cry. Allan is a master.
—Jenny B. Jones, award-winning author of Can’t Let You Go and A Katie Parker Production series
ALSO BY CHRISTA ALLAN
The Edge of Grace
Test of Faith
Threads of Hope
Walking on Broken Glass
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Christa Allan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Waterfall Press, Grand Haven, Michigan
www.brilliancepublishing.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Waterfall Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503937673
ISBN-10: 1503937674
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
To Michael, Erin, Shannon, Sarah, and John, who make this mother’s heart happy
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
My Granny Ruth says we always have choices about falling in love. So maybe you and I should have just fallen in like.
That would have been less painful and less expensive. Because, of course, the wedding and the reception still have to be paid for, even if nobody shows up.
Well, the rest of us showed up. But not you.
That qualifies as grounds for legitimate bridezilla anger.
When the phone shrilled at five o’clock that evening, there was a wisp of hope. Like the scent of perfume after someone’s walked through a room and, for as long as the fragrance lingers, you look around to see who’s there. But then it’s gone, and you know hope’s a memory.
An unrecognizable voice from an unrecognizable phone number said you’d been found.
Dead.
Fifty miles away. Headed in the opposite direction of the church.
And on the backseat of your car, a package wrapped in blue.
Baby-blue sailboats.
CHAPTER 1
Some people lead charmed lives. Lives that unfurl like endless bolts of silk.
I’m not one of them.
My hopsack life had snagged upon disaster. And, for the past month, the threads frayed faster than I could stitch them together.
The appointment I’d just finished left no doubt about the tangled mess ahead.
I found a bench outside the side entrance of the West Shore Medical Building, wished it wasn’t the middle of heatstroke-humidity June in New Orleans, and called Mia. Mia of the upscale bohemian wardrobe, wildly curly hair the color of wet sand, and funky rectangular violet eyeglasses. My best friend, who moved six hours away to Houston, has abandoned me in yet another crisis.
Please answer. Please answer. Please . . . don’t go to voicemail. By the fifth unanswered ring, I’d mashed the cell phone against my ear, jamming my earring post into my neck. My silent pleadings were on the verge of running out of my mouth when I heard her voice.
“Hey, Livvy. I’m with a client. When can I call you back?”
The more her design business increased, the more our ability to have conversations decreased. I couldn’t bake outside much longer. I was sweating in places I didn’t know existed. My mother would be mortified to know I was even thinking about such unladylike bodily functions.
“Sweetie, ladies don’t sweat,” she’d tell me, the word sah-wet dripping off her tongue like sour grape juice. “We glisten.” I learned to expect Gone with the Wind flashbacks from the woman whose mother named her Scarlett Ellen.
But sah-wetting would soon be the least of our lady issues, considering the news I was about to drop on Mia.
“I’m pregnant.” I held my breath, willed my somersaulting heart to steady itself, and waited for a sign of life on the other end of the phone.
“Hold on,” said Mia, her voice less chirpy. “Wait, no.” Her tone now impatient, her fingers probably drumming her desk. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
My anxiety on pause, I stood and peeled my damp cotton skirt away from my legs where the bench’s wrought iron slats had embedded themselves in my thighs. The nearby glass door groaned open, and a gaggle of scrub-dressed people spilled out, yammering about lunch options. The receptionist in Dr. Schneider’s office who’d scheduled my next appointment waved to me. I nodded and produced a suggestion of a smile. The least I could do for a woman I’d never met until an hour ago, who now knew more about me than my best friend and my parents.
Mia’s name flashed on my phone. I perched on the edge of the bench, and before she could speak, I said, “I’m pregnant.” Only this time the weight of the words settled in my throat like broken glass. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t believe this is happening to me. My life’s already a mess. Isn’t it somebody else’s turn?” I sounded like a person in the complaint department of humanity attempting to return a defective life.
But no. God dished the trifecta of trials and tribulations in my life. In the past month, Wyatt died on a highway (without leaving a clue as to where he was going), I traded wedding white for funeral black, and now, instead of being a wife, I was going to be a mother. I stopped wearing mascara twenty-eight days ago because I woke up every morning with a tear-stained pillow, cried during the day any time I thought of Wyatt (which was about every ten minutes), and cried myself to sleep at night. After today’s revelation, I didn’t expect I’d need eye makeup anytime soon.
“You’re still there, right?” I walked back inside the medical building, a closer source of cold air than my car on the far end of the parking lot.
“Olivia . . . I almost don’t know what to say.”
I knew Mia well enough to know she’d just said volumes.
“I’m not ready for this. I lost Wyatt, and today I found out part of him is still with me. How am I supposed to handle that?” I sat in a chair in the corner of the lobby and hoped I had something in my purse to wipe my already leaky nose.
If only I could be like Holly Hunter in Broadcast News and schedule my cathartic crying. My eyes dripped, my underarms dripped, and my emotional reserves dripped. All in a medical building lobby as I waited for Mia to come up with a plan, and I wiped my face with a crumpled Starbucks napkin. I counted on her to save me from myself. Now wasn’t the time for her to forgo the life vest when I was drowning in the sea of my own irresponsibility.
“I can only imagine how your parents will react when they hear this. When are you going to tell them?”
The door opened and ushered in the sultry heat and a woman with twins. Her “Sit there and don’t you dare move” resonated in the room, and even I shifted in my chair.
“I’m not sure. I need time to process this. What if I lose the baby? Maybe I should wait a few more weeks.”
I must’ve sounded as if I were asking for her permission because, even without seeing her, I knew I’d awakened her hand-waving, finger-pointing, mouth-spitting wrath. “And what if you don’t,” she snapped. “Postponing the inevitable is always an option. A dumb one. You have to tell them now.”
Reality fell over me like the sticky silkiness of a spider’s web. “Today? A few days? What’s the difference?” I’d lowered my voice so as not to be the main attraction for the audience of three seated near me. “It’s not like I’m a pregnant, unwed teenager who . . .”
“You’re right. You’re a pregnant, unwed twenty-eight-year-old.”
The bite in her voice pushed me against the chair. I picked at a loose thread on my skirt, nibbled my lower lip, and reminded myself to breathe.
“I’m sorry,” Mia said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That was mean of me. But in all the years I’ve known you, your first reaction is to procrastinate. And it’s your worst one because you make yourself and me crazy with all your what-if scenarios.”
“I know. I know.” She made me face my fears but somehow managed to soften the blow. I hated and admired her for that.
“I’m sorry to do this, but I have to get back to Mrs. Nicholls. I told her that while I was taking your call she should pull fabrics she sensed would increase the positive energy in her home. At the price per yard she’s looking, her husband may feng shui me into another universe,” she said, her wit as sharp as her style. “Go talk to your parents. Call me after you do, okay?”
I promised her I would because she’d be relentless if I didn’t. I dropped the phone into my purse, looked up, and made eye contact with one of the twins. She sucked her thumb, forefinger hooked over her nose like a hanger, lids half-drawn shades over her eyes.
I envied her quiet contentment.
Every day since Wyatt died, a tsunami of grief assaulted me, sent me crashing into memories, and sucked my dreams away in its undertow. I didn’t know when or how I’d ever experience the soft swell of happiness and comfort without him.
CHAPTER 2
Mia, her future husband, Bryce, and I met during our freshman year at Louisiana State University when we waited tables at the Magic Mushroom. By day, it was an unassuming, though always quirky, eatery that New Agers could’ve hung out in for personal transformation, social consciousness, and gourmet pizzas with names like Aura Artichoke.
As soon as the sun set, the football crowds, karaoke singers, and book-weary students getting turnt up for the weekend guaranteed generous tips. Most of the time, being there didn’t seem like work at all. Bryce said some nights he felt like he was earning money just for hanging out with his friends.
After graduation, I moved home for a summer internship with a public relations firm. Bryce and Mia married in August, then moved to Houston where he worked saving the environment, and she opened a design studio to decorate habitats in the environments her husband saved.
And two years later, I met Wyatt, whose first words to me were “Excuse me, would you care for a mushroom stuffed with walnuts and pesto?” Well, he actually spoke to Bryce, Mia, and me, because we were together at the second annual Hope House charity art auction. The center provided support services for abused children.
Bryce, who knew firsthand what those kids experienced, was a generous contributor. Mia and Bryce had donated the catering, which was being provided by his younger brother, Colin, who’d started the business the year before.
My boyfriend at the time, Evan Gendusa, predictably unpredictable, had begged off hours before to study for his bar exam. I was certain he meant as in law. Bryce disagreed. “Stools, Livvy. He meant barstools.” Either way, I wasn’t invested enough anymore to care. A shame, really, considering he turned more heads than I did when we’d walk into a room. We’d known each other since high school, and his parents and mine were friends. We had been together over a year. I couldn’t compete for attention with his ego or his law classes.
Being dateless turned out to be perfect. I could devote all my eye time to Wyatt.
On his next pass, Wyatt served mini crab cakes and nodded in Bryce’s direction to ask if my husband would want one. Bryce, engaged in an intense discussion of ping drivers and his improved golf game, wouldn’t have known what his own wife wanted much less her friend.
My lips slid into a smile—like the ones I’d seen in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue because with those bodies, who wouldn’t flirt with the camera —and I told him Bryce was my friend’s husband. When he walked away, I checked my mirror to make sure remnants of spinach phyllo weren’t wedged between my teeth.
Later, as Mia brushed spring roll crumbs from the top of her baby bump, landing zone for whatever missed her mouth, she asked, “That waiter over there,” tilting her head toward Wyatt. “Is he worried you’re too thin? You seem to stay in his flight path.”
“He’s sweet. And, come on, he’s not hard to look at, either. What’s not to like about a man with blue eyes?” And thick, wavy black hair that just brushed his collar, a grin that could melt chocolate, and a body made for biceps. Of course, I’d have to take that starched white tuxedo shirt off, one button at a time, to know for sure . . .
“Hel-lo, Miss What’s Not to Like Over There.” Mia waved her hands in front of me. “How about . . . he’s a waiter?” She said waiter like it was synonymous with drug dealer. “For all you know, he has someone like me”—she paused to pat her belly—“waiting at home.”
Wyatt himself, the possible philandering druggie, saved me from answering by swooping in with a tray of desserts. “Ladies?” He offered an array of coma-inducing indulgences.
Mia reeled in a towering brownie, a slab of red velvet cheesecake, and a mini éclair. “Olivia, do you want somet
hing from . . . I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” Wyatt’s eyes met mine for the length of a heartbeat, then he smiled at Mia. “My name’s Wyatt.”
“No, thanks.” Adorable. I glanced at his left hand. No ring. Not even an untanned suggestion of one. I tipped my wineglass in Mia’s direction. “I’ll share hers.”
Mia glared at me. “Only if the baby’s full.” She slid a benign fruit tart off the tray and handed it to me. “Just in case.”
Sometimes with Mia, resistance is futile. I held the tart on my lap like a bomb that would detonate if I moved. One blueberry toppling onto my dress, and I would explode.
Wyatt lingered for a moment, but no chance was I navigating this tart to my mouth while he stood in front of us. His eyes grazed me. My skin shivered watching him. Then he said, “Enjoy,” and turned to the next table.
“Was he referring to the dessert or your staring at him?” Mia examined the éclair as if it might be defective, then sent it down to the baby. “You’re actually blushing. Hormonal adolescent jolt?” She looked at me wide-eyed, as if she hoped the answer weren’t the one she suspected.
I relocated the tart to the table, stood and smoothed the front of my gown, and scanned the crowd for a broad-shouldered waiter with ink-black hair. “I’m getting a drink. Want anything?” And without waiting for her to answer, I said, “It’s been months since I’ve been able to engage in harmless ogling. Really, where could this go?”
Mia shrugged. “Bryce was a waiter when I met him. That’s where it could go.”
The three of us stayed after the auction officially ended so Bryce could talk to Colin. That’s how we learned Wyatt and Colin were friends. They’d met during high school, then later worked together as cooks at a French Quarter hotel. When Colin left to start his catering business, Wyatt offered to help.
The next morning Bryce and Mia had reservations for the Sunday jazz brunch at the Court of Two Sisters. Colin had invited Wyatt, and the night before, I had invited myself when Mia told me their plans.
I met them at their hotel. Bryce opened the door, looked at his shoeless wife, and tapped his watch. “Reservations, remember?”