All Who Dream (Letting Go)

by Deese, Nicole

  All Who Dream

  Letting Go Series

  Book Three

  By Nicole Deese

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Nicole Deese

  www.nicoledeese.com

  Okay Creation Cover Designs

  © Sarah Hansen

  www.okaycreations.net

  Represented by Jessica Kirkland of The Blythe Daniel Agency

  www.theblythedanielagency.com

  All Who Dream is dedicated to my baby sister,

  Aimee Brooke Thomas.

  (July 26, 1987 to November 25, 2013.)

  Aimee loved beyond limit, laughed without restraint, and believed that every dream was a gift from above.

  You were our gift, Aimee.

  I love you.

  Prelude

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Special Thanks

  Author Bio

  More From Nicole Deese

  Prelude

  All Who Dream

  There’s a time and place for dreaming

  A melody within life’s meaning

  You search and seek and pray and pine

  Yet in the end its hope you’ll find

  Some days are bleak while others bare

  Some feel rooted in deep despair

  But don’t lose faith and don’t lose sight

  For dreams will come to those who fight

  If chance is slim and risk is great

  Remember the reward at stake

  The test is found in how you fail

  For joy itself cannot turn stale

  This truth and hope act as a team

  They light a path for all who dream

  Prologue

  Since the day I found out I was pregnant, there was one prayer that never strayed far from my lips.

  Just. One. Prayer.

  “God, please protect my son.”

  It was a typical Tuesday night. I had locked down the house, closed the curtains, and rearranged the leftovers in the fridge, when I noticed my brother’s wallet on the countertop. Shaking my head, I slid the heap of worn leather into the top drawer, and flicked off the kitchen lights. Briggs might be a fireman by trade, but his reputation for misplacing personal belongings predated that superhero status by two decades. I texted him to let him know.

  Padding through the quiet house and down the hall, I pushed away my nausea with a cleansing breath. I hated the darkness of night, especially without the security of my brother nearby.

  Though I’d escaped the hand of Dirk Luterra two years ago, the prison of paranoia that held me now was almost as bad. Almost.

  Trailing my fingers across Cody’s door as I passed, I whispered, “We are safe here, son.” But even as I said it, I knew safety was only an illusion—a vapor easily diffused.

  Just before the thick haze of sleep lured me deeper beneath my comforter, I heard it.

  The heavy scrape of boots plodding up the porch steps.

  One did not forget the sound of terror.

  A scream keened in my head, but an invisible band gripped my throat and refused to let the sound leave my lungs. The same band seemed to wrap my entire body. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe . . . Cody!

  As if shot from a catapult, I lunged from the bed and snatched my cell off the side table. Phone clutched in my fist, I raced for the nursery. Chills clawed up my legs as my bare feet slapped the wood floor in sync with my heartbeat.

  Darting into Cody’s room, I slammed the door behind me. At the sharp sound, a whimpery gasp came from the crib. A crash of wood splintering erupted from the living room, turning my knees to gelatin. I sagged, leaning the weight of my body against the closed door.

  Arm shaking, I lifted my phone and punched in 9-1-1. My breathing rasped in my ears as the call went through. A brisk voice answered, requesting the nature of my emergency.

  “Please help us—”

  A heavy weight rammed the door panel, and I was flung across the room, phone slipping from my hand and skittering under the rocking chair.

  Dirk.

  I sprang to my feet and ran toward Cody, to throw myself on top of him—to shield him. But Dirk was quicker. His fingers gripped my arms, and I imagined my bones snapping within his grasp.

  “Found you, Angela.” The moonlight that peeked through the curtain revealed the familiar hollowness of addiction in his eyes, and the soulless timbre of his voice sent prickles up my spine.

  He slammed me into the wall again, my head throbbing and blurring my vision as a metallic substance coated my tongue. The world tilted; I fought to stay alert.

  He leaned over the crib and ice seized my chest. Cody whimpered at the rough awakening. Grabbed at the waist, Cody was flung over Dirk’s shoulder like a sack of garbage. He stalked out of the bedroom, heading toward the fractured front door.

  I staggered to my feet despite the aching in my skull. “You can’t take him!”

  Dizzily, I stumbled after him, tripping down the porch as a familiar warmth oozed down my neck. He yanked open his truck door, ignoring my pleas and tossed my toddler inside. Cody shrieked with arms outstretched.

  I lunged at Dirk.

  He fisted my hair and crushed my back to his chest. While his arm tightened around my throat, I blinked rapidly, refusing the pull of unconsciousness as long as possible.

  “Angie!”

  A voice called my name in the distance—a voice so familiar I wanted to weep at the sound. Briggs! I’m here! I dug my nails deeper into Dirk’s forearm, begging God for Cody’s life as something sharp pierced my side. Hot agony speared through me.

  Chaos ravaged my mind and body as I slumped to the ground. But as quickly as the pain came, it was gone.

  A quiet assurance pulsated in its wake.

  I’m going to die.

  I forced my lips to move as the darkness descended over me like a heavy quilt.

  “God, please protect my son.”

  Chapter One

  -Six Years Later-

  I don’t belong here.

  With each clipped step I took across the marble floors of Pinkerton Press, I believed this more and more. Straightening my thrift-shop skirt for the millionth time, I stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for th
e twentieth floor. Closing my eyes, I wished my phobia of plunging to my death while inside an elevator shaft could take a rain-check today. My mind was far too pre-occupied to think about that right now. Besides, there are worse ways to die…

  I fought to regulate my breathing as the mirrored coffin rose, but suddenly my stomach—which had been left on the first floor—caught up with the rest of my body, twisting into a sick knot when the doors opened. I touched the pendant at my neck and walked toward the receptionist’s desk. A woman with the reddest hair I’d ever seen sat fiddling with a computer on the opposite side.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you. I have an appointment to see Mrs. Bradford.”

  “Oh, you must be Angela Flores. You are even prettier in person! You certainly don’t look like you could have an eight-year old son.” She smiled wide. “Just a sec…I’ll see if Dee is ready for you.” The redhead picked up the phone and hit a series of buttons.

  “Oh, uh…thank you.” I gulped my anxiety back down.

  The past couple of weeks had been interesting, to say the least. Winning a radio contest I didn’t enter—compliments of my best friend, Rosie—for my single parenting blog had come as quite a surprise. But even more than that…the popularity that seemed to spread overnight was beyond dumbfounding. I had stopped looking at the number of followers after the first few days. The figures made my palms sweat so badly I could hardly type a fresh entry.

  And being recognized at the grocery store by a stranger who read my blog? That was beyond strange.

  At twenty-nine, I didn’t exactly feel old, but if age was measured by life experience alone, I’d be an antique by now. Self-consciously, I lifted a hand to my blonde hair, smoothing back the flyaway strands that had surely sprouted during the windy walk through the parking lot.

  “Right this way, Miss Flores.”

  I followed the receptionist down the hall where she stopped in front of a swanky office. I hauled in a long, shaky breath. An explosion of wealth and success lay just beyond this portal. My heart knocked hard against my ribs as the receptionist ushered me inside.

  “Miss Flores, please come in,” said a striking woman I assumed was Dee Bradford. “Thank you, Sylvia. You may go.”

  The soft click of the door behind me propelled me forward.

  “I’m Dee Bradford, but you may call me Dee.” Dee extended her manicured hand for me to shake.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Dee, and thank you,” I said.

  “Please have a seat, we have much to discuss.”

  Dee’s hair was white as the clouds and wafted around her wrinkle-free face in artfully arranged waves, she had to be well into her 60s. Yet, nothing about her seemed “old.” She was a classy sort of beautiful, slender figure wrapped in a navy skirt suit that branded her both professional and stylish. Her makeup was understated and impeccable. I hoped I could age half as gracefully at that.

  I eased into the leather chair across from her desk and took in the view through windows that lined three-quarters of her office. Dallas was not known for its scenic charm, yet from this elevation, the skyline was breathtaking. Dee cleared her throat, and I brought my attention back to her face. She smiled at me, and my cheeks grew warm.

  “It’s a unique view of Dallas from up here, isn’t it?”

  “Quite. I’m not much of a city gal, but if I saw this kind of view every day I think I could be easily converted.”

  Dee laughed and leaned back in her chair to cross her legs.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you, Miss Flores—may I call you Angela?”

  “Angie will be just fine, thank you.”

  Indeed I was wondering why she had called me to meet with her.

  “I am quite connected when it comes to the voices in this city, Angie. It’s my job to know the latest trends and movements, as you could imagine. Many well-known authors have sat in that very chair you occupy now.”

  I nodded hesitantly. How else could I respond when I couldn’t yet make heads or tails of where this conversation was going?

  “A good friend and old colleague of mine is the owner of The Edge 102.5,” she continued. “He insisted I read your blog. He claimed what I would find within your entries was a rare and deeply connected portrayal of a single mother. And while I hesitate to call your writing addictive, I will say we want you, Angie.

  “We are launching a campaign this summer—one focused primarily on families. Not only does Pinkerton Press have interest in publishing your blog into book format, we also want you to represent this generation of single moms.”

  She paused, gaze wide and focused, as if she could see my head spinning right off my shoulders.

  “Excuse me?” I rasped, my heart making strenuous efforts to beat right out of my chest.

  Smiling, she rose and moved to perch onto the edge of her desk.

  “We would like you to join our publicity tour in New York City, as well as several other locations on the East Coast, this summer. Though we would put a rush on the publication of your book, it wouldn’t hit bookstores until late fall. So in the meantime, you would be meeting, representing, speaking, and interviewing as a contracted author with Pinkerton. You have what we’re looking for, Angie.”

  I shook my head. “But my son—”

  “We’ve planned on you bringing him. This may be unusual protocol for us, but I am almost never wrong about people. What I’m offering you is a six-week, all expenses paid opportunity to connect with other mothers who desperately need what you possess. And if that’s not enough…we’d like to offer you a ten thousand dollar advance.”

  My eyelids nearly fluttered off my face. Surely, I hadn’t heard what I thought I heard.

  “I can give you until Friday to decide,” Dee went on. “We can go over contract terms and specifics if and when you decide to proceed. I can assure you I will personally see to your arrangements while on tour.” She stood up. “Please don’t hesitate to call me with any questions.”

  Questions? I could hardly think through the haze of dollar signs in my mind. Ten thousand dollars was a third of what I made all year. I could catch up on a lot of bills…pay rent ahead of schedule…afford for Cody to attend soccer camp in July.

  But this is crazy. I can’t be a spokesperson for single moms!

  I swallowed. “I…I’ll call you by Friday. Thank you, Dee.”

  I wavered to my feet and allowed her to walk me to the door.

  Her gentle tone purred as she turned toward me, eyes locking with mine. “I was a single mom for nearly ten years. Don’t underestimate what your voice could do for others. I surely don’t.”

  **********

  For being five-foot nothing and less than a hundred pounds, my best friend, Rosie, gave hugs that could double as a chiropractic adjustment.

  “You made a decision yet?” Rosie unwrapped her arms from my waist and immediately began straightening chairs for tonight’s meeting in the community room at Hope Church.

  I followed suit in the row behind her. “No, I haven’t, just like I’ve told you for the last two days,” I replied.

  She huffed. “Well, I don’t see what you’re waiting for. This is the best thing ever to happen to you, Ang. I mean, hello, Briggs and Charlie even offered to fly to New York to bring Cody back home for his soccer camp. And Carol told you she would give you whatever time off you needed at the flower shop. You have no excuses. Nada.”

  “I’m not trying to come up with excuses, Rosie-”

  She whirled around, hands gesturing as wildly as her little Latina mouth could speak. “Yes you are. Every time I call you, you give me a new reason why leaving is a bad idea. Be honest with yourself Angie, you’re scared. And I can understand that. You have a lot to consider when it comes to you and Cody, but you know what my mother always said?”

  Rosie loved to quote people. I shook my head.

  “God never wastes an opportunity.”

  **********

  An hour la
ter, I peered out into a sea of faces, some I recognized, but many I did not.

  Over the last several years the numbers had gone from a mere twenty to upwards of two hundred on any given Wednesday night. It was humbling; it was beautiful.

  I walked to the center of the small stage and opened my journal, my stomach knotting as I prepared to share. No matter how many times I spoke on a Wednesday night, this part never got easier.

  I cleared my throat. “Welcome to The Refuge. My name is Angela Flores and I’m a survivor of domestic abuse. If you’re new here tonight, please know that all of us have had a first time and that you’re in a safe place. Five years ago I took a seat in the back, wishing my life had turned out differently. I was hurting, and broken, and very confused. But I found hope here…and healing, though sometimes old mindsets die hard.” I looked into Rosie’s face in the crowd. She winked at me. “Tonight is your chance to start over, to reclaim peace and freedom in your life. I wrote a poem several years ago I would like to share with you. It’s called, The Last Time.

  The Last Time

  “When the last time is the last time, you’ll know it in your heart.

  You’ll know the dream that crumbles when your world’s been torn apart.

  When the last time is the last time, you’ll feel it in your soul.

  You’ll deny the pull of darkness for a light that makes you whole.

  When the last time is the last time, you’ll run for safety’s haven.

  You’ll run from all the pain and loss, and for the life worth saving.

  When the last time is the last time, you’ll let out a victor’s cry.

  You’ll hear redemption call your name, and peace no more shall die.”

  I handed the microphone off to the next speaker and made my way down the steps. This was not a place for clapping and carrying on, but of silent affirmation. Heads nodded around me. As I made my way toward the back of the room, several hands reached out and clasped mine.