by CeeCee James
Wrecked and Yours Trilogy
A Second Chance Love Story
CeeCee James
Contents
Wrecked and Yours
Copyright
Dedication
1. Present Day
2. ~June, Seven Years Earlier~
3. ~June Seven Years Earlier~
4. Present Day
5. Present Day
6. ~Homeless~
7. ~Homeless~
8. Present Day
9. ~Homeless~
10. Present Day
11. Present Day
12. Present Day
13. ~Homeless~
14. ~Homeless~
15. Present Day
16. Present Day
17. ~Homeless~
18. Present Day
19. Present Day
20. Present Day
21. Present Day
22. Present Day
23. Present Day
24. Present day
25. Present Day
26. Present Day
27. Present Day
28. Present Day
Out of the Wreckage
Dedication
1. Jason, Sixteen Years Old
2. Summer-Present day
3. Summer
4. Summer
5. Summer
6. Jason 16 years old
7. Jason 16 years old
8. Summer Present Day
9. Summer
10. Summer
11. Summer
12. Summer
13. Autumn
14. Autumn
15. Autumn
16. Autumn
17. Autumn
18. Autumn
19. Autumn
20. Autumn
21. Autumn
22. Autumn
23. Autumn
24. Autumn
25. Winter
26. Winter
27. Winter
28. Winter
29. Winter
30. Winter
31. Winter
32. Spring
33. Spring
34. May
Copyright
Kisses in the Snow
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Wrecked and Yours
Copyright © 2016 CeeCee James
All rights reserved. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or institutions is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 1516879600
ISBN-13: 978-1516879601
Printed in the USA
I love you more than I could ever say ~333~
.…to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…. Isaiah 61:3
1
Present Day
Miranda’s red Jeep jolted over the last few potholes of the dirt driveway. A cloud of dust rolled past the vehicle and up to the front door.
“There goes my surprise attack,” she whispered, staring up at the house. It appeared empty, with its windows dark in the bright sunlight, but she knew he was there. His rust-covered Chevy truck was parked beside the old barn.
She flipped down the rear view mirror and rubbed away the mascara smears, then flicked her brown hair off her shoulders. Sighing, she opened the car door. She started to slam it, but then the bravado drained away. Instead, she shut it quietly and leaned against it momentarily for support before squaring her shoulders and walking up the porch steps.
The windows reflected the images of the trees behind her, making it impossible to see inside. She paused, letting her fingers trail down the back of one of the rocking chairs. Memories flashed through her mind of Uncle Stew sharing an army story. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that threatened to erupt. Get a grip. Not now.
Miranda pushed away the memories and the fear of rejection, and yanked open the screen door. A smile crept across her lips at the familiar squeak. Uncle Stew left the house to me too; he can't kick me out. She rapped on the door.
Silence.
She banged again.
Nothing. Placing her hands on her hips, she gritted her teeth. “Jason! I know you’re in there.”
Still nothing.
“Your truck’s out here. I know you’re home!” Her voice echoed back and suddenly she was embarrassed. My gosh, what if he’s in the shower? Asleep? Out in the barn?
Then she heard footsteps, moving heavy and purposefully from inside the house.
Miranda’s heart sped up like a race car.
The door flew open with a crash, and Jason stood there. Menace came off of him in a wave. He popped his neck with a crack and then casually leaned against the frame, blocking the entrance.
They had once been friends. It’d been nearly two years since the funeral, when she last saw him. Then he’d been scruffy, silent, and in need of a hair cut. He looked the same now, his dark hair curling slightly at his collar line.
“Long time no see, Miranda,” he said, after a few seconds ticked by.
“Jason.” She nodded and gripped her purse more firmly to her side.
“So, what brings you this way?” he asked, his gaze raking over her, taking in her short summer dress. “Planning to stay awhile, or are you just passing through?”
Miranda cleared her throat. She hadn’t expected to make her case standing like a vacuum salesman on the front porch. “Any news about Cassie?”
“Oh, you’re here for your sister?” Jason tipped his head and gave a sarcastic laugh. “You abandoned us for the last two years, remember? Left her with me when she was sixteen years old. That was some messed-up teenage crap you put me through. Now you’re back to play big sister?”
“Just tell me what you know.”
His lips tightened. “She’s in a coma. She sure could have used you a few weeks ago.”
“I just found out, Jason.”
“Yeah, kind of hard to keep track of people when you’re on the run, huh?”
“Listen, you going to let me in or what?”
Jason stared at her for another second before taking a small step back. With a grandiose sweep of his arm he gestured. “By all means.”
Miranda walked in. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light of the room. Everything looked just about how she remembered. She took a deep sniff, appreciating the familiar scent of fruit and Pine-Sol. There was a new couch dividing the kitchen from the living room. After a second look at it, she rethought the word “new.” Jason must have gotten it from the Goodwill because it was well beat-up. She turned to examine the kitchen. Same worn spots on the counters, same holes in the vinyl floor. A bowl of wrinkly oranges on the counter.
Harsh barking erupted down the hall, the kind that meant the dog was taking no prisoners, along with a frantic scrabble of toe-nails on the hardwood floor. Miranda quickly stepped behind the kitchen island. She peered down the hall, her eyes wide. A large, black dog bounded around the corner with his mouth open, red and toothy. Miranda clutched her purse in front of her as a sort of defense and tottered backwards on her high heels.
“Archer!” Jason yelled. “Archer, heel.” The dog came slowly forward, the hair raised on the back of his neck. A deep growl rumbled from his chest.
“N-Nice dog, good
boy,” Miranda faltered, waggling her fingers. Archer was not impressed, and his growls exploded into staccato barks at her gesture.
“Hey! Cool it.” Jason walked over to the dog and tousled his head. “She’s okay. Chill out, boy. Sit.” Archer obediently thumped his bottom on the floor, still watching Miranda with a suspicious stare.
“Will he bite?”
Jason smirked. “Miranda, it’s Archer.”
She glanced at him with raised eyebrows.
“The puppy I got after Uncle Stew died. You don’t remember him?”
Miranda studied the dog again. “He looks a lot different from when I last saw him.”
“Yeah, well that will happen after a few years.” Jason’s half-smile fell off his face. He snapped his fingers at the dog. “Come on, play nice.”
She gingerly walked over, her ankles feeling weak after her quick scoot behind the counter. Carefully she extended her hand towards him. “Hi Archer.”
Archer stretched out his neck to give her fingers a small sniff. Miranda shivered at his wet nose, not wanting to see teeth again. After a moment, Archer pulled away and panted up at Jason.
“Good boy. See. I told you it was okay.” Jason rubbed behind his ears. “He’s been acting a little nutso since Cassie’s been in the hospital. Haven’t you, boy?”
“He seems like a great dog.” Miranda shrugged her purse back up her shoulder.
“Yeah, he is.” Jason walked behind her towards the sink. “Super loyal,” he shot over his shoulder.
She swallowed. “So, my bedroom still in the same place?”
Jason flipped on the faucet and filled a glass. “Yep. Just like you left it, along with everything else.”
Miranda sighed and turned toward the stairs. She’d have to talk to him about it another time.
She took a big breath as she climbed the staircase, and winked back tears. Throughout the years she and her sister had taken more than one trip flying down the bannister.
Her sister’s bedroom was on the right. Oh Cassie, she hung her head. What have I done?
At the doorway of her own room, she paused and set the suitcase down. The memories hit her like a gut punch: the rose-embroidered counterpane on the single bed, her white dresser in the corner with its one wonky drawer not quite pushed in, the toy monkey she’d won at the fair slung over the bedstead.
She walked over to the dresser and shimmied the drawer the rest of the way open. A pencil rolled to the front, but otherwise it was empty. Miranda remembered the day she’d emptied it, tossing all her clothes into a duffle bag before anyone else returned home. A lump rose in her throat, and she shoved the drawer closed.
The next drawer, and then the next, were both empty. Miranda pulled the last drawer out completely. Climbing down to her knees, she leaned to peer inside. Resting on the floor was a dusty spiral book. She reached in to get it, grimacing a little at the dust on her fingers.
She carried it into the connecting bathroom, still pink from the original 1950s tile work. There was a quarter roll of toilet paper and an ancient bar of cracked soap at the sink. She unspooled a bit of the paper and wiped the notebook clean.
Turning it over in her hands, she mouthed the words she’d inked there as a young teen in large flourishing letters: Where is Home?
Miranda blinked at the tears that came and walked back to the bed. Sitting on the edge, she opened up the notebook.
“Today is June 19th, and I am fifteen,” were the first letters scrawled across the top of the page. Everything around her faded as Miranda continued to read. The words came faster and faster until the memory spun like a movie behind her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m finally here.”
2
~June, Seven Years Earlier~
“Today is June 19th and I am fifteen years old. I can’t believe I’m finally here.” Miranda paused in the middle of writing and scratched at a scab on her knee, left over from jumping on the train last week. The sharp pain made her wince, and she glanced at it. The corner was bleeding again.
Outside, she could hear ten-year-old Cassie calling to the dog. Miranda swallowed over the lump in her throat, and returned the tip of the pencil to the paper.
Dear Diary, When I was a little kid I really thought I knew things. When my dad called me downstairs for dinner that night I wouldn’t answer him. I was so mad he’d made me watch Cassie again, and I couldn’t go to the movies with my friends. They were going to see Clueless. Everyone from school was talking about it.
I thought he'd always be there.
Oh crap, I’m sorry Diary, I can’t start at the beginning. Because the beginning is too sad. I’ll start at the end. I’m here, at Mr. Stewart’s place, or Uncle Stew as he wants us to call him. I made it. Not exactly the place I intended to go, but it turned out for the best. I got Cassie here safe, too. Some day I’ll tell you it all, diary.
Anyway, some bad things happened, and Cassie and I had to run. Some really bad things happened.
* * *
There was just Dad, Cassie, and Miranda for a long time. Mom had gone to be with the angels, as Grandma told Miranda when she was five. For years she’d never understood what Grandma meant. She’d asked her dad once, “Why would Mom want to go play a harp in the sky with some crummy angels, when she had me and Cassie?”
He’d asked her where she’d heard that, and then he’d called Grandma a crazy, old loon. “Your mother would have never left you guys. Not if she had a choice.” He’d held her close and whispered, “Things sometimes happen where people don’t have a choice, baby girl.”
It was rare that he connected with her like that. Her dad had always seemed like half a person, for as long as Miranda had known him. He’d laugh and talk with his kids, but his eyes held a far-away cast, like he was watching for something on the horizon that no one else could see. She’d even joked about it with him once, “What is it you keep looking for, Dad?” He’d shaken himself a bit, as if to wake up, and then smiled at Miranda, “Oh just searching for the meaning of it all, Chickee. It’s out there somewhere.”
Then he was gone, and now Miranda sat in the front row of the church. Cassie reached over and grabbed her hand. Her eyes appeared too big for her thin face and her blonde hair was harshly parted by white scalp into two, stiff braids.
Miranda frowned at the sight. “Who did your hair?”
Cassie sidled closer. “Sara Beth’s mom,” she whispered back.
Miranda glanced behind her, where Sara Beth sat with her parents. Sara Beth’s mom was a large woman who wore a paisley silk shirt tied into a bow under the last of her chins. Her eyebrows wrinkled into an exaggerated sad face when she saw Miranda watching them. She reached over to pat Miranda’s shoulder. “Such brave girls.” Her hand felt moist through Miranda’s shirt, and she struggled with the urge to fling it off.
Miranda turned back around and studied the front of the church, her gaze settling for the first time on the wooden box, festooned with flowers, that held her father’s ashes. A wave of dizziness overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes and pictured her tree.
The tree was her refuge. About a mile from her home, it had been her hope in times of turmoil inside the little white-planked house on the hill. It was her hiding place when the boys at school teased her and called her ugly. She’d hide in the fork in its branches and pretend her hair hung in long sheets and someone on the ground was calling to her to toss it out so he could climb up and rescue her. She was too old for such stupid thoughts, but they comforted her.
The projector screen flashed with smiling pictures of Miranda’s dad. Cassie held tight to her hand, only sniffling occasionally.
“Those girls are so brave,” people whispered around them. Their sympathy cut like a knife in Miranda’s soul.
They didn’t know what she knew, what she couldn’t confess even to herself.
She’d killed her family.
Or, rather, her secret did. Because once her dad knew what his brother had tried to do to her on that dark night, the s
hadows around his eyes deepened. She’d regretted the words almost as soon as they came out of her mouth. Her dad couldn’t deal with another loss of a family member, the loss of a brother. He couldn’t deal with life ripping the rug out from under him again.
He’d gone out two nights later, supposedly to talk to Uncle Vince. The police blamed a drunk driver for pushing her dad off the road, but Miranda knew better. Her dad wasn’t alert, even more distracted than usual because of her secret. Her heart ached with a desire to wind back time.
She would have never told.
After the funeral, there was the sickening glut of people who lined the hallway wanting to pat Miranda’s back sympathetically. From the kitchen in the rear of the building came the clanking of dishes and the smell of lasagne. Miranda felt bile rise in her throat at the scent of the food. People passed her from person to person, each shaking her hand, hugging her close, and then handing her to the next.
Uncle Vince went down the line of mourners behind her. His face held stiff in a picture of stoic grief. Miranda shuddered as he caught her eye, and thought she might lose the fight against the bile.
“Miranda.” The corners of his mouth turned down and he reached out his arms for a hug. She took a step back. Frowning slightly, he stepped forward and forced her into the hug. “You’re doing so well.” And then, leaning in, he exhaled into her ear. “With those gorgeous blue eyes, you look so much like your mother.”
She pushed herself away, every part of her feeling dirty.
Miranda saw Cassie talking with her friend in the connecting hallway. Grabbing her sister, she whispered, “I need to go to the bathroom. Stay with Sara Beth. Do not be alone with anyone.” Sara Beth was a miniature version of her mother. She clung to Cassie’s arm with what appeared to be pink, moist hands, too.
Miranda hurried toward the bathroom. Crowds of people thickened, and blocked her way. The breathless, shaky feeling increased. Like an anxiety dream, the closer she got to the door, the more determined people were to try and detain her. Echoes of, “Miranda, I’m so sorry.” “He was such a good man.” “Taken far too young.” Arms like tentacles reached out to hug her. She shrugged violently to avoid the reaching hands.