If I’d Known
Paige P. Horne
Dedication: For my mother-in-law. May everyone find a love as deep and true as yours and Lloyd’s. For there wasn’t a time I saw you happier than when your hand was in his.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
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
Copyright © 2018 Paige P. Horne. All rights reserved.
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Published: Paige P. Horne 2018
[email protected]
Editor: Paige Maroney Smith
Cover design: Cassy Roop @Pink Ink designs
Proof Readers: Julie T, Crystal, Julie V and Monica
Also, written by Paige P. Horne
Close To Falling
Chasing Fireflies
Chasing Ellie
Prologue
June 2006
Shades of fiery orange, glowing red and smooth yellow, paint the boundless sky as the sun settles. The wind shifts, blowing a lock of hair against my neck and out past my shoulders. Shivering, I cross my arms and rest my hand over my mouth as I gaze out. Tears of agony fill my weary eyes and sting as they chase one another over my wind-chapped cheeks.
Endlessness lies ahead of me. As far as the eye can see, nothing but deep blue. The ocean is a wonder. It holds secrets with no way to tell them. It’s where one can find peace or where one can get lost if they choose to or not. It holds life and death; tears and laughter. It captures moments from long ago, grasping onto time like only it can.
It’s calm and soothing like a mother as she rocks her newborn. It’s vicious and volatile like a cancer. Comparable to life itself, the ocean can tear you to shreds.
Here I stand at the edge of it all as the warm water washes over my bare feet, wave after expected wave. Shutting my eyes, I let sweet memories take over my vision, and my breathing becomes uneven, because it’s not fair.
“It’s not fair!” I scream out. I clench my fist and dig my nails into the palm of my hands as blood pumps wildly through my body. My knees, after standing so strong, buckle and I fall to the ground. I beat the sand with my fist repeatedly.
I plead with God like it could change a thing, and painfully, I bring my hand to my heart, bunching the fabric of my shirt.
“It’s not fair,” I whimper as I look at the sand through blurry tears. Shaking my head, a raw, gut-wrenching sob releases from my chest, moving up my throat, and I cry. I weep uncontrollably, unable to do anything else.
Rubbing over my eyelids, I’m torn between praying my frail heart can survive all this unbearable pain and praying that it won’t. My chest shudders, and my hands shake as I scrub them down my face. I wipe the tears from my jaw as I blink my eyes open and look ahead.
Still… there’s the ocean, unaffected, yet my whole world has changed.
Chapter One
Present day
Strumming clear polished nails on my small kitchen table, I watch as the aspiring journalist sets her baby pink helmet on the table before she grabs a notebook and pen out of the bright pink polka dot bag she carried in here. A long necklace with a blue pendant dangles around her neck, and every finger has a ring on it. She’s got fire in her eyes and determination on her pursed lips.
This child has been after me for weeks because she’s heard around this quaint beach town that I hold in my heart a tragic but beautiful tale about true love. I’m going to get my friend Maggie. I tell her things in confidence, and the little gossip has betrayed me.
Cynthia Rose is one of the most persistent things I’ve ever come across. She’s been following me around everywhere on that little baby blue scooter of hers—Dollar General, the grocery store. Hell, she’s worried me to death. Now here I sit, with years behind me and more memories than enough time to tell them.
“So,” she starts, looking across the table at me. She’s pretty, quirky, and very young looking. “You were how old when you two met?” she asks with bright green framed glasses and purple streaks in her dark hair.
Kids these days can’t decide on one hair color. But secretly I like it. I’d never tell her, though. I want to get this over with and let her move on with her life so I can move on with mine. Which consists of sitting at home mostly, unless I need to go out and get things. Not much of an exciting life, but one would say I’ve had enough excitement. I’m content.
I shrug. “I’d presume a little younger than you are now.”
“You were in your twenties then?” She lifts her brow and tucks her bottom lip in.
“You’re in your twenties?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, just turned twenty-one.”
“Oh, I stand corrected. We were sixteen,” I say.
The buzzer on my pot-bellied pig timer goes off, and I stand and slide my oven mitt on. Warm pound cake smells like heaven, taking me back to my mama’s kitchen, and my mouth waters to try a piece.
“Sixteen. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” she says.
I turn back to look at her, and she lifts her brow in question. Most people would think that’s rude, but she’s telling the truth. Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago, and other times it seems like just yesterday. My eyes go to the lighthouse calendar hanging on the wall.
“Forty-four years to be exact,” I say melancholy.
Time sure does fly. One minute, you’re a little girl playing with kittens off an old dirt road out in the middle of nowhere. The next, fifty years have flown by and here you sit, in your kitchen, with an aspiring journalist who for some reason wants to write about you. Cynthia clears her throat and pushes her glasses up her nose.
“Did you feel a spark?”
“A spark?” I question as I set the pan down on top
of the stove and remove my mitt. I twist my wrist and look at my watch, knowing I must let the cake sit for at least ten minutes.
“Yeah, you know, like in books. There was a spark of electricity in the room, or when our hands touched, it was like a current shot through us,” she says sarcastically, adding an eye roll.
“Not a romantic?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I just don’t believe two people who don’t know a thing about each other can fall in love at the drop of a hat.”
I chuckle. “Well, I hate to prove you wrong, but we did,” I say. “And there was a spark. Static electricity to be exact.”
Cynthia laughs. “Well, that’s a bit different, isn’t it?”
“Is it? People feel all kinds of things. Who’s to say when someone meets the love of their life they don’t feel some strong connection, like a shock or a spark for that matter?”
Cynthia shrugs again. “Maybe,” she says as she scribbles something down on her notebook. I reach up and grab Mama’s glass cake holder from the top of the fridge. Setting it down on the counter, I look over at the TV as The Andy Griffith Show starts to whistle its famous tune.
Leaning against the counter, I rest my hands behind me and look at the girl who wants to write a story about something that happened long ago. It’s difficult bringing up all those memories.
“Why do you want to write about this, Cynthia? I mean, you don’t seem to be someone who cares for romance, and I’m sure there are tons of other great stories you could write about.”
She looks up at me from her notebook and rests her pen on top. “Because it’s true,” she says. “And people relate to the truth.”
I look away from her and peer down at the floor. My story is tragic and unfair. I still question it. After all this time, I still ask why? Why me? Why us? I’d like to think I wouldn’t do it again if I had the chance. That the pain is just too hard to bear, but deep down, I know I would.
The love, laughter, and the feeling of being utterly and blissfully complete when he was around me—how devastating it would be to have never felt those things. Travis Cole was made to love me and I him.
I look back at her. Cynthia Rose is nothing but tenacious. She’s been unshakable these past few weeks. I’ve told her no more times than a person should have to, but she’s relentless, refusing to accept my answer. I’m a very private person, yes, but she’s grabbed a ladder and climbed herself right over my walls. Besides, I think I like her.
“Okay.” I sigh.
She smiles.
“Grab us two saucers from the top left cabinet over there.” I point as I look down at my watch, seeing I still have a few more minutes.
“You’re into old movies?” she asks me as she looks toward the TV.
“Well, it’s old, but it’s not a movie. Tell me you know what The Andy Griffith Show is?” I say.
“I didn’t watch too much TV when I was growing up,” she replies.
“You do know who Elvis is, right?” I ask intently.
“Yes.” She grins as she places the plates onto the table.
“Good. I was getting worried.” I grab the wet dishcloth and wipe the excess sugar off the countertop. “So, what’s the deal with this job you’ve been talking about for weeks now?” I ask her as I lay the dishtowel on the edge of the sink.
“Well, like I’ve said, it’s for The Sea Harbor Journal, which is currently hiring for a writing internship. They’ve set up a competition for the town. Whoever sends in the best story before the end of summer, fiction or non-fiction, will win the internship, and that can then turn into full-time with them. Also, the winner’s story will be printed on the front and second page, and depending upon how long it is, the third also.”
“That’s what you want to do with your life?” I ask. “Be a writer?”
“Yes,” she replies.
“Are you in school?”
“I took a few writing classes at the local college here. What about you? What were you before you became a beach bum?”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t say I’m a beach bum. Forever ago, I was a daughter, then an accountant.” I take a seat at the table. “Eventually, I became a wife and a mother. Then one day, I wasn’t a daughter anymore, so I focused all my energy on being a good wife and mother to my son. I went to work, did my job the best I could, and took care of my family the best of my ability. But the day came where I was no longer a wife, so I concentrated on my son and work. And then I became sort of a caretaker, but that eventually changed, too,” I say sadly. “My son married and moved away to start his own life, so in due course I retired and moved here.” I rub the side of my neck and smirk because it’s as if for the first time I’m realizing I no longer have a title. Sure, technically, I’m still a mother, but I’m not raising my son anymore. That job is done. I’m not doing anything anymore.
“What?” Cynthia asks, looking bemused at my smirk.
I shrug. “I no longer have a title,” I say.
“So, beach bum it is.” She grins. I laugh and stand up. Walking over to the stove, I pick up the grease pan and tilt it upside down onto the cake stand. Tapping the sides, I slowly pull it up, hoping the cake doesn’t stick. Once it’s separated from the pan, I place the dirty dish into the basin. Grabbing a butter knife, I press it down into the cake. It glides down smoothly. The cake is perfect. Sliding out the pieces I cut, I put them onto the saucers and hand her one along with a fork.
“There’s milk in the fridge if you’d like a glass,” I say, knowing most people would probably prefer milk over tea with cake, but not me.
“Yes, I would.” She smiles. “Where are the glasses?”
“Beside the plates,” I reply as I take the milk and tea out. After she pours herself some milk and I make a glass of sweet tea, we sit down and taste what I’ve baked. Cynthia makes a sound and closes her eyes.
“This is the best pound cake. I’ve never had homemade before.”
I look over at her. “Never?”
“Never,” she confirms.
“Your mother doesn’t bake?”
She shakes her head. “My mom worked a lot,” she says, trading her fork for her pen.
“Worked? Is she retired?” I ask, thinking she must be too young.
“No, she and my dad were killed when I was seventeen.”
“Oh,” I say, shattered for the girl. I search her face with narrowed eyes. She said that so nonchalantly, which I find very odd. You’d think a girl who lost her parents only a few years ago would show more emotion, but Cynthia Rose shows none.
“So, let’s talk about this great love story. How did you two meet?” She changes the subject from herself.
I look at her over the rim of my glass before I set it on the table and clear my throat. Running a thumb across the side, I cast my eyes to the floor.
“It was the summer of 1972,” I begin with a small smile on my lips. “I was a skinny thing, with the deepest burgundy hair. Had a handful of freckles spread out across my cheeks and shoulders from too much sunshine and not enough sunscreen. The June summer was hotter than ever, and till this day a box fan in an open window takes me straight back to it. I remember the smell of honeysuckles drifting through my screen into the roaring fan and covering my room with its sweet, sweet scent.” For a moment, I close my eyes at the memory before opening them again, seeing Cynthia penning away, and I wonder why she doesn’t have a laptop like most of the kids these days.
“All my summers before that one had been the same,” I continue. “School-free, old dirt roads, and not enough stray animals to make me happy. But that summer.
“God…that summer was the day my life changed forever. The day my heart latched onto another’s so severely it was as if they’d become one.”
Cynthia looks up at me from her writing.
“You read stories and watch movies about a love you think could only exist in a made-up world. But, my dear,” I say, looking at her, “I lived it.”
Like a rewinding movie displayed on a
projector, my memories flash in front of my eyes. Quickly, every big moment and the sweet small ones in between, until golden rays shine behind my closed lids and the sound of my mama’s voice rings in my ears, putting a smile on my face and a warmth in my heart that hasn’t been there in years…
Chapter Two
June 1972
Bright sunshine beams through the window of the singlewide trailer my mama and I share, and I blink my eyes open. I squint as I begin to hear her voice calling my name from down the hall and stretch my arms out in front of me. My door opens, and she stands with a dishtowel in her hands.
“Your cousin’s here,” she says.
“Really?” I ask excitedly.
“Yes. Get up. I need your help in the kitchen.” I toss the covers off me and dart across my carpet-covered room out into the hall. Jesse and I have always been close. He used to live in Georgia, too, but now he lives in Florida, where I wish I lived. I haven’t seen him in a year. I open the door and walk out onto the small porch. It’s early morning, but the Georgia air already feels sticky, instantly making my clothes cling to me.
“Hey, Jesse!” I call out as I rest my forearms on the rail and lean over.
He looks over the hood of his car and says, “String bean!”
I smile, but roll my eyes at his stupid nickname for me. Then someone else catches my attention.
I believe there’s a special compartment in our brain that holds onto precious moments. It saves every detail so you can always go back and replay it, and this moment right here is something I know I’ll never forget. Before he even speaks to me, a feeling that can’t be explained rushes through my chest. My heart skips, and my pulse quickens. I forget how hot it is outside, or that my cousin is here. I forget everything. I often wondered how people knew when they met the one, and now I no longer have to.
“This is Travis Cole,” Jesse says. “We met working at a small garage back home.” With mid-length, dark brown hair and no shirt on, Travis looks over at me from the water hose. Droplets of water fall from his face, and soap covers his hands before he rinses them and then shuts the water off. I watch, almost like it’s in slow motion, as he pulls a towel out of his back pocket, wipes down his face, and dries his hands.
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