A Torey Hope Novel Series: The Complete 4-Book Box Set

by A. D. Ellis

  So, she hid the pregnancy as best she could for the next few months; she didn’t want her business associates thinking of her as a weak female who didn’t know how to not get knocked-up. I was born 3 weeks early; not because I was ready to be born, they paid the doctor a hefty fee to induce delivery because there was a trip to Tokyo they both needed to be on. I was born on a Wednesday. Having not cared enough to find out the sex of their baby before delivery, disappointment reigned when it was announced that I was a girl; at least a boy would have been a more rightful heir to their business fortune. As a punishment for not being the boy they would have been more satisfied with, they named me Josephine combining my father’s middle name and my mother’s first name.

  My parents left for Tokyo on Saturday; I was left with the first of many nursemaids and nannies. Richard and Corinne were gone on their business trip for thirty days. Upon their return, they walked to the nursery to look at me and inquire of the nursemaid about me. They did not pick me up or kiss me; they did not speak to me or make over me the way most new parents would have. They left the next morning for a 3 month trip to London; never once did I come before their business ventures. These stories were told to me by various nannies over the years, passed down from one to the other before one was let go for various infractions; most were for showing me any physical affection. My mother told me that the idea of hugging or kissing me made her shudder; Corrine Decker did not show affection.

  My parents hired only strict and unloving nannies and help. They did not want me babied or coddled. If I had to come along and put such a kink in their plans, I may as well serve a purpose. They decided they would groom me to be a business guru right along-side of them. I was to be schooled and trained so that I could one day step right into their world. Josephine Decker would become a business force to reckon with.

  The joke was on them though. I was a girly-girl. I was creative; constantly singing and dancing and drawing and painting. This was frowned upon by my parents and discouraged and ridiculed at every turn. Josephine Marie Decker would not have an artistic flair; business women were not successful for creativeness or uniqueness. A strong business woman should be disciplined, brilliant, and proper. I learned to celebrate my parents’ months-long trips; I could let loose and be me when they were gone. Well, as much as someone can be free with staunch rules and nannies around every corner.

  I had one nanny who nicknamed me Josie; she was later fired for hugging me when I fell and scraped my knee. But, the name of Josie stuck for me; I called myself Josie to anyone who would listen. This infuriated my parents; they insisted that I be called Josephine and severely reprimanded me if they heard me use the nickname.

  Imagine their disdain and embarrassment when the school I was attending suggested that I enroll in the Creative Arts program; they had noticed my flair for the arts. A generous donation was given to this school in hopes of keeping my artistic talents a secret and I was enrolled in a boarding school overseas. The school was for future business men and women; I did not fit there.

  I attended my classes, sitting quietly, trying to understand the numbers and facts and figures all while my brain painted pictures and created paper designs. My classmates were geniuses, acing every test and competing to be the best in each class. My struggles got me Cs on most assignments. A grade of C was average; Richard and Corinne Decker did not accept average. Every phone call brought ridicule and reminders of what an embarrassment I was to my parents. These phone calls were few and far between which was actually a blessing; saving me from slipping further into the shell I’d put around myself. I cherished my shell; inside of it I was able to be me while I showed nothing to the world. My shell showed a stoic and docile and obedient daughter to my parents; inside of that shell I was my own unique person, creative, a wild spirit, longing for love. Just wanting to be loved.

  I survived boarding school; I did my best to pull Cs on topics that I didn’t like or understand. I had a private room; only the best for a Decker. My room was what I lived for; it was my refuge. I set up a small area to paint and lost myself in my creations. I experimented with water colors and oils; I played around with mixing colors; I fell in love with painting. This was a form of therapy for me. When I painted, I traveled to a different world; I wasn’t unloved or unwanted or a disappointment. In this world I was free; like a wild horse breaking free of restraints thrown onto it. My parents couldn’t enter this world; no one could bring me down in this world.

  I also enjoyed playing around with paper designs. Cards and scrapbook pages were my favorite. My parents would have died of embarrassment to see me covered in paint or cutting, snipping, and gluing paper bits. But these two things saved me; they saved me from the nothingness that was my life. I faced uncertainty when I left school, but if I had my art, I would survive. I may not be happy, but I would make it.

  Josie

  “We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.” ~Joseph Campbell

  And I would have made it if my parents had just let me be. However, they found out about my art and forbid me to do it any longer. They felt it was a waste of time; if I wasn’t going to play along with their business plans, I wasn’t going to be allowed a shred of happiness. I was watched constantly. It was reported to my parents if I so much as got a dreamy look on my face. I was to sit straight, walk tall, work briskly, speak with authority; all of these things were drilled into me and watched for by everyone in my day-to-day world. I failed daily; these things weren’t me. I was a soft spoken, dreamy girl who got lost in her thoughts; I was not a shrewd business woman.

  My parents finally admitted that I was never going to be a business woman; at this point they had become used to my disappointments in their life. I was ignored, given an allowance that could only be spent on what they deemed appropriate and left on my own. The best thing I did was to swindle this allowance away; spending just enough of it on proper clothing and books so that my parents were satisfied. My small secret stash of cash grew and became a safety net for me; one day I would break free and this money would help me.

  They insisted I go to college; I was sent to a private school overseas; I always felt that my parents picked overseas because there was less chance of my being recognized and embarrassing them further.

  My college years were a repeat of earlier schooling with the exception of the fact that I actually enjoyed most of my classes. Since they had accepted that I would never enter the business world, my parents allowed me to take classes in the history, theories, and methods of art. I think they had given up on me so completely by this point that they just let me take art classes so they could sadly shake their heads with business and social connections and speak of how simple-minded I was. Seriously, I heard them once tell a business associate, “Our daughter, bless her soul, is not very high-functioning; we’ve paid for her to dabble in art classes so as to keep her occupied and not bother those around her.”

  I also secretly squeezed in some classes on web design and small business ownership. What I would do with these classes and my degree I had no clue; my parents would never allow me to operate a small business to sell my scrapbooking or paintings. But, I felt proud when I finished my degree. It was mine and no one could take it from me. Maybe one day I would break free and use what I had learned; use the passion and spirit that flowed inside of me. I should have known they would find a way to squash my feelings of pride.

  My parents weren’t home when I returned to the house upon graduation from college; they had not attended the ceremony, stating they couldn’t be bothered to come if I couldn’t be bothered to make them proud. I knew my degree was an embarrassment for them and they wouldn’t stoop low enough to attend my graduation from a lowly art school. However, there were strict instructions from the new housekeeper when I arrived home that I was to dress to impress; the driver would take me to the restaurant where my parents were dining with business associates.

  I arrived at the di
ning location and immediately felt my apprehension rise. My parents did nothing with me unless it served their purpose. Why would they want me to dine with them? I was lucky if I ever shared a meal with classmates or a random housekeeper over the last several years; dining with my parents was rare indeed.

  Rounding the corner with the maître d, I spotted my parents sitting with Wayne Erickson. Wayne was the son of one of my father’s closest business partners; he was about 10 years older than me and had been slowly stepping into his father’s business dealings over the past few years. My parents were delighted with Wayne Erickson and his future; they spoke more highly of him than they had ever spoken of me.

  I was confused as to why I was being invited to a business dinner with my parents and Wayne. My confusion intensified when I was seated at the table. “I took the liberty of ordering for you, Josephine.” My father spoke to me in a way that made it clear it was all for show. Wayne shot me a sickeningly smarmy smile as he winked at me. My stomach was in knots facing this unknown situation.

  As the meal progressed, my parents and Wayne spoke of business dealings and I let myself drift to another world in my head. “Josephine! You must stop daydreaming; it’s very unbecoming of a woman. Your father is speaking to you about an opportunity you won’t be able to pass up.” My mother’s embarrassment and disdain was evident through her fake smile.

  I turned my attention to my father. “Josephine, we brought you here today because Wayne has offered a deal; a business transaction if you will.” My father turned to Wayne.

  “Well, Josephine, it’s no secret that you’re not exactly business material and you’ll not be taking over for your parents at any time. You’re definitely not going to be a model any time soon…” He said this as if it were a joke, but I could tell he didn’t find me attractive and was letting me know as such.

  At this, my mother let go a long-suffering sigh and spoke sharply, “She could at least be somewhat attractive if she’d do something with that God-awful hair. Seriously, I don’t know where that hideous red came from.” My thick, auburn hair had always been a point of contention for my mother; she felt red hair was much less powerful than a head of dark black or platinum blonde.

  Wayne looked as if he would have agreed if it hadn’t been inappropriate. He just nodded slightly at my mother and continued. “What I’m proposing, Josephine, is a win-win for all involved. I will get something I need, your parents will get bragging rights both in the business and social circles, and you will never want for anything again.”

  My stomach was fighting with itself to contain the meal I had just consumed. Wayne hadn’t spoken the words just yet, but I knew what he was going to say. My breathing was shallow as I waited for the words I knew were coming. The wild horses in my head were circling like mad, attempting to avoid the lasso they sensed was coming.

  “Josephine, I’m offering to marry you. I will provide for you and you can do anything you’d like. Your parents have spoken of your little art hobby; I’ll set up a studio for you in my home. If you’d like, I’ll even allow you to sell your work online, under an alias of course; I can’t have my name tainted with selling amateur art online.” Wayne puffed up as he presented this “opportunity” to me.

  I glanced at my parents and saw that they were completely on board with this business deal. My future was not mine, I would never escape my parents’ reign; Wayne’s offer was not appealing, I did not want to marry him. However, there was nowhere I could escape to; my parents’ far-reaching status would find me. They would never let me leave and embarrass their good name. I had no friends to turn to, no family I knew of.

  Wayne was not an ugly man physically, but I did not find him attractive thanks to his abhorrent personality. Taking a moment to contemplate his offer brought me to a conclusion; he offered to let me do my art and possibly sell it. This was more than I was going to get from my parents. My heart was breaking and I felt like I was suffocating, but I turned a forced smile towards Wayne and said, “Thank you, Wayne, that’s a very generous offer.” The smile he returned and the handshake between he and my father sealed my fate. As the discussion around me faded into the background I pictured those wild horses in my mind being lassoed, bridled, and corralled behind fences; I had just been captured and the breaking of what was left of my spirit would soon commence. The only hope of survival I had was this: I would crawl deeper into the shell of my existence and survive by escaping to my other world; my art would be my savior. Inside of that shell I would celebrate my passion and spirit, while on the outside I would portray the wife Wayne needed.

  Kyle Martin

  "In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine." ~Maya Angelou

  I was born to hippy-wanna-be parents so it was no surprise that I was different; my parents accepted and celebrated my uniqueness, they encouraged me to march to the beat of my own drummer. Hell, they often bought me the drums in the form of punk clothes, hair dye, and piercings.

  Growing up I was allowed to make my own choices, learn from my mistakes and failures, and to be the person I felt like being. My parents’ leniency led to me experimenting in a safe environment; I quickly learned that I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of me. I wore my hair in a different style and color almost every day. I had several piercings that I put in and took out as the mood struck me. Vibrant colors drew me in but black was a staple in my closet as well. I could often be found wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, black biker boots, and a splash of color either on a belt, hat, jewelry or hoodie. Once I discovered tattoos, the vibrant colors made their way into my drawings and the ink I put on my skin. When I was old enough to drive I didn’t save my money for a car, I bought a motorcycle. I couldn’t afford a fancy one at first, but the fixer-upper I bought kept my dad and me busy for months before I got my license. I never drove anything except my bike if I could keep from it.

  My parents allowed drug and alcohol experimentation; they didn’t offer me hard stuff, just the usual tobacco and marijuana. I think, because they were so lax about it, and because it was sort of ‘expected’ that I would be into those things by others, I never really got hooked on them. I found I’d rather get my high from the looks I got from people or the ink gun searing my flesh. I didn’t need alcohol or drugs to fill my life. It’s not that I didn’t drink, I just didn’t need it. Now, saying and doing things to piss people off or shock the shit out of them? Yeah, that was my drug of choice.

  People who knew me, loved me; they knew I was genuine, respectful, and a good-guy at heart. People who didn’t take the time to know me usually hated me; they feared me because of my clothes, my “fuck’em all” attitude, my piercings, and my tattoos. I didn’t care if people liked me or hated me; I loved my parents and my friends, I did my best in school, and I lived life to the fullest each and every day.

  My sweet Izzy didn’t have it as easy as me in the parents department. They didn’t mistreat her, but they weren’t as lenient and ‘free’ as mine.

  I met Isabella the summer before second grade. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen; shiny black hair, large violet eyes, and lips so pink you’d think she had on lipstick all the time. To look at her, you’d expect a shy, reserved, girly-girl, and that’s what I thought had moved in next door to me as well. I didn’t care what type of girl she was. From the moment I laid eyes on her I was hooked; I’d deal with girly and reserved if she’d just let me spend time with her. Much to my surprise, Isabella was nothing like what her looks made you expect. This was also much to her parents’ dismay.

  “Hi, I’m Izzy, what’s your name?” The tiny girl with huge violet eyes stuck her hand out as she stood in front of me in my driveway. “Come on, don’t tell me you’re shy. You’ve got green in your hair and you’re wearing punk clothes, you don’t seem like the shy type. What’s your name, Punk Boy?” She put her hands on her tiny hips and waited for me to speak.

  Finally shaking off the shock of her f
orwardness when I’d been expecting a tiny, quiet voice and shy actions, I swallowed the lump in my throat and stuck out my hand to meet hers. “My name is Kyle Martin. I guess you can call me Kyle or Punk Boy, your choice.” I smiled at her; I’d just given this girl permission to call me Punk Boy, I was obviously smitten already.

  “So, Izzy is a different name. Is it a nickname?” I began to walk, and she fell in step beside me. I had decided I needed to keep her talking just so I could spend as much time with her as possible

  “Well, my parents named me Isabella. I was to be their princess, their little china doll, delicate and fragile. Imagine their shock and awe when their princess turned out to be me! I’m much more an Izzy than an Isabella!” She threw her head back laughing, and I couldn’t help but join her. “So, they try to make me comply, and they attempt to dress me up in frilly dresses, but I rebel against them every chance I get. I can’t stand ribbons and lace, I’m more of a jeans and t-shirt type girl. I don’t want pretty ballet flats or sparkly sandals; I’d much rather wear my old Converse. As soon as I’m old enough to get my hair cut on my own, I’m getting it chopped off into a spikey style and I’m going to add all sorts of colors to it. I’ll get tattoos and piercings and it will drive my parents crazy; but it will feel more like me, and I’ll love it.” She turned those gorgeous eyes towards me, possibly to gauge my reaction.

  I shook my head and smiled, “I think I’m in love with you already Izzy; we’re going to be the best of friends.”

  From that day on, Izzy and I were inseparable. I was her “Punk Boy” and she was my little rebel, my Izzy, my “Izzy-bel.”

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