by Mata Elliott
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Vermata Elliott
All rights reserved.
Published by Warner Books with Walk Worthy PressTM
Warner Books
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
First eBook Edition: June 2006
Time Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Time, Inc. used under license
ISBN: 978-0-446-55489-3
The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Book design and text composition by L&G McRee
Contents
acknowledgments
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
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
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-six
chapter thirty-seven
chapter thirty-eight
chapter thirty-nine
chapter forty
chapter forty-one
chapter forty-two
chapter forty-three
chapter forty-four
chapter forty-five
reading group guide
“OKAY, HERE IT IS, GOD. I’M SCARED.”
Casssidy relaxed her shoulders and grew still, more reverent. “Trevor is a man who adores his children. What will he think of a woman who kept such a terrible secret from him?” She swallowed emotion. “I’ve already lost so many people. I don’t want to lose Trevor and the children, too. I don’t want them to leave me.”
I’ll never leave you.
“I know that, God.” She opened her eyes, focusing on His sky. “You’ve already proved it.” The times in her life when she’d pulled away from God, He remained and waited for her return. “So what do I do now?”
Trust me.
Cassidy sighed, tired of running from God’s will. “I choose to stand still and trust You. I don’t understand all of Your ways, but I believe You want what’s best for me. My hope is in You and . . . there are things You want me to learn, things You want me to do . . .”
To my husband, David, because you love me just as I am.
And to my sisters everywhere who suffer in silence;
you are not alone.
acknowledgments
This book exists because of You, Heavenly Father. Without You, I could not have written one word. Thank You for choosing me to be a pen for You and for pulling me out of my comfort zone. Thank You for loving me when I did not love myself and did not love You. You are my Everything.
David Elliott, my husband and friend, thank you for giving me the opportunity to write full-time. You accepted the vision when I had only one page, so these few words here hardly measure the appreciation I feel.
To Lamont, my son, you have taught me a lot. Thank you for accepting me into your life and for being patient while I learned to be a mother.
To my father and mother, Wyman and Lillian Taylor. Although you are gone from this life, I can still feel your hugs and hear your many, many words of encouragement. Thank you for your daily example of what it meant to love God with all your heart, mind, and soul. I always smile when I think of you.
Aunt Eunice Tucker, you’ve lovingly supported every major event in my life. I’m so glad you’re here for this one, too. Cousins Maria Watson, Michelle Harris, Stephanie Watson, and Alex Morgan, a special thank-you for cheering me on. And to all my family, Watsons and Taylors, I could not have come this far without you.
To my mother-in-law, Mary Elliott, thank you for praying for me. To my sister-in-law, Mary Franklin, thank you for answering every question I had about anything. To each member of the Elliott family, I love you.
Elder and Mrs. Harold B. Hayes, Sr., thank you for taking on another daughter and always making me feel at home in your presence. I am blessed to have you.
To Pamela Williams, my sister, you’ve proved you don’t have to share blood to be family. Thank you for being in my life for the last twenty years, for believing early on my book was good enough to be published, for listening to me talk about my characters as if they were real people, and for always telling it like it is.
Donna Booker, our mothers met when you were a toddler and I was still in the womb. I believe they knew then we were destined to be tied at the heart. Thank you for your many cards and gifts of encouragement, which always arrived on the days I needed them most.
My godmother, Vanessa Liggett, you have the biggest heart and most loving spirit of anyone I know. Thank you for never tiring of praying for me. Thank you for the music.
Nancy Stevenson, the first time I told you I was writing a book, you took me seriously and have from then on. Without wavering, you walked with me through the good days and the rough ones, too. Thank you.
Linda Poole, before I owned a computer, you allowed me to sit at yours (for hours) and write the first chapter of my book. Not many people would have done that, which goes to show just how beautiful you are. Thank you for all the Web site help, too.
God has blessed me with a camp of spiritual mothers: Dorothy Howard, Janet Wilder, Celeste Walton, Velma Spain, and Jacqueline Williams. Your daughter loves you.
Dexter and Tiffany Godfrey, I am honored to have you in my life. Thank you for standing on God’s promises with me, and for opening your home when I came that way.
Mayola James, Carolyn Boston, Cheryl Threadgill, Robin Williams, Brenda Chamberlain, Charity Jones, and “my sista” Casey Hayes, whenever I ran into you, you had something positive to say about my writing and that meant so much.
There were those who poured words of motivation into my life early on: Mrs. Baxter, my fourth grade teacher, who assigned me the job of writing the class Christmas play. Former youth minister, Rev. Edward Cross, Jr., who made a “big” deal out of all my “little” essays. And the late James Jefferson, the first writer I knew.
Mrs. Jean Love Robinson, I’m so thankful God sent such a wonderful writer and person my way. Watching you, I’ve learned how to hold my head up higher and to make the most of every day. What a light you are.
Mrs. Katherine Reed, I am grateful for your prayers through every stage of my life. And thank you for calling me on the morning I left for my first overnight writers’ conference. I will always remember.
/> Prayer warriors: Mother Evelyn Simpson, Mother Vernice Copeland, Dr. and Mrs. David Stevens, Pastor Roxanna Puriefoy, Ms. Doris Miller, and Minister Gail King. It’s been a comfort knowing you are going before God on my behalf.
Denise Thompson, Marion Taylor, Carla Cardwell, and Yolonda Marshall, you’ve been my girlfriends since before I was ten. How blessed I am! Crystal Miller, Hilarey Johnson, and Adria Carter, how blessed I am to have new friends like you!
To my Walk Worthy Writer’s Group: Leslie, Claudia, Olivia, MaRita, Aubrey, Kristin, Rodney, Colette, Pamela, and Gloria, meeting you face-to-face was one of the greatest events in my life. Thank you for reading my first one hundred pages and sharing your insight.
To my first church families, High Street Church of God and West Oak Lane Church of God. It is in these places I received a firm foundation. Thank you for all the love and prayers.
To my current shepherd, Pastor Alyn E. Waller. I continue to grow spiritually because of your love for the Word of God. Thank you for your commitment to Jesus Christ and your unconditional love for your flock.
Denise Gause of Denise’s Delicacies, you patiently explained the ins and outs of running a bakery. You also make the best butter pound cake I have ever tasted!
Lisa Crayton, you are a gift to the writing/publishing industry. Thank you for pulling me aside and speaking those words of life into my life. They continue to resonate through my heart.
To Diana Urban, thank you for helping me navigate through the editor and agent appointments at the ACFW conferences. Although I was tired, you wouldn’t let me cancel.
To the authors I met along the way who deposited a strong word of support: Carmen Leal, Dr. MaryAnn Diorio, Linda Windsor, Kimberley Brooks, Kendra Norman-Bellamy, Marilynn Griffith, Andrea Boeshaar, Louise Gouge, Kathleen Y’Barbo, Sharon Ewell Foster, Carrie Turansky, and Yolonda Tonette Sanders. I appreciate your willingness to help another writer make the journey.
To author and speaker Yolanda White Powell, you are a dynamic voice for God. I have learned so much from you.
To my publisher and mentor, Denise Stinson, under your guidance I’ve discovered what it means to be a writer for God and that nothing, not even writing for Him, is more important than Him. You are an inspiring woman of faith, and I thank you for the privilege of writing for Walk Worthy Press.
To my editor, Frances Jalet-Miller, thank you for the attention you dedicated to every aspect of my story. You made the editing process a pleasure. My sincere appreciation is extended to the entire Walk Worthy Press and Time Warner family for taking this novel to the next level.
Before I sign off, Anthony, wherever you are, thank you. You said this day would happen way back when we were in the sixth grade.
And to anyone I may have forgotten to list, truly you are not forgotten, but I am simply imperfect.
Finally, to everyone who reads this book, I am humbled that you selected it. God bless you.
prologue
She’d been taken.
He’d been left behind.
The man seated on the first pew gazed at the closest window. Strong, frequent gusts of fresh air blew into the room, yet he felt like a prisoner in the mouth of a skin-scorching oven. He dipped his fingers into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a pack of antacids. With a slow fire rolling through his belly and the toast and orange juice he’d forced down this morning threatening to reappear, he placed a tablet on his tongue.
Perspiration dribbled from his sideburns and collected under the stiff collar of his shirt. He drew his hand along his throat, down to his tie, and pulled on the knot. It seemed like hours, but he’d only been in the stone church about thirty minutes, gathered with hundreds of others to say farewell. As sunshine illuminated the enormous stained-glass window at the front of the sanctuary and colorful rays of light crisscrossed above the pulpit, he closed his eyes and wrestled against the tears he refused to let drop, agonizingthat nothing would ever be the same. It was the beginning of a whole new way. And like a man unjustly sentenced for a crime he did not commit, he could not believe life had dealt him this hand.
He recalled the hour his world toppled with the ease of a preschooler’s blocks. The long hand had slipped to 12. The short hand hovered on 2. The clock on the hospital wall ticked death as a bedside monitor howled and a throng of scrubs-dressed people circled the bruised and broken body of his other half. The doctors and nurses did everything medically possible while he looked on from the other side of the door—hoping, praying, begging God for a miracle.
That was six long days ago. Restful sleep had eluded him since, the bags under his eyes as dark as his suit.
The heartburn that had caused such discomfort minutes prior began to ebb, his skin cooling now. Hopeful the music might numb the pain of a broken heart, he stared through the semidarkened lenses of the sunglasses he hadn’t bothered to remove and settled his sight on the choir. The director raised her hands, and the robed singers stood. But as the musicians began to play the introductory notes of a known-to-please spiritual, the man’s focus relocated to the place it had lingered so many moments already this morning. He studied the shiny pearl-tinted casket centered before the altar rails and surrounded by hundreds of bright full blooms.
It was difficult to tear his eyes away from the casket, but he brought his heavy gaze back to the choir. As the singers harmonized with the force and the grace of angels, a tiny hand slid along the inside of his wrist and up to the lines of his palm. He managed a slight smile at the four-year-old sitting beside him on the padded bench, then lifted her to his lap and hugged her to his chest. Two small legs dangled between the V of his large ones. Two forlorn eyes searched his before asking, “Daddy, why did Mommy leave us?”
He clasped her hands between his, the same gentle way one would shelter a fallen baby sparrow separated from the security of the nest. He whispered around the lump of tears in his throat, “Everything will be all right,” although he was skeptical that it was the truth.
A perfume that had been with him in the limousine continued to cloud around his head. The scent belonged to the woman leaning against his shoulder—his children’s godmother. Unrestrained sobs shook her shoulders, and he squeezed her hand. She pulled their joined hands into her lap, and the tears her handkerchief missed trickled between his fingers and over his wedding band. By now, the choir had reached the pinnacle of its song, rocking in the enraptured fashion expected. Many of the mourners were on their feet, clapping, bouncing. Those electing to remain seated displayed their joy with waving hands or handkerchiefs, toe tapping, and shouts of praise that coasted like wing-stretched doves to the high ceiling. But the musical gospel failed to console him. Close to weeping, he drew a breath for composure, dug his heels into the carpet, and blinked back all stinging tears before they could run rivers down his face.
He had to be strong for his girls.
He glanced at his older child, an arm’s length away on the same pew, her small hands folded so tightly they must have ached. The paternal longing to hold her as he was holding his little one knocked at his heart, yet he left her as she was, nestled in the curve of her aunt’s arm. The time when he had possessed the power to hug and kiss this daughter’s problems away was only a murky memory. She had withdrawn from him since her mother’s passing. Perhaps she wished it had been he who died. He had wished it. He would have gladly taken his sweetheart’s place so his children could have her back.
But God had not allowed it to be. And so it seemed he had not only lost his wife. He’d also lost his firstborn.
Three twenty-something women sat together near the rear of the crowded church. The one in the middle extended her polished nail and swept a piece of lint from her dress, the hem of the red garment inching toward her thighs as she crossed one slim leg over the other. She unzipped a small handbag, withdrew a compact, and popped it open.
“Can’t you go anywhere without that thing?” a disapproving voice said.
Ignoring the female sitting
on her right, the woman in the red dress and red heels continued to idolize her reflection.
“Do you really think it’s appropriate to do that now?” The whispered question shot from the left this time.
The woman rolled her eyes. Any sensible female knew a funeral was one of the top ten places for meeting a man, making it essential to look her best. She extracted a tube of lipstick from her handbag and applied an additional coat, sharpening the color. “I look so good,” she cooed, bouncing her shoulders to a beat in her head.
“I know exactly what your butt is up to,” the petite lady on the right snapped, and several people in the vicinity sent reprimanding glances. She quieted to a whisper. “Anyone who knows you can see straight through your brain.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the reason you’re here.”
“I’m here for the same reason as everyone else.” She tried to sound sad. “I’m in mourning.” Batting her eyelashes, she returned the glamour accessories to her purse.
“You never even liked her,” she hissed.
The slender female on the left eased her back away from the pew and turned her head. “Why don’t you both save this drama for later? The pastor is speaking.”
The female in the middle squinted at the woman who had just subtly told them to shut up. She was sick of her holiness ways and modest wardrobe. Today her girlfriend’s black skirt was too long, the white collar of her blouse too high, and, as usual, the only makeup she had on was a tame shade of lipstick. “I’ll be the first to admit that me and what’s her name up there in the coffin were never close, but I do feel terrible about what happened to her,” the woman in red said as she toyed with a lock of her long curls. “However, she’s dead, not me. So why let the opportunity to delight in all these hard chocolate male bodies just slip by?” She stuck out her tongue and jiggled it. “Taste the chocolate.”
In a voice tense with rebuke, the woman on the left whispered into her ear, “Show a little respect. This is a church, not a club.”
Her chin jutted out. “I know where I am. And maybe I’ll start coming more often.” She nodded amen in response to the last statement the pastor had made, although she had no idea what it was.