by Carol May
I‘m a different man now from the young man that created that lie and so many others back then. It was almost addictive to create and present the fictitious stories. I told the Nigel story, the way I told it to you, so many times that I convinced myself that was the way it happened.”
Finding my courage to speak, “We have all made mistakes. You were younger. What I want to know the most is, how many women have you told the story to, Houston?”
Ignoring me, he continues, “My Great, Great, Grandfather was named Nigel Houston. He did come here from Scotland.” Exhaling deeply he finished, “The rest of the tale, is actually based on me.”
“How many women, Houston. How many?”
“Baby, do you really want to know?”
“Don’t you dare Baby me, Houston Donovan!”
“The story wasn’t just for one woman. How many?”
“I don’t know. I’ve lost count.” We sit here, as I process what he says.
Staring at my hands, “So you are a consummate liar, then?”
Penny’s laugh, when I ask that, makes my skin crawl. Shifting my eyes from Houston to Penny and back again to Houston, I am afraid to ask the question, I know I have to ask. “Houston, look at me.” I reach out at a snail’s pace to touch him on the arm. Hesitating, it is almost as if I am afraid touching him will burn me. No matter what my mind says, my body longs for contact with him. Even the feel of him through his jacket sleeve is better than nothing. “Houston, who is she?”
Penny begins to answer, I jerk my head around and look her in the eye, “I have heard enough from you. I want to hear it from Houston.”
I look back to him and lift my eyes to his. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it. His face has an unreadable expression. He lowers his head just a little, but not in shame. When he raises it, he places his hand on his forehead. I realize, he is forming the words in his head, first. Sitting quietly, just waiting what seems like an eternity, finally he looks me in the eye and says,
“She’s my wife.”
Looking at Houston, I manage to mumble, “Your wife? You are not married.”
With a light in her eyes that causes her face to take on a look of someone possessed, Penny leans over, removing my hand from Houston’s arm, “Yes, he is you marriage wrecking whore. He’s married to me.”
Barley, above a whisper I say, “If the story is about you then…Penelope? As in Nigel and Penelope?” It feels as if my body is moving in slow motion, but somehow I make it to my feet. Barely able to cross the room, I say nothing. The silence that has engulfed the room says it all. What is there to say? Besides, making a sound much less forming words into any type of understandable speech of any type isn’t something I am really capable of at this moment. Stopping in the doorway, where the man, I thought loved me, stood only moments ago, I turn to look at him one final time. I want something other than that bitch removing my hand from him as my last visual of Houston Donovan. No, not want, I need to store a different visual memory into my brain than what is floating around in my head at this moment. Standing here, I am drinking in the sight of the man I love but can never have. Looking at him sitting at that table, I realize why she looks familiar. I feel as if I will be sick. She was the red head at his table the night we met. Trying to forget that, I focus on Houston. All I can see is the world dominating businessman sitting at the head of his conference table. This version of him has replaced my Houston. Both have that irresistible lock, falling across his forehead. The one that I’ve felt touch me so many times when he was kissing my neck’s special spot. The clinching of his fists seems to match the speed in which he is clinching his jaw. Penny opens her mouth. I squint my eyes and shake my head. She understands that at this moment, the thing for her to do is to remain silent. Houston looks at me with those glorious chocolate eyes, a pain seems to be etched into his face that mirrors my own, I‘m sure. Neither of us wanting to break what in all probability will be our final connection, he says, “I will always love you.”
Hearing this, I know without a doubt I am destroyed. Drawing on what little remaining strength that could possibly be hiding deep inside, I turn and leave his office. Exiting the building is difficult, but leaving Houston sitting with her encases my body in an almost unbearable agony. Leaving him is more than difficult. It ranks as being one of the most agonizing things I have ever endured. Throughout everything, I have survived in my brief thirty-two years, even situations some would call horrific, I have always remained hopeful. At this moment, any and all hope for a future with him is gone. The heart wrenching information that was hurled around that room has left me crushed. Stopping on the sidewalk, to compose myself, I close my eyes and breathe deeply trying to remain as calm as possible because I refuse to fall apart here. Turning, I tilt my head back, look up at the top floor. I have no idea how long I stand just looking. Finally, realizing my surroundings it occurs to me that I should remove myself from here. My feet and brain are not communicating. It is as if I can’t pull myself away from the building. The thought of walking away leaving him up there causes me to realize I have no claim to the man I truly love. Try telling that to my shattered heart
Acknowledgement
Thank you to my husband and daughters for putting up with me during this exciting ride of creativity I’ve been on. I know you have seen the back of my laptop more than my face. Without your support and understanding my adventure with Charli would never have occurred. Thanks to my friend Brenda for being my Beta Reader. Your support means more than you can imagine.
Watch for the next book in the series, Life’s Second Chances where Charli’s pursuit of happiness takes another interesting turn. Can her shattered heart begin to mend? Will the powerful Houston Donovan allow Charli to slip away?
Visit Carol’s webpage at carolmaybooks.com
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Turn the page for an exert from book two Broken Heart in the series Life’s Second Chances.
Look for the full book August 2015.
Chapter 1
“NO! You are wrong. He isn’t dead.” I shout. My eyes dart around the room searching for any possible way to escape from this medical prison. The average person would say I am lucky to be in this ICU room. Because the seatbelt failed I was ejected. That is the only reason I am alive. These blue / tan walls are a constant reminder of just how lucky I am. “I know, he is somewhere in this hospital. Just let me see him. You are wrong! Let me out of this bed!” I yell as I try to move my hands but these black cuffs won’t let me. I have asked every person that enters this room if he is really dead. They all have said to me, “Honey, I am so sorry but yes he is.”
I still can’t believe that I am wrong. He died. I try to get up but all of these wires, are tying me down. Looking up into a face that is not much older than mine I beg, “Please, tell me the truth. Please.” Tears are streaming down my face in rivers that mirror the sorrow I feel
“Ms. Jensen, please lay down and try to get some rest,” she says wiping the tears from my eyes. I can’t raise my hands. Anyone within hearing distance of this room knows I’m alive because they can my heart racing a million miles an hour because of that monitor. Isn’t there a volume control? It’s going crazy. Beep, beep, beep. I don’t want to hear it. It is a reminder that I am alive and he is I am not. When something is broken it doesn’t work. Mine is broken. Broken things don’t work.
Suddenly, everything is fading to black. The beeping is fading. It seems further and further away. I can hear some voices in the distance. They are talking about me. I’ve got to stay awake. I want to know what they are saying.
“No sir, I’m afraid she isn’t awake now. She has been combative today. Earlier she tried to pull out her IV’s again. That was the second time today. It has been a very difficult day. They’ve had to restrain her. Each time the sedative wears off, the fighting to get up and the yelling begins. Yes, when she is awake, she has had quite a bit of pain today. She refuses to accept
the truth.” Their voices are getting further and further away. I can’t hear. We’re walking on the beach. I’m laughing at the playfulness we are caught up in. It’s as if nothing can touch us. I stop to look in the clear shallow water at the shells that are being washed ashore. Bending over, I try to pick up a brightly colored one but my arms are like rubber. Suddenly the water is a light shade of pink. Pulling my hand back, I see it is bleeding. The blood is running down my arm in a steady stream.
My head hurts really badly. I really can’t move my arm. I smell something. Is that smoke?
Faintly, I hear “Help. Help!”
He’s moaning somewhere off in the distance.
Shooting straight up, I look around. Reaching out to the side, I pat the bed. I realize it was only a dream. No not a dream but a nightmare, a serious one that I lived through. Throwing the cover back to stand, I sway just a little. I put my hand on the nightstand to steady myself.
My mid-western girl wants to curl up in the bed for a few more days. My city girl side is telling me to get up and get over myself. Four days in this semi-decent motel mourning over a man is long enough. Sitting on the end of the bed, I pick up the television remote. I sit staring at a dark television looking but not seeing. As I slide my fingers over multiple buttons, I am reminded of Houston’s remotes especially the one in the closet. I let my mind wander to the man not the remotes. The way his curly, no his wavy, milk chocolate hair lays. Eyes that I thought could see into my soul but I suppose were only seeing my body. My body temperature is rising. My head/heart feel betrayed but the remainder of me longs for Houston’s touch. The caress of my breast, the slow moving of our bodies as he first plunges deep into me.