The Winter Before
Page 25
His heart cracked and his stomach rolled. He got the overwhelming sensation that Isaac, his only son—just like Abraham in the Bible—didn’t have a whole lot of time left.
Maybe he’d already used up all his time.
And for the characters in the story, each and every one of them, saying goodbye to the boy, the man, Isaac Stone, felt like a fate worse than death.
Twenty-five years later
There comes a time in everyone’s life, a defining moment that changes the way one thinks, the way one feels.
It distorts vision, makes the heart beat in a rhythm so foreign it almost doesn’t feel real. But in that moment you know your life will never be the same again.
How do I know this? Because it happened to me.
That moment. This moment right now.
I stood at the end of the narrow aisle of the Woodlake church, watching and waiting for the back doors to swing open. I was so nervous I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to breathe. But I wanted to breathe again. Emily made me want to breathe and never stop breathing.
The wedding march played softly in the background, and I wore a black tuxedo and polished black shoes that were too tight for my size eleven feet. I’d had a haircut that morning, and a shave too, and my mother told me that I looked nice.
Though she always told me that.
Apparently she used to tell my father that too. When they were younger and he needed a little extra convincing.
Rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, in my too-tight shoes, I looked out over the congregation of Woodlake—the town I’d lived my entire life. The same town that had helped raise me, put me through school, and then waved me goodbye as I’d driven off to college. Before welcoming me back again four years later with a pretty fiancé on my arm and a fancy law degree under my hat.
I looked around at the faces I knew so well, too well sometimes—townsfolk who had been formally invited to the wedding of Jacob Trevor Stone to Emily Jane Bradley—and then my eyes caught and snagged on my mother who was sitting in the pew right up front.
I smiled, recognizing my own blue eyes in hers. She looked lovely in her dress. It was as blue as our eyes and she’d bought it especially with that in mind.
Softly curled hair hung loosely over her shoulders, and she wore on her wrist the bright cherry bracelet that my father had given her when they were just kids—I’d heard the story so many times now that I could probably recite it in my sleep.
My grandparents were seated beside her, and Grandpa Abe and Caroline sat beside them, with tears in their eyes and lumps in their throat as they watched on.
Grandpa Abe held Caroline’s hand tightly, and Caroline rummaged through her purse for a handkerchief as if she knew what was coming and wanted to be prepared.
My aunt Tate and uncle Connor sat in the row behind my mother with my tribe of cousins all lined up in their Sunday best. Though it wasn’t Sunday. It was a warm Friday afternoon in June and I could smell the Jasmine through the open window on the side of the church that looked out on the hall.
I smiled once more, remembering the story I’d been told time and time again. About how a love story had come to be in that very hall—how a wise woman whom I would never meet, brought my parents together beyond the grave—and how true beauty could be found in the most unexpected places.
My own love story wasn’t as grand as the one I’d heard over the years, the one I’d fallen asleep listening to every night.
It wasn’t as epic.
It wasn’t as filled with loss and tragedy, ripe with love and longing as the one my mother always told me.
My parents’ love story was the kind of love story that people write romance novels about. It was a glorious Shakespearean tale, as old as time, as old as the church we were all waiting in. And I hoped for a love story half as intense as theirs.
But that all happened a very long time ago. That all happened the winter before I was born.
And then my smile slipped a notch as my eyes strayed to the empty seat beside my mother. The seat was a place of honor in the front pew and I swallowed just to stop myself from choking up.
The double doors at the back of the church suddenly opened and I sighed with relief when Emily stepped into view.
She was a vision of beauty in a white dress that was so vivid I almost had to squint and I knew in that moment that I’d never be able to look at another bride ever again without feeling pity for them, for nothing compared to the beauty of my wife-to-be walking toward me in that dress.
Emily stepped through the archway, with my father standing at her side.
She had her tiny hand wrapped around his elbow and she leaned into him slightly, as if she was using him for balance when a hushed gasp filled the entire church, all eyes and backsides swiveling to get themselves first glimpse of the bride.
The music changed, a lone violin played and Emily looked all around, soaking it all in.
She smiled, and my father smiled too as they walked down the aisle—slowly, deliberately, just the way they’d practiced—and he looked damn nice with a fresh haircut, in his dark navy suit, starched white shirt, and striped tie.
He was a big guy, my dad. He commanded attention. His broad shoulders were wide and strong, and he carried himself with so much dignity that I envied his confidence. He didn’t care anymore what people thought of him, or what they thought about the way he looked. And I didn’t care either. I never had.
He was just my dad. And I loved him.
Emily had asked him to walk her down the aisle the second time I brought her home for the holidays. Her own father had been killed in Afghanistan when she was just ten years old—and Dad had said yes instantly. He hadn’t even hesitated, and my mother had cried. She was a crier, and I think I might have inherited that from her because I suddenly felt like crying too.
My father let go of Emily’s arm and stepped back when they reached the end of the aisle, nodding to the Reverend, and then he shook my hand.
And just as he was about to take a seat in the front row right there beside his very own wife—they’d been married just a month after he was released from the hospital, a month before they even knew I was on the way—beneath an arbor he made himself in the field behind our house, a field full of melting snow and a trampoline that my father had bought my mother as a wedding gift—and I grabbed his shoulder and I spun him back around again, pulling him into a tight embrace.
I slapped his back with the palm of my hand, and he held me so tight I thought he might never let go.
He kissed my cheek, whispered he loved me into my ear, and then took his seat without much more fuss. That was my dad. He was a simple man, and he lived a simple life, and I was as proud of my father as he was of me.
He’d fought hard—fought with all he had to come back to us, to live a life worthy of the man he’d become, and he’d fought not to give in when all seemed lost.
His old life might still hover around the fringes, making its presence felt from time to time. But once he met my mother, he saw the world through different eyes. His senses became heightened. He could smell the rain coming well before the first storm clouds appeared. He could sense the shift in seasons long before the colors changed, or the river turned silver with ice.
And as I exchanged vows, and rings, and promised to love Emily with all my heart, for all my days, I hoped that my love story would be as inspiring and as grand as theirs.
My mother had taught my dad how to breathe again. And I wanted to breathe again too.
More than anything else, I just wanted to breathe.
The End
With every new book I release, there are so many more people behind the scene, and so many more people to thank.
To the readers, thank you for picking up my books and spending time with my characters. I loved writing Isaac and Olivia’s story and I thoroughly enjoyed spending time in the snow capped mountains of Montana.
To my husband, I can’t thank you enough for all the
support you give me. I love you beyond words, and I appreciate all you do for me. My ultimate beta reader, thank you! Your feedback on this book was amazing. Thank you for pointing out the error of my ways, and for being so patient answering all my questions.
Thank you to Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs, for a cover that I fell in love with instantly. To Stacey Blake at Champagne Book Designs, Ellie McLove at My Brother’s Editor, and Kiki at The Next Step PR—you have surpassed all my expectations on this release. I will always sing your praises.
And to all the hard working book bloggers out there, too many to thank personally, please know that your dedication, loyalty and commitment is truly appreciated.
Karen Crompton is an Australian author who writes YA/NA contemporary Romance novels.
She knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do and has since published three full length novels.
Hell Bent (#1 South Shore Beach Series) and Heaven Sent (#2 South Shore Beach Series) which are available from all major retailers.
The Winter Before is a standalone full length novel, available now in Kindle Unlimited.
If you’d like to know more about my books, or future releases, please visit my website and leave me a comment. Your thoughts are always welcome!
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