Passion, Vows & Babies_Truth of a Dream Page 6

  "What is it?"

  "What is your favorite color?" he asks.

  I close my eyes and nod my head. "What? Why? What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Just answer me," he says, gently.

  "Indigo,"

  Dale laughs at my answer and I don't understand what is funny about a color. "Let me ask you something," he says.

  "What five-year-old says that their favorite color is indigo?"

  I shrug because I don't have an answer but I can assume I was that five-year-old. "I don't know."

  "You, Haley. You learned about the color at school and it became your favorite color. Everything had to be the color indigo."

  I suppose I don't remember a time when I hadn't given that answer when asked what my favorite color is. "How did you know it was still my favorite color?" I ask him.

  "A color that odd doesn't just change, or so I was assuming and took a lucky guess," he says.

  "What does indigo have to do with anything?" I ask him.

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out something out, but keeps it concealed within his closed hand.

  "After your accident, I dragged my mother all over town one morning, in search of a craft shop. She was positive that we didn't have one in our town, but low and behold, I found a tiny fabric store on a side street so I dragged her in there. I must have been in that store an hour or something, but I looked for any type of material that was the color of indigo, which my mother described as a mix of blue and purple. I knew the color had to be exact, whatever the case was. I wouldn't have it any other way. I finally spotted this thick embroidery thread and dragged my mother over to the display of threads. I asked her if the color I spotted was indigo and she laughed before showing me the label. It was indeed Indigo. I made her buy three wrapped chunks of the thread even though I had no clue how I was going to make what I had imagined in my head."

  "You went through all that trouble to make me something?" I ask him. It feels like I'm reading about someone else's story while he's telling me one about a part of us I'll never know.

  "You were my girl, Haley. I would have done just about anything for you, even after five. Especially at five. You needed me. You said so," he tells me. “I tried to physically hurt your dad after what he did to you, but I walked away with nothing but two bloody fists and the memory of a horrible smile on his face.”

  "Mary mentioned some of that to me a couple of weeks ago," I tell him. “Not about the part that you tried to fight my dad, though.”

  “No one knew I tried to fight a grown man. I was embarrassed after I got nowhere with my attempt. I told everyone I fell on the pavement so my mother didn’t think anything of my torn up fists.” He reaches his closed fist over to me. "Anyway, this tiny little thing took me a week to make. I begged my mother to teach me how to make a braid, but one braid wasn't going to be enough so I had to get creative."

  I feel my brows furrow in response to his description of whatever is in his hand. I lift my arm and open my palm under his. He drops a weightless object into my hand and I look down at threaded ring made up of four braids that are tied together by two little strings of the same material. I stare at it for a long minute, feeling it—the silky material. "You asked me to marry you with this ring. We were behind the oak tree in Mary's backyard." I remember. It's so hazy, but I remember.

  Dale looks into my eyes with the same dark gaze he had the first day he came back here as if he were trying to read my thoughts. "I don't want to scare you again or push you to feel something you wouldn't naturally feel for a stranger, but I've lived my entire life wondering if you were okay. I see now that you're hanging in there, at least, and if I'm not a good person to have in your life, I would never insert myself, in fear of hurting you. However, if you wanted me to be in your life, I would feel like the luckiest man in the world because I think we were supposed to be connected in some way."

  His words are comforting in a way I haven't felt before. A familiarity I can't quite put my finger on, but yet, it's within reach. I can't see the memories but I can feel them, the good one, even if it's just one. My mind was smart enough to block out the bad when I was a child and I want to trust that it would be smart enough to know what was good too.

  I take the little ring and slide it onto my pinky finger, pressing it over my knuckle. "So, does this mean we've had a twenty-two-year engagement because that's a long time to be engaged?" I try to make a light joke so he knows I'm not thinking he's so crazy anymore.

  "I'd like to think there's a reason I've had such horrible luck in the dating world. I probably shouldn't have told the women I've dated that I was already engaged. That probably wasn't a good move," he says, joking with laughter.

  "I guess nothing would have ever worked out too well for me either if a man found out I had already promised myself to someone else."

  "I won't call you mine yet, Haley, but do you think we could start from the beginning and see if maybe someday we could find an indigo ring that fits on your ring finger?"

  "That's a lot of pressure," I tell him, though, not feeling that way exactly.

  "I work better under pressure," he says.

  "What about me?" I respond.

  "You're a hygienist. Pressure is your thing."

  "True."

  "Haley, can I take you for dinner?"

  I look down between us at the ring on my pinky. "I'd love that."

  We had been standing still for so long that motion sensor lights in the hallway go dark, leaving us with only the glow from the emergency exit lights.

  I don't like the dark, but his hand sweeps across my cheek and just as my eyes adjust to the little amount of light left, I watch as his eyes study mine for a few seconds. Flutters erupt in my stomach and my body feels numb as he leans toward me. Just before his lips touch mine, a certain look in his eyes triggers a memory of a small dark-haired boy with big blue eyes leaning in to kiss my cheek. The feeling is the same, but much greater. His lips press against mine and the scent of mint and sensation is warm and plush. I lose every thought floating through my head, focusing solely on his mouth and his fingertips sweeping through my hair.

  "I remember you," I whisper against his lips.

  "Kisses don't work like that," he responds.

  "Maybe you need to take some more psychology classes." He leans back and smiles at me with a raised brow before returning to my lips.

  Epilogue

  A Year Later

  Little by little, Dale has peppered small memories of our friendship into my head. Maybe he has skills in doing so, or maybe my mind is smart enough to block out the rest, but everything with us has been easy, seamless, and meant to be. Being late to work has gotten worse, but it's not my fault. It's his.

  Like he does most mornings, Dale rolls over, his eyes still closed, but his body is melting on top of mine. His lips fall to my neck as his hands move up and down the sides of my body before I feel him slide inside of me. "We're not being careful anymore," I mutter.

  "Oh," he says, kissing me harder and tracing the tip of his tongue down the side of my neck. I basically agreed to see if he was the man I was meant to be with for the rest of my life without trying him out in bed first, so I'll call it an enormous...win in that department. It doesn't matter how many times Dale takes me to another level of desire, it feels like the first time each time. His hands feel as if they're everywhere all at the same time, as he pins my body to his, moving us into a fluid motion while moving up and down the bed.

  When his eyes finally open, he takes the time to look at me lovingly as if I'm the caffeine he needs to start his day, each day. He's my reason for smiling and considering a future I had begun giving up on.

  "Dale," I cry out as I come closer to the brink of losing control. "Right there, baby."

  Baby.

  "Here?" He asks, pressing into me harder with more strength.

  "Yes!" I shout.

  "What about here?" He's panting alongside me, thrusting harder and fas
ter.

  “Please don't stop. There!" He pins me against the bed, using his weight against me as I unravel beneath him. He pumps into me for another few seconds before I feel warmth spilling into me.

  "I love you, Haley," he whispers into my ear. The sensitivity lingering through me makes my toes curl just from the sound of his breath.

  "I love you," I tell him. "Dale—"

  "Haley, you're going to be late for work."

  "Dale—"

  "Haley—"

  "I'm not just late for work," I tell him.

  "What do you mean?" He asks, sitting up with a wild look flittering through his eyes.

  "I'm more than a little late. I'm so late, I'm two months pregnant." I wasn't nervous to tell him. We've talked about children so many times, especially after he proposed last month, but I thought we'd wait until after the wedding. Life hasn't gone according to my plans, so I'm trying my best to go with the flow more like Dale does. He makes it look so easy.

  His hands cup around my cheeks, and a blush covers his face as a smile stretches widely from ear to ear. "You're pregnant?"

  "Yes," I tell him.

  He still hasn't blinked but he leans his head down and places a soft kiss on my stomach. "Life was all planned out for us, just like I thought," he says.

  I look down at the indigo stone surrounded by a circle of diamonds on my finger, which rests next to the threaded braided ring on my other finger. "It really was all planned out."

  "Our baby...will have the perfect life and will have memories to live by for their entire life. It's our chance to start a new life, fresh without a darkness in the background. I will do whatever I can for both of you to make sure you never know of anything bad. I'll protect you both, Haley. You asked me once and I told you I would. Now that I can, I promise to never let either of you down."

  "I remember asking you to protect me because I needed protection back then, but I don't need it now, I just need you, Dale."

  Preview of Last Words

  PROLOGUE

  AMELIA

  Since 1945, my story has remained hidden deep within the corners of my mind and blacked out as if with permanent marker, in hopes that no one else would ever know. I've been holding on to these silent memories for such a long time, but I'm becoming weak. I've always known that the truth might someday be stronger than my will to be silent, but I can't imagine what my secrets would do to those I love.

  This may be cliché, but I'm going to start my story with a once upon a time...except my life hasn't been a fairytale—far from it. In fact, for a long time, I believed a happy ending meant death.

  During my early years as a child, I had a perfect life. The sun shone golden rays across Bohemia’s breathtaking sky and bore its warmth down on the silky, green-grass-covered soil. I lived in color—rich with vivid hues, and I danced through the mustard fields, twirling my dress as my hair blew like weeping willows in the breeze. My heart was protected, my life blessed with knowledge, and I was surrounded by love. There was a lightness in my mind and a feeling of completeness in my soul that made each day feel like a gift from above.

  Then, a day came when the sun was taken away. The sky became dark with heavy clouds, and my world turned gray. Raindrops that once fell from the sky bled into the tears that burned down my cheeks.

  I thought darkness was all I had left after losing everything I'd ever known and loved, but through a cloud of dust and despair, I found a glimmer of hope—a smile amongst the sunken cheeks and rotting corpses.

  He should never have smiled at me, and I shouldn't have acknowledged him when he did, but once it started, there was no turning back. I never considered the possibility of how it would end until I felt the heartbreak of loneliness again. His smile was gone, the warm touches we shared through my cold shivers would never heat my body again, and the worst part was that all hope was lost.

  It was all for nothing. It would have been easier to have never felt that kind of love because once I knew how good it could feel, I didn’t think I’d ever feel that way again.

  As the world caved in on itself, I allowed the pain and misery to pour from my eyes one last time before making a silent vow to never give another ounce of power to those who wanted to dominate the weak.

  I traveled through the phases of bitter denial, revenge, hate, sorrow—and finally, the emptiness that would be a part of me forever.

  When the sun returned and the grass grew back, those who had survived slowly allowed their wounds to heal, but there was a numbness inside all of us—protection from feeling the pain of the memories that would last a lifetime.

  To forget and move on as if it never happened was the only way to survive. I tried to convince myself that I hadn't lived through the most demoralizing and destructive five years this world has ever seen.

  I moved to America, leaving the enemy behind. I lived on, shielding myself from the memories. I lived up to society's moral standards and expectations by getting married and having children. I cooked, cleaned, and supported those I love. Then, over time, my past became a part of the earth like the bones and ashes in that far away land.

  There is one exception, though, and it's the part of me I have only pretended to forget—my secret. In fact, some would consider what I did to be as wrong, and equally horrendous, as what the heartless ones did to my whole race.

  In my heart, I will never consider that it was wrong, and I will stand by my actions and beliefs because the heart wants what the heart wants. Sometimes, even the toughest warriors who survive the odds and somehow escape the shadows of death, can still fall helpless and weak at the mercy of love.

  1

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emma

  Great, I'm going to be late again. I glance over at the clock on my car radio, feeling anxiety set in as I wait for my phone to ring. I don't understand how I can be expected to predict the exact moment I will arrive somewhere. Mom thinks that because I work for myself, I make my own hours, but that’s not the case. I have a job and deadlines to meet, but Mom clocks in and out of her beloved receptionist position at the town hall, so her lunch hour is the same every day. Even though mine doesn't always match up, I try my hardest to be punctual, but I can't foresee my daily schedule and traffic.

  I fly into the parking lot of Panera and see Mom standing in front of the entrance, her hip cocked to one side, an annoyed grimace covering her face, and her fingers frantically searching for buttons on her phone.

  Not-so-shockingly, my phone rings five-seconds later, just as I put the Jeep into park. If she weren't busy calling me, she would see that I pulled into the parking lot a minute ago.

  I decide to ignore the call as I walk toward her, watching her talking to herself. I'm assuming my voicemail is picking up right about now, and as soon I step foot onto the curb, five feet from where she's standing, she'll begin her, “Emma, where are you?” message. “You're two minutes late, and I'm worried something may have happened. Please call me as soon as you get this.”

  “I'm right here, Mom,” I tell her, smiling in hopes of erasing the angry look on her face.

  “Oh,” she says. “I was looking for you. You know lunch is at one.”

  “I was working with a client, Mom, and I'm only two minutes late,” I remind her. I give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before taking the few steps over to the door.

  “I'm sorry, I'm just having a bad day,” she says.

  My heart sinks for a moment, going through the list of things that could be wrong for her to have the despondent expression I see tugging at her face. “What happened?”

  “Nothing actually happened,” she begins.

  “Is Grams okay?” I ask. Ever since Grandpa passed away ten years ago, we have been taking turns checking up on her since she refuses to be “taken” from her house and “placed” in an assisted-living environment, or a morgue as she calls it.

  “Yes, she is fine but just angry today, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  Mom places h
er hand over her eyes and shakes her head. “I don't know, Emma. She's getting those palpitations in her chest again, and she's sure she's going to die today.” Mom tends to be overdramatic at times, but Grams doesn't typically throw around the topic of death, so I can see why she is concerned.

  “I'll go check on her after lunch, and I'll let you know when I find out she’s okay. That will put your mind at ease.”

  Acting as if I didn't say a word, Mom opens the door to Panera and walks inside. I totally understand that she can't handle the idea of Grams not being around, and I feel the same, but she's making herself sick with worry every day.

  Mom silently takes her place at the back of the line, squinting her eyes at the menu before pulling her glasses out of her purse. “You always order the grilled chicken sandwich. Are you getting something new today?” I ask her.

  “No, I'm just looking to see if they've added anything new to the menu.”

  “I don't think they have since last week,” I tell her, trying to save her the time of scrutinizing each column. She removes her glasses, then slips them back into her bag and looks around at the few people waiting in line to order. “Emma,” she whispers, “do you see him over there?” She's pointing toward the front of the line at a man working the register. Therefore, he must be single and available…unlike me, who is in a relationship. She'd like to pretend otherwise, however.

  “No,” I tell her. “Don't.”

  “He's cute, though,” she says with a grin. I'm glad she's feeling better now, but it is at my expense.

  “Please, stop it, Mom,” I mutter without hiding my aggravation.

  “I want grandchildren,” she responds in a singsong voice.