Annie is horribly damaged by life.
She believes she cannot be loved.
Then Bud becomes her pen pal
and love finds them both...
in one way or another.
Every few days I will post a little more.
Soon you will be able to read it all.
If you absolutely can't wait to find out
what happens between Annie and Bud,
(and I hope you can't!)
you are welcome to click a link and buy an e-book or a paperback copy.
And now, today's post:
PROLOGUE
Thursday, October 27, 2016
“Mail call!”
My wife Cynthia, nine months pregnant and looking like it, met me at the front door waving an envelope. I wasn’t all that interested. My
workday had been exhausting and all I wanted to do was sit down.
Thank God for overstuffed recliners. Giving Cynthia a weary peck on the lips, I brushed past her and went straight to mine, sinking into with a groan. A quick tug on the side lever tilted me backwards and brought my feet up, cradling me in comfort. Closing my eyes, I raised my hand in Cynthia's general direction, ready to receive whatever it was she held. It was probably a bill, or maybe a note from the children’s doctor, reminding us it
was time for the twins’ check-up.
Closing in on four years old, Larry and Lily were the cutest
little holy terrors you’d ever want to meet, and doctor appointments were
extremely low on their list of desirable activities. I was so glad my wife dealt
with that end of things. If it were up to me, I’d throw a children’s vitamin at
them now and then and call it good. That’s probably why Cynthia was their
primary caregiver, and I was the main breadwinner.
Noticing the loneliness of my elevated hand, I cracked one eye
open. Cynthia dangled the envelope an inch above my palm, looking down at me
over the top of it with her brows knit together in mock disapproval.
“What is it?” I asked. “An eviction notice?”
“You wish, lover boy. Who lives in Boston?”
My eyes snapped open in surprise. Boston? Really? That was so
long ago. It couldn’t be.
“Let me see that.”
No longer exhausted, I sat up and she handed it to me face down, then
took a step back, folded her arms, and focused on me.
I knew that look. She was gearing up to throw me some grief if
the mystery letter proved to be bad news for her life plans, all of which
included me at my fidelitous best. I doubted she hand anything to worry about.
If the sender of this letter was who I suspected it was, it would be me
receiving bad news and her throwing nothing meaner than sympathy.
Turning the envelope over, I glanced at the front, and for a
moment my whole world rocked sideways. It wasn’t who I thought it was at all.
The sender was from the same family but had definitely not sent me a death
notification. Not unless they had an angelic pen pal program in Heaven. And if
that was the case, they would for sure have better handwriting there.
Scrawled across the front of the envelope, as distinctive as a
mug shot, was my name, my pen pal name, written in an all-too familiar
chicken-scratch I hadn’t seen in ages. I hadn’t even thought about in almost as
long, and I had assumed I would never see it again.
I looked up at Cynthia, and my stunned look forced her to
exchange her prepared annoyance for concern.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Where are the kids
“In their room, getting their jammies on. They’ll be charging in
here any moment for a pre-bed tickle fight. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing, but could you hold them off for a few
minutes?”
She raised a curious eyebrow.
“I suppose I can tell them a story. Are you going to tell me what
that…” she pointed at the envelope, “…is all about?”
“Of course. After I read it.”
“Of course.” She laced her words with an eyeroll and a touch of
sarcasm, but I knew she was teasing. “Can you be the tickle monster first so I
can throw those two wiggle worms in bed?”
“Ten minutes, babe. That’s all I need.”
She raised one eyebrow. “Ten minutes?”
“That’s all I need.”
“And that’s all you’re going to get, and then I’m unleashing them
on you.”
“Deal.”
More mollified than satisfied, she left the room, giving me space
to deal with the unexpected envelope. I knew who had sent it. No name was
written in the upper left corner, only an address, but I knew. The handwriting,
unique in its messiness, was unforgettable.
Annie Parker.
Holding the unopened envelope in one hand and touching the chicken
scratch with the other, I smiled, remembering.
Chapter 1, Part 1 Coming Soon
