Only One (The Reed Brothers #5.5) My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories
In here, his deep voice rumbled from the front of the apartment.
He nodded, pleased. Shifting up straighter in the bed, he asked, So Jane’s off with Anna?They’re probably still driving. They left an hour ago.
Love & Luck
She’s meeting them in Raleigh.This is really going to be something, he said. The weekend, I mean. How’s everything from your end? With the house?So far, so good, I started. My hope is that it’ll be ready by Thursday, and I’m pretty sure it will be.
The Dark Elf Trilogy: Homeland (The Dark Elf Trilogy #1)
What’s on your agenda today?I told him what I planned, and when I finished, he whistled appreciatively. Sounds like you’ve got quite a bit on your plate, he said.
I suppose, I said. But so far, I’ve been lucky.
I’ll say, he said. Except for me, of course. My stumble could have ruined everything.There they go, moving down the Hope River. Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Potts, who never knew each other, holding hands, their wet gray hair plastered over their heads, then Bitsy, Mary, and Thomas Proudfoot, wading tall in the shallows, and William MacIntosh too, floating facedown.
Ruben and Lawrence are there, and they race each other as they dive into the water. Katherine sits on the green grassy bank, keeping her golden bob dry and playing with baby Willie. There are rocks in the river that are unavoidable. Some of us will be bruised; some will be torn. Some will be sucked under, but some will be freed.I rest my cheek over Daniel’s heart and take shelter in the sound of its beating.
The Doomsday Conspiracy
Is it possible, I wonder, for a man to truly change? Or do character and habit form the immovable boundaries of our lives?It is mid-October 2003, and I ponder these questions as I watch a moth flail wildly against the porch light. I’m alone outside. Jane, my wife, is sleeping upstairs and she didn’t stir when I slipped out of bed. It is late; midnight has come and gone, and there’s a crispness in the air that holds the promise of an early winter. I’m wearing a heavy cotton robe, and though I imagined it would be thick enough to keep the chill at bay, I notice that my hands are trembling before I bury them in my pockets
Above me, the stars are specks of silver paint on a charcoal canvas. I see Orion and the Pleiades, Ursa Major and Corona Borealis, and think I should be inspired by the realization that I’m not only looking at the stars, but staring into the past as well. Constellations shine with light that was emitted aeons ago, and I wait for something to come to me, words that a poet might use to illuminate life’s mysteries. But there is nothing.This doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never considered myself a sentimental man, and if you asked my wife, I’m sure she would agree. I do not lose myself in films or plays, I’ve never been a dreamer, and if I aspire to any form of mastery at all, it is one defined by rules of the Internal Revenue Service and codified by law. For the most part, my days and years as an estate lawyer have been spent in the company of those preparing for their own deaths, and I suppose that some might say that my life is less meaningful because of this. But even if they’re right, what can I do? I make no excuses for myself, nor have I ever, and by the end of my story, I hope you’ll view this quirk of my character with a forgiving eye.
Please don’t misunderstand. I may not be sentimental, but I’m not completely without emotion, and there are moments when I’m struck by a deep sense of wonder. It is usually simple things that I find strangely moving: standing among the giant sequoias in the Sierra Nevadas, for instance, or watching ocean waves as they crash together off Cape Hatteras, sending salty plumes into the sky. Last week, I felt my throat tighten when I watched a young boy reach for his father’s hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. There are other things, too: I can sometimes lose track of time when staring at a sky filled with wind-whipped clouds, and when I hear thunder rumbling, I always draw near the window to watch for lightning. When the next brilliant flash illuminates the sky, I often find myself filled with longing, though I’m at a loss to tell you what it is that I feel my life is missing.My name is Wilson Lewis, and this is the story of a wedding. It is also the story of my marriage, but despite the thirty years that Jane and I have spent together, I suppose I should begin by admitting that others know far more about marriage than I. A man can learn nothing by asking my advice. In the course of my marriage, I’ve been selfish and stubborn and as ignorant as a goldfish, and it pains me to realize this about myself. Yet, looking back, I believe that if I’ve done one thing right, it has been to love my wife throughout our years together. While this may strike some as a feat not worth mentioning, you should know that there was a time when I was certain that my wife didn’t feel the same way about me.
Of course, all marriages go through ups and downs, and I believe this is the natural consequence of couples that choose to stay together over the long haul. Between us, my wife and I have lived through the deaths of both of my parents and one of hers, and the illness of her father. We’ve moved four times, and though I’ve been successful in my profession, many sacrifices were made in order to secure this position. We have three children, and while neither of us would trade the experience of parenthood for the riches of Tutankhamen, the sleepless nights and frequent trips to the hospital when they were infants left both of us exhausted and often overwhelmed. It goes without saying that their teenage years were an experience I would rather not relive.All of those events create their own stresses, and when two people live together, the stress flows both ways. This, I’ve come to believe, is both the blessing and the curse of marriage. It’s a blessing because there’s an outlet for the everyday strains of life; it’s a curse because the outlet is someone you care deeply about.