Where Love Blooms, page 1
Where Love Blooms
A Later in Life Romance
Waterstead Love Story Trilogy
Book One
Eliza Ester
Copyright © 2023 by Eliza Ester
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
What’s Next?
About the Author
Chapter One
Veronica
“One more minute, girl. Just hold on for one more minute.” The words came out as sobs, as a plea that nobody else would hear.
Veronica tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, her tear-filled eyes on all the car’s mirrors as she rolled down the highway. There were no cars here, no witnesses to see what she wanted to hide the most.
Today made two years since her world had imploded, since her whole life had changed and who she was had become who she would never be again. Even if her memories insisted to her that she was still those things. Even if her heart wanted reality to become a nightmare that she would wake up from one day.
This morning, she’d woken up and made a decision. She wouldn’t hide from the world anymore. She would not hide from the truth anymore. She would go out into the world and honor those she had lost by living. Even if it was the last thing she wanted to do.
And everything had been going great. Up until she’d seen the sign for family vacation fun at a waterpark with a laughing little boy who looked just like…
“No, stop it, Veronica.” The order came from stiff lips, lips that trembled as much as her hands.
A flick of her left index finger hit the turn signal to indicate her intention to leave the road. There wasn’t anyone to witness her exit from the highway, but it didn’t matter. Habit drove her now, and the need to get out of the car sooner rather than later.
After one last glance to make sure she was alone on the highway, Veronica pulled the car over to the breakdown lane on the right side of the road. Her hands shook, despite her clutching at the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. She felt the tremors in more than just her hands, though; she felt them throughout her body. She knew it for what it was, knew that it was another wave of the endless grief that had stolen every ounce of joy from her life over the last two years.
That’s why she was on this deserted highway in central Texas. That’s why she was headed into the unknown. She wanted to escape that grief, the pain and misery. So this morning, she’d packed up her car with the things she couldn’t live without and quietly left town.
There’d been no fanfare, no goodbye parties or final tearful goodbyes. She hadn’t told anyone she was leaving, hadn’t gone by the cemetery. She’d just left. Few would notice her absence, few would notice that the house was dark from now on. Somebody might come by to check on her eventually.
At some point, she’d call a realtor and put the house up for sale, or she’d go back home. There was no rush to make that decision yet. Until then, her bank would automatically pay the neighbor’s son to take care of the grass and the plants once a week, and the utility bills would be paid the same way. The insurance money had slid into her bank account as a direct deposit a few months after the accident, the result of policies she and Joshua bought together to protect Oliver in case anything happened to them. They’d never expected that it would be her who would benefit from a loss.
The money wasn’t something she wanted, but it came in handy and allowed her to avoid finding a job while she grieved at her own pace. She’d left behind the tatters of what had once been a successful art career. That career had suffered when Oliver came along, but it hadn’t mattered to her. She’d loved her baby boy, and Joshua had made enough money to provide a good home for them all.
That home was empty now. It didn’t ring with her son’s laughter or the heavy steps of her husband’s boots when he came home late from work each night.
Oliver had only had one year of high school left. He was on his way to leaving the nest, and she’d been making plans to revive her career. Joshua had even hinted at a second honeymoon, maybe even a vow renewal, as their twentieth wedding anniversary had been coming up. Everything had been perfect.
Had been.
Until that awful, unforgettable, life-changing night.
Her friends, some she’d known since childhood, had tried to help her through it, knowing she and Joshua had no family to comfort her. As time passed, the deep wounds of her loss had festered, and she’d left those friends behind, consumed by her grief.
Her friends could not help her. They could not understand the bottomless pit that was her loss. They could not understand because they lived the life that she no longer had. She’d once had a family, a husband she loved dearly, and a son who had been the light of her world, poised on the brink of becoming a man who would have children of his own one day. Now she had two graves and a shattered heart.
The lone woman sitting in her car on the side of the road held her hand over her heart, making one last valiant attempt to get herself under control. The tears she could handle, they would go away. The sobs made it hard to breathe, but she could handle that too. It was the threat of something worse, something far deeper than she’d ever experienced before that frightened her, that promised to drive out the last fragile shred of sanity that she clung to with fierce determination.
She’d seen the sign earlier, with the boy who reminded her of Oliver when he was younger, and her grief had come back for her. The whirlwind of emotion now threatened to swallow her whole as she pushed herself to the passenger side and scrambled for the handle.
The door would not open. Why wouldn’t the door open?
“Let me out. Please, let me out,” Veronica whispered to the handle, pulling at it over and over until she was certain that she’d end up a gibbering wreck on the side of the road, screaming at a door handle like an insane woman.
With one final plea, she pushed at the door of the old car and finally felt the mechanism give. She almost fell out of the car but caught herself. Dressed in faded blue jeans and a white cotton blouse that floated around her hips, she ran in black leather loafers to the edge of the road and looked around one last time.
Still no cars.
Her feet broke the silence as she stepped through dry grass and over broken pine branches. The silence of the wooded area, calm and tranquil until her entry, should have soothed Veronica, but it didn’t. That septic bundle of grief inside her very soul made her open her mouth and scream to the heavens. With her fists clenched in her hair, she sank to her knees as tears streamed from her eyes.
“Why? Why did you take them from me in that car crash? Why didn’t you take me instead?” She screamed the words to heaven, into the woods, to anyone and anything who might hear her as she leaned over to pound her fists against a soft bed of pine needles. They were the same questions she’d asked a million times since that awful night that felt as if it had happened a dozen years ago one minute, and only a few hours ago the next minute. Medication, therapy, yoga—she’d tried it all, but nothing had felt better than leaving that house and town behind.
She hated to leave those two graves, but she knew that if she stayed, she’d never survive. Her son and husband would have wanted her to go on without them, even if she had to force herself to get up and move every morning. Even if it was the hardest thing she ever had to do. And there had been a lot of hard things over the last two years, stacks of hard things that left her with the urge to stay in bed and not face anything anymore.
The raging storm of her screams faded to sobs as the minutes passed, and even the sobs came to an end eventually. This was a familiar routine to Veronica, brought on by her flight from the house, no doubt, and that billboard. At least she hadn’t been in the middle of the grocery store when it came on this time.
Digging a tissue from her left pants pocket, she wiped at her face and nose, inhaling slowly and steadily. Her heartbeat began to calm, and she lifted her head from where it was tucked against her chest. In her mind, she saw the list she’d found last night. Her bucket list of things she wanted to do and experience. She’d written it with Oliver and Joshua in mind, expecting to do all the things on that list with the ones she loved most.
That would never be.
She’d gone to bed the night before thinking of that list, using it to push away thoughts of the dreaded anniversary. She’d driven all her friends away in the end—well, most of them—and she had no one to answer to anymore. When she woke up this morning, that list was still on her mind. It was a simple decision, then, to leave it all behind. If she could not tick off boxes with her family, she would do it to honor the memory of that family.
Veronica sniffled and looked, wondering now where she was exactly. She had no idea if she had left Austin behind or if she was still on the way to it. It didn’t matter, really. She’d keep driving either way.
There are probably ticks out here, she thought without much concern for her safety, but revulsion at the small insects forced her to her feet. The canopy of the pine trees had blocked out the brightest rays of sunlight, so when she stepped out of the woods, the sun made her blink. Her hand came up to shield her eyes as she walked to the boundary between the asphalt and the woods. She was still alone.
As she approached the car, Veronica glanced down at herself. She was covered in dirt and pine needles. Two years ago, that would have driven her crazy, but now she was a different person. The kind who didn’t mind dirt.
Pulling in a deep breath, Veronica stood up and closed her eyes to listen to the calm quiet of the woods. She’d broken that quiet only moments ago, but already the birds had started to sing in the trees again, probably gossiping to each other about what they’d just witnessed. That made her smile and push her damp hair back from her face.
She was ready to move on now.
Where she was going and what she would do when she got there weren’t really important at the moment. Being able to cope for another hour and having some kind of plan, even if it was vague, was better than nothing at all.
She heard the faint rumble of a semi’s engine as she opened the car door and looked up. The shiny red and chrome of the semi with no trailer grew bigger as it drew nearer, becoming a massive machine as it approached. Thoughts flickered in her head, dangerous thoughts that she brushed away as she opened the passenger door of her beat-up car.
The car had actually been Oliver’s, and that’s why she’d kept it. Joshua’s work truck had been too massive for Veronica to use every day, and the family car…well, the family car hadn’t been an option after that night. The car had been taken somewhere as evidence when the police prosecuted the delivery driver of that van, a driver who had been too inebriated to drive.
Veronica didn’t know the outcome of that prosecution. Didn’t care, really. A conviction wouldn’t bring back her family, wouldn’t give her back her old life. So the case had been another thing that fell by the wayside. What good would it do her, she’d asked the detective who requested she come to court. When she was no longer a wife or a mother, what good would it do to know someone was sent to prison?
She’d always thought justice was supposed to bring some kind of peace. She’d come to see that wasn’t always the case. Justice would bring her no joy at all, so she hadn’t even called or read the news to find out the verdict.
Veronica realized she’d been staring into the car for quite a few minutes and shook herself. She reached into the glove compartment for a pack of wipes she kept there for emergencies. She scrubbed at her face, wiping away the evidence of her grief before she bundled the used wipes into a ball and threw them in a plastic bag that she kept for trash in the footwell of the passenger side.
With one last look at the woods and a deep sigh, she climbed back into the driver’s seat and put her hands on the steering wheel. “Where am I going?”
She looked around, trying to decide whether to head back in the direction of home or to continue east toward the Gulf of Mexico. If she kept going, she’d end up in Baton Rouge or New Orleans. Further beyond that was Biloxi or Birmingham. Then there was Orlando, and points to the north and south of those cities. The map was endless, but for now, she decided, heading east was the easiest way to go. She’d find a hotel when she grew tired of driving, look up a map on her phone at a diner, and see just what the world had to offer her now that she had to make a new life for herself.
Her lips tilted up slightly at the thought, her fingers absently reaching for the keys to start the engine. Instead of the expected rush of the engine, however, all Veronica heard was a faint…click.
“What?” Veronica asked the car, drawing her eyebrows together. She turned the key again, put her right foot on the brake, but the engine did not turn over. There was only the clicking sound that spelled bad news.
She looked up at the car’s ceiling, her eyes pleading with the heavens. “All right, Joshua and Oliver, I get it. I’m a middle-aged woman alone on a Texas highway. Not the best idea I’ve ever had, but come on, guys. Cut me a break here. Tell me what to do to make this thing go?”
There was no immediate answer.
Chapter Two
Thatcher
“We’ve got thirty more miles before we reach the next town, Bus. Do you want a walk now, or do you want to wait?” Thatcher looked back at his traveling companion, a Saint Bernard with golden eyes that could be best described as doleful. “Is that a no, Buster?”
Buster wasn’t the most active dog now. He was getting on in years, and he wasn’t much for walking long distances anymore. He liked naps in Thatcher’s truck, on hotel room floors, and anywhere else he could find a place to sprawl out and sleep. His love of naps disappeared only when he heard kibble of any kind hitting his food bowl. Then he might make it up to a trot if he was especially hungry.
“I guess we’ll keep going, then, buddy.” Thatcher shrugged and pushed his shoulders back, trying to work out the kinks caused by too many hours in the driver’s seat. How long had it been since he’d packed up the trailer and left what used to be the family farm behind? Two days or three? It might have even been four. He’d lost track of time today.
Thatcher had sold the farm—well, what was left of the farm—to a couple just starting out in life with love and hope in their eyes. The happiness had nearly oozed out of the couple as they looked around the farm, noting the vast acreage and the barn that had developed a lean the last couple of years. The fact that there was a horse barn had fascinated them, and then there’d been the house itself.
Thatcher’s maternal grandfather had built the house sometime in the 1950s, replacing the old house that had burned down just after Thatcher’s mother, Jessie, was born. Duke, Thatcher’s father, had moved in with the family after marrying Jessie. Eventually, Duke took over the running of the farm. The first years had brought prosperity, but over the decades, the lean years had started to blend into each other, and what had once been a beautiful ranch became little more than a derelict farm.
Thatcher hoped the young couple kept the place filled with happiness and hope. There’d been no love in that place for at least fifty years. Long before Thatcher came along, his parents had settled into a life devoid of affection or love. He wasn’t sure how they’d managed to rustle up enough excitement between the pair of them to make a baby, but they had managed it somehow.
Throughout his childhood, Thatcher had often wished that they hadn’t bothered. His father’s violent outbursts and his mother’s tired cries and admonitions to do as his father told him so the man wouldn’t get mean had left him desperate to get away. His father passed away not long after Thatcher went off to college, a heart attack that had almost been a relief to the son. That relief hadn’t lasted long, though. His mom couldn’t handle things on her own, so he’d gone home to try to help her keep the farm. By that time, she was a slim, tough old bird concerned only with work and getting by.
