Book 2 in The Art of Living Series
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Excerpt
The Art of Being Broken
Prologue
Monday, July 20
“… Why didn’t you just tell me what had happened?” I ask Angeline.
On the deck of Father’s house, we sit on the steps leading down to the back yard.
“I thought it would be better if you found out little by little,” she says. “If I told you all at once . . . Well, would you have believed it?”
“I would’ve believed you.” I bite my lip. “But you’re right, it would’ve been a lot to absorb in one sitting.” After a moment, I add, “I’ll never be able to forgive them.”
“You will, Maddie. It’ll take a while. You have to, though. Promise?”
“I can’t promise that. How is it possible to pardon that kind of evil?” Angeline has such a sad expression that I relent. “Okay. For you, I’ll try.” I don’t tell her I vowed to make Father pay for what he’d done.
She nods, accepting my compromise. We listen for a time to the hypnotic rhythm of cicada calls. Crickets saw, and occasionally a frog croons, adding to the song of the new-washed country night. I gaze up at the partly cloudy sky. I can’t put off my question any longer.
“Does this mean you won’t talk to me anymore?” Part of me doesn’t want to let her go, despite the implications for my sanity.
“Do you want me to?”
My chin quivers and tears spill. How can I say goodbye? I didn’t realize how final it would be. I’ll never be comforted by her again or hear her contagious giggle. Never see her eyes dance when she smiles. I say nothing.
“I know,” she whispers. “I’ll miss you, too.”
Pulling her into a hug, I rest my cheek on her hair. “I love you, Angeline.”
“Love you more, Maddie.
Chapter One
Friday, September 18
I didn’t want to be here.
My mouth went dry as I knocked at Bobby Wittford’s front door and waited. When he saw me, I hoped his response wouldn’t be violent.
Instead of Bobby, a woman answered. In her early forties, her leathery skin was too weather-beaten to be pretty. Her hair was a mousy brown, and her voice sounded like a smoker’s.
“We don’t need what you’re selling.” She started to shut the door.
“I’m a friend of Bobby’s,” I blurted. So much for your promise of honesty. “Is he home?”
She gave me an appraising look. “You Stephany?”
“No. I’m Madisen.” Remembering how his six-year-old son, Tony, had greeted me, I stuck out my hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”
Shaking it, she relaxed. “Hi. I’m Amber. Bobby’s not home right now. He ran to the store.”
A blond little boy pushed his way around Amber. “Hi!” he said.
“Hi, there. Nice to see you again, Tony. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“’Course, I remember,” Tony replied, as if I’d insulted his intelligence. “You’re Madisen.” Amber’s lips arced up when Tony admitted he knew me. It took years off her.
“Do you expect Bobby home soon?”
“He should be back any minute. Come on in and have a seat.”
Sitting by Tony on the frayed sofa, I had second thoughts about my decision to see Bobby. It had certainly caused trouble with my boyfriend, Zac, and had led to our first big fight. Maybe you should’ve listened to him.
I’d just arrived in Missouri, and we’d argued during the two-hour drive to Clantonville from the Kansas City airport. I’d asked to borrow Zac’s truck. If I didn’t confront Bobby before the bachelorette party that night, apprehension would spoil my fun.
“Where do you need to go?” Zac asked, curiosity reflecting in his chocolate eyes.
I gritted my teeth, afraid the subject might cause a disagreement. Prompted by my therapist, I’d adopted a new personal rule to be honest about my feelings, especially with people I was close to. My visit with Zac would put it to the test.
“I’m going to Winnser. I need to talk to Bobby Wittford.” Two months ago, I’d reported Bobby to the police, certain he was the vandal who damaged the house I’d just inherited. I’d also been convinced his father had murdered my sister Angeline. I’d been wrong about her killer’s identity, which led me to believe I’d misjudged Bobby as well. I felt I owed him an apology.
I was mistaken about Zac’s reaction. It went far beyond a difference of opinion. The defined muscles in his arms bunched as he launched into overprotective, testosterone-driven, macho man.
“The hell you are, Maddie!” he’d shouted. “I’m not letting you get close to that son of a bitch. Didn’t you learn your lesson? He threatened you. Almost pushed you backwards down the porch steps.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I’d yelled back.
“Don’t take risks that could get you hurt. Your judgment is way out of line on this.”
I’d flinched at the cutting remark. I didn’t know whether to cry because Zac thought so little of me or get mad at myself for being too sensitive.
The anger won, though my trembling voice revealed I was close to tears. That irritated me even more. In the last ten weeks, I’d cried more than the previous twenty-eight years of my life.
“Don’t insult my decisions,” I said. “If you insist on being cruel, I won’t tell you my plans. I’ll ask to borrow Tabitha’s car.”
Guilt etched his face. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”
To let him know he wasn’t off the hook, I resonded by crossing my arms.
He added, “I’m afraid you’ll get hurt. No way I can let that happen. You know it would tear me apart.”
“Your words bruised me more than Bobby Wittford ever could. And he’s not someone who claims to care about me.”
“God. You’re right, I apologize.” He’d rubbed his jaw, trying to erase his frustration. “You may not think you need to be protected. But what happened during your last visit brings out my protective instincts.”
His point was valid. During my last visit, I’d spent a week in the hospital with a bullet wound. I’d just discovered Father had been molesting my sister before she died. I’d screamed threats, promising to send him to prison as a pedophile. If that weren’t possible, I’d ruin his law practice by getting him disbarred. In hindsight, a little restraint might’ve prevented me getting shot. Oh well. Add subtlety to the list of things you need to work on.
“That doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.” I pulled my hair behind my shoulders. “And you won’t need to protect me. I’m going to apologize to Bobby for causing him trouble in July.”
“He doesn’t deserve it.” Zac’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “When Dad finds out you’ve talked to Wittford, I won’t be able to defuse his temper like last time. He’ll be furious.”
“He won’t find out unless you tell him. You’re not going to change my mind. We might as well drop it.”
“Fine,” he’d said, staring ahead. “I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. Don’t make me call you a ‘sasshole.’” I’d tried to derail the argument with our personal humor. “Besides, stubbornness is one of my best qualities,” I teased. The mood had lightened somewhat, though he still looked concerned.
“You are stubborn, I’ll grant you that. If I go with you, I can make sure you won’t be harmed.” Instinctively starting to object, I’d clamped down on the gut reaction. He was compromising. The least I could do was meet him halfway.
“Okay. How about you drop me off at his house? If you agree not to sit in the truck outside. I promise I’ll call if Bobby doesn’t behave like a gentleman.”
He didn’t replied for a long time, finally grumbling, “Fine.”
“Thank you. However, you need to show how much you regret criticizing me.”
“Can you forgive me?” He glanced at me to gauge my mood. “When your safety is on the line, I go a little crazy. How can I make it up to you?”
I’d raised a brow suggestively. “You’ll have to get on your knees and grovel when we get to your place.”
“I’ll do more than grovel when I’m on my knees.” Raw desire radiated from him as he’d brushed a finger over my thigh. “Baby, I’ll apologize over and over and over.”
When we’d arrived at Zac’s house, he’d done just that.
Amber broke into my reflections, handing me a glass of iced tea. I thanked her, hearing the sound of a car outside. Guessing it was Bobby, I was relieved. At last, I could get this over with.
I should’ve known better.
Bobby came in the back door. His footfalls paused, and the refrigerator door opened and closed. When his heavy tread came into the living room, he seemed to take up the whole space. I’d forgotten what a tall, muscular man he was. At six feet four, he was ten inches taller than me. He saw me sitting next to Tony.
“What the . . . What are you doing here?” He stalked toward me, hands fisted.
“I came to apologize,” I said, hoping to curb his anger. He stopped short with an open mouth. “Can we talk?” I nodded toward Tony to indicate we should speak in private.
Bobby’s confusion was clear as he opened the door for me onto the porch. An evening breeze had smoothed the jagged heat. It would be a pleasant evening. There were no chairs. I sat on the narrow concrete steps. From there, it would be easier to get away if he tried to hit me . . .