Destructive Silence (The Destructive Series) (26 page)

Author L.U. Ann
recently moved to Colorado from the Eastern Shore of Maryland with her husband and two children. Life in Colorado is so much different. In Maryland you would find her in the garden tending to her vegetables and flowers, sea glass and shark tooth hunting once a week and enjoying the kids swimming in the backyard. Our lives took a drastic change moving to "Our Little House on the Prairie" at an elevation over 6,000 and the semi-arid climate makes it hard to grow anything. While barely anything can grow where she resides now, the wildlife makes up for it. Mountain Lions and coyotes and rattlesnakes, oh my!

She
tries to spend a little time each day writing but domestic chores around the house usually take precedence. She would much rather hide them from her husband. She tends to her loving four-legged friends, who at times become much too demanding when she locks herself in the office. This often results in MORE domestic work; cleaning up after their deviant behavior.

At night, you’ll find her begging the
kids to go to bed so she can catch up on the latest book before her sister can. Yes, she is an avid reader who escapes her chaotic but wonderful home to the feisty depths of romance land in search of her newest book boyfriend. Shh, don’t tell her husband!

She is an artist by the grace of God. She worked as a set designer for six years, helping establish a local children's theatre where she was the scenery artist, set, and prop designer. Before that you would find her covered in paint so engrossed in painting a mural, time didn't exist. Graphic design is her guilty pleasure.

Destructive Silence is her debut novel. It is one of three books in The Destructive Series. Each book will hit its reader with lots of angst hoping for a happily ever after.

Coming September2013

A Contemporary Romance novel by Katie Mac

What happens when you find the one person who completes you, and then life conspires against you? How do you set your grief and anguish aside?

Katie boxes her grief up and attempts to raise her three girls the best she can on her own. As time slowly passes, Katie relives her times with Tripp while struggling most days to even get out of bed. She is reminded of him at every turn.

When you throw in a mother-in-law who torments at every turn and poor Katie can't even find a chance to breathe, much less a desire to somehow search for tomorrow
.

Chapter One

Today

“Mi Vida Loca over and over”

Pam Tillis

Some mornings, when you wake up you can just tell that it is going to be
that
kind of day.

This morning, I wake up to warm rays of sunshine spilling across my face. It feels so amazing and I just want to keep my eyes closed and enjoy the warmth of the sun, but something is digging into my hip. Reaching beneath the sheets, I contort my body as I search for the offender. Gotcha! As I squint my eyes against the brightness, I closely examine the hairy pink creature, sleepily recognizing the fuzzy shape of Strawberry Shortcake. Darn those kids’ meals!

If I am sleeping with Strawberry, then that means I fell asleep once again with my littlest munchkin in bed with me too. I roll to my side to nibble on my youngest childs belly, but instead, I spy the alarm clock beside the bed. I use the term alarm clock loosely because obviously I have slept through its racket! Throwing back the covers, I jump from the bed and let out an ear-piercing yelp that could serve as an alarm for the neighborhood! Buried in the heel of my left foot is Orange Blossom, Strawberry’s best friend. I know I have said this before, but it bears repeating: DARN THOSE KIDS’ MEALS!

I have to pee, but I have three kids to wake, dress, feed and get to school when all I really want to do is crawl back in bed, pull the covers over my head and start this day all over again. Based on the clock, I will have to take the tardy walk of shame and see the school secretary’s look of disapproval, and unfortunately, this look has become very familiar to me because we’ve been late more times than I can count. I choose the bathroom, because seriously, I have a three-baby bladder. Having three pregnancies stretch that poor
thing thin and push it out of shape so many times, it feel like a balloon is ready to pop. Besides, I am going to pee whether I go to the bathroom or not, and that would add yet one more thing that would need to be cleaned up around here.

While washing my hands, I catch a glimpse of a seemingly crazed looking woman in the mirror, and I try not to notice the sad, droopy, dark bags around my eyes or the new grains of salt scattered among the auburn hairs on my head. Thank goodness, I’m in a hurry or I could spend hours pointing out each individual flaw on my body. Please don’t let me get started because I am pretty sure I told you we are LATE, and I am not my biggest fan.

I rush from the bathroom, and pluck munchkin number three from my bed. Let me introduce you to my Maggie. She is my baby. She is the last precious gift from my husband... literally! He loved to give me gifts that would keep on giving. Sarah Margaret is almost three years old. She reminds me of a woodland sprite. She is almost fairy-like with her head full of beautiful caramel blonde curls and the largest, brightest green eyes that always sparkle with laughter and mischief. Her button nose tips up on the end, and her smile – well, her smile can lighten even the heaviest, grumpiest of hearts.

As Maggie grips my neck in a chokehold, I run down the hall to the closest bedroom. Throwing the door open, I cross to the bed of my middle daughter. I hope that buried somewhere in the mess of stuffed animals and blankets is the warm little body of Bekah. Haphazardly flinging bears, puppies and kittens at a breakneck speed, I finally unearth the top of the blankets. I catch Maggie as she slips forward, and then toss the blankets back. I discover a warm little body curled into a ball.
Ah, there she is.

Lest I forget, munchkin number two is my Rebekah Elizabeth and she is by far the most serious five year old I have ever met. I swear sometimes that I catch a glimpse of the frown lines between those piercing yellow-green eyes, and she is much too young to need wrinkle cream. She is such a worrywart! Case in point: a few weeks ago one of her sweet little friends (uh, no… not really!) told Bekah that it looked like she had lice in her hair. Do you think Bekah came to me and discussed this potential problem? Well duh, no she did not. What she did do though was worry and chew on the problem all afternoon and into the evening. While I was giving Maggie her bedtime bath, little Miss Worry Pants took matters
into her own hands. Needless to say, her almost waist length auburn curls have now been transformed into the cutest little bob you have ever seen. I promise that I really was not trying to scare the kids or wake the dead when I found Bekah’s hair all over the kitchen floor. I may have screamed and yelled a little, but really, what would you expect me to do? I think it goes without saying that our latest donation was to Locks of Love.

Thinking about her poor hair just upsets me all over again. But I do confess, her new cut looks so adorable on her. Seeing it spread around her sleeping face reminds of the task I came in here for.

I loosen Maggie’s chokehold, and slip her to my back, so that I can scoop Bekah into my arms. I head back down the hall to find another missing piece of our family’s little puzzle. Peering into my oldest daughter’s room, I find myself a little confused at its emptiness, and then I catch the smell of bread toasting. Thank God, someone has her act together! I haul the girls toward the kitchen and stop right inside the doorway. Hope for this crazy day blossoms as I catch a whiff of the nectar of life… coffee! Bless Katie’s heart. That girl sure does know her mother! She always remembers to turn the coffee maker on, knowing that I have trouble even functioning properly without at least a cup or two flowing through my veins to jolt a little life into this tired, worn out body.

Katie would be deeply offended if I should dare think to call her munchkin number one! At seven years of age, I sometimes think she is light years ahead of me in wisdom and maturity. As my oldest child, Kathryn Anne is the one who is old enough to remember all the twists and turns that life has brought our way these past several years. When I look into her turquoise eyes, I see the remnants of an old soul peeking back at me. Thankfully, that old soul wears a happy smile most of the time, but something about the way she is holding her shoulders so stiffly tells me that I am not going to be so lucky today.

When Katie turns from the toaster to look at me, I know without a doubt that I am in big trouble. Her deep mahogany curls swing out from her head like the chair swing ride at a summer carnival. That cute little button mouth molds itself into a frown, and I swear that child has borrowed Bekah’s furrowed brow. My heart hitches as I realize she is wearing her Brownie Scout uniform. Of all days for me to sleep late, it’s Girl Scout day and Katie is one of the girls who is going to speak during the assembly at school. She has spent the last few days maniacally researching her topic and practicing her speech. As she opens her mouth to speak and those turquoise eyes shoot sparks at me, I remember once again how big a failure I feel I am becoming to my girls. This feeling is one that has overwhelmed me many times in recent years as I struggle to find my way through each and every day. I don’t have the time or energy to think about tomorrow, much less place my hope in it.

Before one word can leave Katie’s lips, the girls and I hear a familiar, and please, do not mistake familiar for welcome on my end, greeting from the front door. “Yoo-hoo! Is anybody home?” Maggie and Bekah scramble down my body and dart toward the door. As I turn back toward Katie, I catch a glimpse of a smirk before she smoothes her expression. I let out a choked gasp, close my eyes in disbelief and hiss, “Oh tell me you did not! You are in soooo much trouble young lady.”

Katie gives me that deceptively innocent look, flutters her lashes at me, and then peers over my shoulder. “Good morning Grams. Thanks for coming to pick me up.
You know
I can’t be late today of all days. My speech props and book bag are by the front door. Just give me a second to brush my teeth and we can leave.” What does that hooligan do then? She takes off down the hall at the speed of light leaving me to face my arch nemesis! Where oh where did I put my Supermom cape today? With the piles of laundry I have yet to get to this week, I probably should not pose that question out loud! If there were any one person more critical of me than I am, it would be her, hand downs.

Standing before me is none other than the one, the only Mrs. Channing Kennedy Tidwell the Second. She is glaring at me with the superior look on her face that she has worked at perfecting over the years. I hold back a sigh, knowing that no matter what I say, this conversation will not be ending in my favor. “Good morning Mother Tidwell. It appears that once again you have come to my rescue and saved my damsels from distress.” I breathe deeply through my nose. I can tell by the daggers shooting from her eyes that she caught my subtle sarcasm. Needing coffee now more than ever, I cautiously turn my back to Her Majesty and make my way to the cabinet to retrieve a coffee cup. I look back over my shoulder at her and ask, “Care for a cup?”

With a vicious huff, she haughtily grounds out, “You know I would never deign to poison my body with such vileness. How you can tolerate such sludge is beyond me. Why if
my
Channing were here, you know that he would agree with me!”

At the mention of his name, my heart clenches and a physical pain runs through my body. I subtly take deep cleansing breaths because I learned long ago not to show pain, panic, or fear to this woman. “Mother Tidwell, please do
not
involve Tripp in this. That always makes my heart hurt and this day has started on the wrong foot already.” My thoughts of Tripp remind me of his coffee habit. “Besides, he drank a pot of coffee himself each morning. He was responsible for introducing me to coffee in the ninth grade, so that makes him solely responsible for my addiction too!” I let out a light laugh, trying to bring some cheer into our conversation.

As always, my efforts at levity are for naught. It is quite obvious that Mother Tidwell is not too impressed with my impromptu thoughts. Turning from me in dismissal, she calls down the hall to Katie and then turns back to inform me that she will be back in fifteen minutes to take the other two girls to school. “Maybe you can use that time to make sure they are both ready. Lord knows you should be able to handle that!” With that snide remark, she haughtily exits the kitchen, walks with Katie out the front door, and firmly closes it behind her.

With my shoulders hunched in rejection and frustration, I slide down onto the stool at the island and take a tentative sip of my hot coffee. Carefully placing the overfull cup on the counter, I rub my eyes and sigh. My Katie, the little traitor, did not even tell me goodbye or give me a chance to hug and kiss her. She
knows
how I struggle with goodbyes. Placing my hurt feelings on the back burner, I realize that I only have about ten minutes left to get the other two ragamuffins dressed and ready before
she
comes back. Once again, I find myself racing down the hall to gather up my other two munchkins so that I can wrestle them into their hated school clothes. If either of them had their own way, they would wear their dress-up outfits every day! Thank goodness, their clothes are clean! Maggie and Bekah grumble their way through dressing, brush their teeth, and then excitedly make their way back to the front door to wait for their grandmother.

Just thirteen minutes into the promised fifteen, I hear Mother Tidwell’s car approach our driveway. I hurriedly gather the girls in my arms and place a gentle kiss on each forehead. Maggie and I rub noses, Bekah and I give each other butterfly kisses, and with a whispered, ‘I love you’, I send two pieces of my heart out the door and pray silently for their safe return.

I lean back against the closed door and softly beat my head against it. I take a deep breath in, release it, and anxiously rub my temples, hoping to relieve some of the tension gathering there at an alarming rate. Facing off with Mother Tidwell is never my favorite thing to do, but seriously, with no coffee? That one sip does not count. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery. That woman has hated me from day one. I know the only reason she keeps coming back to torture me is so that she can try to build a gap between my munchkins and me and then wedge herself in between us. Some of the things she tells them about me make me wonder if she is delusional or if she is just a pathological liar. Either that or she just wants to drive me absolutely insane. Yep, that is probably what it is if I really take the time to think about it. She would love to have me committed because then I would be out of her way, and the girls would be hers to keep and mold into mini replicas of herself. That thought causes shivers to race down my spine.

With a heavy sigh, I make my way back to the kitchen. I am determined to get at least one cup of coffee in me before I get started on my day. I sit with my cup at the table and lay my head down on the sticky surface. I know that I should be thankful that someone is willing to help by taking the girls to school, even if I have to deal with a nasty attitude. I struggle with many simple things. Over the last three years, I have tried to keep all my thoughts and feelings boxed up inside, but to be honest, I am not quite sure the box is strong enough to hold it all in. Sometimes, I feel like someone squished me inside a soft drink bottle. With a couple of small shakes, I am ready to explode. Raising three girls, working long hours, dealing with Mother Tidwell, and trying to do all that without asking for help is beginning to consume my soul. The pressure I have placed on myself since Tripp has been gone is about to crush me, but I go to bed every night praying that tomorrow will be different, and maybe, just maybe a little easier.