Where Petals Fall Read online

  Where Petals Fall

  Melissa Foster

  "With vivid prose and a tender heart, Melissa Foster has crafted a psychological and emotional mystery fueled by love in all its forms."

  — Jennie Shortridge, Author of Love Water Memory

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  WHERE PETALS FALL

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2013 Melissa Foster

  V1.0

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover Design: Natasha Brown

  WORLD LITERARY PRESS

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For Mom

  PRAISE FOR MELISSA FOSTER

  "Contemporary romance at its hottest. Each Braden sibling left me craving the next. Sensual, sexy, and satisfying, the Braden series is a captivating blend of the dance between lust, love, and life."

  —Bestselling author, Keri Nola, Psychotherapist

  (on The Bradens)

  "[LOVERS AT HEART] Foster’s tale of stubborn yet persistent love takes us on a heartbreaking and soul-searing journey."

  —Reader's Favorite

  “Smart, uplifting, and beautifully layered.

  I couldn’t put it down!”

  —National bestselling author, Jane Porter (on Sisters in Love)

  "Steamy love scenes, emotionally-charged drama, and a family-driven story, make this the perfect story for any romance reader."

  —Midwest Book Review (on Sisters in Bloom)

  “HAVE NO SHAME is a powerful testimony to love and the progressive, logical evolution of social consciousness, with an outcome that readers will find engrossing, unexpected, and ultimately eye-opening.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  "TRACES OF KARA is psychological suspense at its best, weaving a tight-knit plot, unrelenting action, and tense moments that don't let up, and ending in a fiery, unpredictable revelation."

  —Midwest Book Review

  "[MEGAN’S WAY] A wonderful, warm, and thought-provoking story...a deep and moving book that speaks to men as well as women, and I urge you all to put it on your reading list."

  —Mensa Bulletin

  “[CHASING AMANDA] Secrets make this tale outstanding.”

  —Hagerstown Magazine

  “COME BACK TO ME is a hauntingly beautiful love story set against the backdrop of betrayal in a broken world.”

  —Bestselling Author Sue Harrison

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  It was the warmth of Sarah’s breath that woke Junie Olson from a sound sleep, a gentle, repetitive wisp flitting against her cheek. A knot tightened in her stomach. Even with her eyes closed, Junie could picture her daughter’s cherubic cheeks, her golden ringlets, which couldn’t be tamed by even the strongest brush, and her beautiful, albeit vacant, blue eyes. It was those eyes that kept Junie from lifting her lids and meeting her daughter’s gaze. She missed her vibrant, effusive four-year-old. Five months of emotional regression interspersed with too many medical tests to count, and Junie still couldn’t look at her daughter without feeling like she was watching her drown from a distant shore.

  Junie could not resist the pull of her daughter’s love. She opened her eyes and lifted her finger to her lips. The gesture was habit, left over from years of Sarah jumping onto the bed in fits of giggles and snuggling in between Junie and her husband, Brian. Had Junie not lifted her finger to her lips, she’d have solicited the same stoic response as Sarah was giving her now. The blank stare, lips parted, tiny fingers twisting the silver ring on her right ring finger. If only she’d speak, say something, anything. Junie would give her right hand to hear her daughter’s sweet voice once again.

  Junie felt her cheeks flush, ashamed for wishing her daughter to be different, to be normal again. There was no wishing away who Sarah was. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any answers, either. Like most moms, Junie had dreamed of a fun-filled youth for her daughter, with too many mother-daughter moments to count. They’d lived that dream for almost four years, and now those dreams were replaced with worry. How could Sarah possibly fit in? Make friends? Could she be socially appropriate? Would she ever pull out of this regression? Sarah didn’t have a diagnosis, and that alone had initially pierced Junie’s heart. The new psychiatrist was waiting on Junie to complete yet another seven-page questionnaire. Hadn’t they been through enough testing? They’d taken Sarah to seven specialists over the past five months—from infectious-disease doctors to internal-medicine experts. Why couldn’t they figure this out? Why was Junie having issues completing that last request? She’d tried; she’d stared at the paperwork with a sinking heart, wondering if she truly wanted to know what was behind Sarah’s regression—or if she was afraid to know it might be a forever issue.

  Junie’s eyes trailed down Sarah’s nightgown, coming to rest on the telltale wet mark covering her lower half. Please, God, help her. Help us. Junie’s pulse sped up. The clock glared red on the nightstand: 4:45 a.m. She had fifteen minutes to get the mess cleaned up and settle Sarah back into bed before Brian got up. He had a big court case this week, which meant late nights and early mornings. Junie glanced at her husband, sound asleep next to her, his right arm arced over his head, as if he were sunbathing. She longed to snuggle against him, feel his arm lazily wrap around her and pull her close. She ached for mornings pa
st, when she’d curled against him in the private nook of his body, each breath measured, so as not to wake him and break the moment. It had been five months since he’d woken up in a sleepy haze, his eyes still closed, and sighed the sigh that came from deep within his soul and could mean only, We are so lucky. I am so happy. Sarah’s regression had caused a fissure between them that swelled with the daily wave of Sarah’s silence. It was as if Sarah’s silence had been holding hands with their relationship, and as Sarah regressed, it dragged their relationship deeper into an abyss of angst, pitting one against the other. Junie mourned the loss of life without the underlying current of Sarah’s regression between them.

  Junie was tucking Sarah into her newly changed bed sheets when Brian appeared in the doorway. His thick dark hair stood up in unruly peaks. His wrinkled T-shirt hung loosely around his slim waist. Junie didn’t let her eyes drop any further. She didn’t know what to do with the sexual desire she felt for him despite the expanding gap between them. She missed their lovemaking, the way they’d sneak into the bedroom together for a passionate quickie while Sarah napped or watched television. Every pull of Sarah’s withdrawal took with it a pulse of their passion until there was barely a feather of a beat left. Junie reached out and ran her fingers down Brian’s arm, hoping to recapture a spark. That simple touch used to be enough to launch them into a moment of passion, troubles forgotten.

  He flinched against her affections.

  She pulled away, grimacing inside, fully aware of the extra five pounds she was carrying—and now certain that Brian was just as aware of them as she was.

  She felt his angry stare boring into her. Junie bit her lower lip.

  “It’s fine,” Junie whispered. “She just had a hard time sleeping.”

  Brian’s eyes fell to the edge of the wet sheet sticking out of the hamper.

  Junie gathered the sheets from the hamper where she’d tossed them and walked toward the laundry room, hoping Sarah would fall back to sleep.

  Brian followed on her heels. “Junie, you can’t keep babying her. She’s doing this for attention.”

  Sarah’s regression had become the elephant in the room. They’d moved from the outskirts of town to a subdivision just before Easter to lessen Brian’s commute and to accommodate his later schedule. After he’d won Marco Arzo’s case, Brian had become the go-to criminal defense attorney in Tysons Corner, Virginia. Marco Arzo had been accused of murdering three women. The evidence didn’t add up, and Brian would have bet his own life on his client’s innocence. Two weeks after Marco walked, an anonymous tip brought in the true killers: a husband-and-wife team of psychopaths. Brian was convinced that Sarah’s bed-wetting, her silence, and her overall sullen demeanor was her way to get back at them for moving away from her friends at her old school, or for his own crazy schedule, which drew him away from home in the evenings, leaving little to no father-daughter time. It had been almost six months since the move, and he was having none of it. He wouldn’t accept that guilt trip from a child. She’d have to learn to adjust, like the rest of them.

  Junie threw the urine-soaked sheets into the washing machine and turned to face Brian, arms crossed, shoulders back. “Four-year olds are not that manipulative. There’s something wrong.” Why can’t you just adore her like you used to? Coddle her a little, accept this as a bump on Parenthood Road instead of thinking she’s a spoiled, manipulative child?

  “We’ve gone through every damned test there is, Junie. Why can’t you see it? She changed right after we moved. It’s obvious.”

  Junie shook her head, thinking of the move and how it had changed things for all of them. She was no longer five minutes from Bliss, the bakery she had opened shortly after graduating from college. The new twenty-five-minute commute meant she had even less time to work while Sarah was at preschool. Thinking of Bliss brought her to Shane, her business partner and friend—just about her only friend. Taking care of Sarah and running the bakery left little time to cultivate friends in the new neighborhood. Not that Junie would have done so, at least not easily. She hadn’t had many close female friends since grade school. She felt lucky that Brian never raised an eyebrow about her closest friend being both male and her business partner. With Brian’s busy schedule, Junie spent more time with Shane than she did with Brian. A wave of gratitude ran through her, chased by her husband’s angry stare. “Well, it’s not obvious to me. The doctors—the tests—they must have missed something.” She turned and closed the washing machine, then switched it on. “An allergy, something.” Junie’s next thought was that her daughter was acting just like those children you read about who were molested and immediately regressed. She didn’t verbalize those thoughts. Sarah’s therapist had already gone down that painful line of questioning.

  “Whatever. I gotta go to work. I’ll be—”

  “Late, I know.” Junie watched him stomp up the stairs. Her chest ached. She couldn’t just stand there and watch her marriage fall apart. She adored Brian. They’d never fought before Sarah’s issues began. Junie hurried up the stairs and into the bathroom, where Brian was in the shower. “I’m sorry. Maybe you’re right. I’ll try not to baby her.”

  Brian pulled the shower door open, water dripping down his face. “I just want her to get better. Maybe we should move back. The house hasn’t sold yet.”

  Junie shook her head. “No. You might be right. Who knows? I’ll try to be tougher and see if that works.” Is it me? Junie wondered if Brian could be right, if she was too close to Sarah to see something as obvious as a power struggle. Was she just being stubborn, unwilling to believe her daughter was capable of something so manipulative? Something inside her told her that no, she wasn’t, and that Brian was wrong, but she couldn’t let her marriage crumble without at least giving his idea a shot. She resolved to take a stronger stance with Sarah and hoped that by doing so, she wouldn’t be doing more harm than good.

  Junie stuffed the grocery bags into the back of the minivan and pushed the lift gate closed. Rain spit from the sky, dampening her sweatshirt. September in Virginia could be fickle. The sky had become as gray as it had been sunny when she’d dropped Sarah at preschool just an hour earlier.

  Sarah would be out of class in an hour and a half, giving her just enough time to put away the groceries and change the laundry over. She felt guilty for asking Shane to cover for her today at the bakery, but her family would starve if she didn’t make time to get groceries. Brian’s late nights and Sarah’s added medical and therapy appointments left her little downtime for household errands. Her cell phone rang. Junie dug past the loose receipts that littered her purse and retrieved her phone. “Hi, Mom.” She fumbled for her keys.

  “Hi, sweetheart. I have to tell you something.” Ruth’s voice quivered.

  Junie sifted through the keys for the right one and lifted it toward the ignition. Picking up on the quivering of her mother’s voice, she selfishly hoped whatever had caused it would be trivial and quick. “Okay.”

  “Are you sitting down? This is really, really bad. You need to be sitting down.”

  Junie froze, her hand hanging in midair. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Really bad. “Mom? I’m sitting. What is it?”

  “Sweetheart, Daddy…I found Daddy this morning, in the bathroom.”

  The keys dropped to the floor with a clank. Junie’s hands trembled as she listened to her mother. Lying on the bathroom floor, pants around his ankles. Heart attack.

  Chapter Two

  Sarah stared at the television, oblivious to the sobs coming from her mother. How could she tell her daughter that her grandfather was dead? Dead. The thought crippled her. For the first time in five months, Junie was actually glad that Sarah was not the vivacious, curious child she’d once been. She’d never have been able to pretend that nothing was wrong. A wave of guilt passed through her. She lowered herself to the couch, burying her face in her hands.

  She had to pack. Her legs wouldn’t work. How could she pick out clothes and toiletries to
bring to her mother’s? Her father was dead. Her mother needed her. Sobs started from deep within her, engulfing her shoulders and turning her legs to rubber. She sank into the couch. Mom. At least Selma and Mary Margaret, her mother’s closest friends and neighbors for the past thirty-plus years, would be there with her. She took comfort in the thought that her mother would not be alone until she got there. Junie had heard how the Getty Girls (Ruth, Selma, and Mary Margaret) came to be more times than she could count. When Ruth had first moved into the Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, neighborhood, Selma and Mary Margaret, two friendly though nosy neighbors from across the street had rushed over, welcome baskets in hand. The women got along like three peas in a pod, and before the afternoon was over, the three of them had coined the name for their little trio, the Getty Girls: the Three Musketeers, female style. The Getty Girls had stepped in when Junie’s mother had her hysterectomy, cooking and cleaning and doting on Ruth, and they’d brought Junie chocolate bars and conspiratorial winks when she’d had her first period at thirteen years old. She was thankful knowing that they’d be there for her mother now.

  Junie took a few deep breaths, then walked from the living room into the kitchen, her mind wrapped in a bubble of grief. She grabbed her cell phone and lowered herself into a kitchen chair, then dialed Brian’s office phone.

  “Hi, Stacy. This is Junie.” Her voice cracked as she held back her sobs. “Is Brian in?”

  “No, Mrs. Olson. Do you want his voice mail?”

  Junie left a message on Brian’s voice mail. Then she called his cell phone and left a message there as well. “Brian, something’s happened to my father. We have to go—” Tears took over her voice, and she ended the call.