Arise (39 page)

Now facing me, he flashed a wry, confident grin, and I melted a little inside.

“You’ll give in,” he said. “Eventually.”

“We’ll see,” I repeated.

Joshua chuckled and then jerked his head toward the bed. “The book is for you.”

My eyes flickered to the book’s cover.
“The Uniform Commercial Code?”

“The 2004 edition. It was my mom’s, from when she used to practice law. Guess she must have left it here. It’s not exactly fine literature, but it might come in handy on the off chance you have trouble sleeping. Now, I hope you don’t mind if I go downstairs and have a nice, long chat with my cousins.”

I placed the uneaten beignet on the nightstand and shook my head. “Don’t be too hard on them. Alex fooled everybody, including … Gaby.”

Joshua clearly noticed my hesitation, but he wisely chose not to address it.

“We’ll see,” Joshua said, using my own phrase. “Will you be okay up here by yourself?”

A small, weary smile twitched at one corner of my mouth. “I bet I won’t be conscious for more than ten minutes.”

And I was right.

Only a few seconds after Joshua said good-bye and crept down the attic stairs, I collapsed sideways on top of the covers. A few seconds after
that
, I couldn’t remember anything, except the two times I briefly awoke.

The first was when I rolled on top of the bulky
Uniform Commercial Code
, which I irreverently kicked to the floor before falling back asleep. The second time didn’t occur until a muffled chorus of laughter stirred me from sleep.

At first I thought I’d dreamed the noise. But another round of raucous laughter made my eyes flutter open. Rolling to one side, I stared blearily at the golden-red light pouring in through the attic’s tiny dormer window. The light seemed too intense for dawn, so I slowly pushed myself into a seated position. Over the edge of the bed, I could just see a pillow and a pallet of rumpled blankets on the floor.

Apparently, Joshua had made good on his promise to sleep separately from me.

I slid off the bed with an old-lady kind of groan and then hobbled over to the window on stiff legs. There, I lifted onto my toes to peer outside.

The view surprised me: over the rooftops and through the narrow spaces between buildings, I could see the rich oranges and reds of sunset. Which couldn’t possibly be right.

At that moment, more muffled laughter and shouting filtered through the stairwell. It sounded as though the entire Mayhew clan had gathered together somewhere far below me in the house.

My eyes darted between the window and the stairwell until the realization hit me: I’d slept through Christmas Day, and almost into the evening.

I frowned and sunk back onto my heels. I knew it was foolish, but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed that I’d spent my first Christmas awake from the fog of death—my first Christmas with Joshua—in a comalike sleep. Sighing, I plodded back over to the bed and flopped down near the pillow.

That’s when I noticed the bedside table.

Sitting on top of the
Uniform Commercial Code
(which someone must have retrieved from the floor and placed on the table) was a rectangular object, wrapped in metallic green paper. It didn’t have a label or bow, but I instinctively recognized it as a Christmas present.

For me?

I picked it up, running my fingers across its slick wrapping. For a fleeting second I worried whether the gift actually belonged to someone else; maybe I was interfering with a present that Joshua had forgotten to carry downstairs. The worry passed, however, mostly because I couldn’t resist the childish impulse to find out for myself.

I slipped my finger into an opening in the green wrapping and delicately pulled the paper apart so that it wouldn’t tear. After a few minutes of careful maneuvering, I’d fully removed the paper and placed it beside me on the bedspread.

I turned the unwrapped gift over in my hands, momentarily stunned.

It was a leather-bound copy of one of my favorite books: Jane Austen’s
Sense and Sensibility
. Incidentally, it was also one of the books lying on the top of a reading pile in my old bedroom, the one and only time Joshua and I entered my childhood home.

In life I’d read and reread my secondhand copy so many times that the cover had started to pull away from the binding. This book, however, was gorgeous: blue leather embossed with golden flowers and cursive script. It looked old too, but only in the expensive, collector’s edition sort of way.

I opened the front cover and found a white card with Joshua’s handwriting tucked inside. It simply read:

This should have been your Christmas present
.

As I ran my thumb over the thick black letters, a slow smile spread across my face. Despite the words on the card, I couldn’t bring myself to regret Joshua’s first attempt at a Christmas present. After all, it had brought me to Gaby and Felix; it was also the reason I could now hold this book in my hands, feel its embossing under my fingertips, and smell the scent of its leather.

But with
this
gift, I suddenly felt connected to Joshua again. I could still touch an object that meant something to both of us.

As I continued to trace the outline of the book’s title, I wondered whether I should get dressed and go downstairs to join the Mayhews for Christmas. Other than see Joshua again, there were a few things I’d love to do: formally forgive Joshua’s cousins; officially meet his father; maybe see if Ruth would thank me for helping her, or at the very least not try to exorcise me this time....

I’d very nearly pushed myself off the bed when I hesitated and then sunk back into the covers. After everything that had happened yesterday with the Mayhew family and me, I didn’t feel comfortable intruding. Particularly on Christmas Day, when it sounded as if the whole family had put aside their worries to enjoy time with one another.

I didn’t belong with them yet.

I still suspected that I never would, despite Joshua’s and my proclamations last night. But whether or not that suspicion was unfounded, I certainly wasn’t part of this family tonight.

With a regretful sigh, I sprawled across the bed and wriggled back until the pillow felt comfortable again. Then I grabbed my Christmas present, lifted it above me, and opened the front cover.

Slowly, deliberately, I flipped the pages. I let each one glide over my fingers, listening to the slight crinkling noise they made under my touch. As I did so, my smile began to return.

I could touch pages again. I could
read
again. For the first time in more than a decade, I could do something I loved because of Joshua.

Because of Gaby.

Yesterday had been a nightmare, as had so many days before that. And later I would face Ruth and the young Seers. I would spend ten hours in a car trying to pretend in front of Joshua’s parents that I not only barely knew their son, but also didn’t love him; I would go back to Oklahoma—to my home.

But tonight?

Tonight I would just rest.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
o my editor, Barbara Lalicki—someone once said that a good editor must see where a writer wants to go, understand why she isn’t getting there, and explain the problem in a way that allows the writer to discover the path for herself. You have done all of this, and more. I am incredibly proud of this book, and I am even prouder to call you my friend.

To Katie McGee, Caroline Sun, Lindsey Blechman, Suzanne Daghlian, Kimberly VandeWater, Erin Fitzsimmons, and countless others at HarperTeen—you are my knights in shining armor. From exciting book trailers to gorgeous covers to shopping recommendations, you are tireless and gracious. I could not ask for a better team standing beside me on this journey.

To my agent, Catherine Drayton—you are my voice of reason (and humor) on this wild ride. I thank God you are only an email or a Skype visit away. Thank you, thank you, for still believing in and fighting for me.

To Lyndsey Blessing—your ability to negotiate foreign rights deals is truly humbling.

To the staff of InkWell Management—thank you for all of your hard work on my behalf. Because of you, I can call myself lucky!

To Phil Bacharach—thank you for introducing me to the world of TV interviews, and not laughing at me when I gave them.

To my parents, Karen and Dennis Stine—not only did you set an outstanding example of how to be a parent, but you also helped me survive when I became one myself.

To Jinx Hudson—grandmother extraordinaire, babysitter par excellence, and tireless publicist. You are not only my husband and son’s family, but mine as well.

To Melissa Peters Allgood—you have kept me sane. Not an easy task. You don’t need me to tell you that you are my sister in spirit, always.

To Kristen Buttram Beery—what you did for me, and for this book, can never be repaid. I love you dearly.

To Melissa Thompson and Mandy Haskins—you are my first readers, and my best.

To my dear friends Beth Prykryl, Krissy Carlson, Andi Newby, Tony Andre, Jason Brown, the YLD, and so many others—you keep doing it; you keep making me a better person. Why are you so awesome like that?

Finally, to my husband, Robert, and my son, Wyatt—you are the reason. You are my heart.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TARA HUDSON
lives in Oklahoma with her husband, son, and a menagerie of ill-behaved pets. You can visit her on the web at www.tarahudson.com or on Twitter (@thudsonwrites). This is the second book in her debut Hereafter trilogy. Don’t miss the stunning conclusion,
ELEGY
, coming Summer 2013.

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