Coming Home Again (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 1)

Coming
Home Again

T.I. LOWE

Also by T.I. LOWE

Lulu’s Café

#1
Bestseller in Women’s
Christian Fiction

Goodbyes and Second
Chances

Bestseller in
Contemporary Christian Romance

~Dedication~

I dedicate this book
to anyone who has lost themselves.

Hoping you will be
found soon.

In memory of those
who were unable to be found.

17.7
million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.

                  
—National Institute of Justice and
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

33%
of rape victims have suicidal thoughts.

13% of rape victims will attempt
suicide.
                                                       

                  
—2002 National Crime Victimization
Survey

Copyright © 2015 T.I. LOWE

All rights reserved.

All
Scriptures taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version
®
, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978,
1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.
®
Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Cover
design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design -
www.indiecoverdesign.com

Dancing With the
Devil

I lost myself. Where did I go? Can I
find myself? I just don’t know…

This is the most perfect evening, on a
perfect seashore, with a perfect man. Everything. Is. Perfect.

The gentle lull of the ocean,
complemented by the velvety white beach, emits a natural calming effect, and I
greedily breathe in the peace. Tilting my head slightly, I regard the tranquil
ribbons of silver moonlight, showering over us in spectacular bands, in awe. A
delicious shiver evoked by the cool night air caresses my body and dances with
the soft, gauzy layers of my evening gown to its own melody. I feel beautiful
and feminine with my hair spilling in indulgent curls down my open back.

Loved…
I am loved.

Contentment settles over me as I admire
this stunning being accompanying me tonight. Sultry, crystal-clear eyes watch
me possessively in the cascading moonlight—observing my every movement. His
unbuttoned white shirt undulates in the light breeze, beckoning my attention to
the exposed, well-built form of his chest and the marvelous flat plains of his
abdomen. My focus trails all the way down to the dangerously low-riding black
tuxedo pants, which seem to be grasping just barely to the V of his lean hips.
He is exotic, and I am unable to do anything but openly appreciate him. The
heat of his stare engulfs me as my gaze begins a long, slow journey back to
that beautifully sculpted face, where I see approval in his eyes. He relishes
in being admired, and I want nothing more than to do just that. My hands sweep
through his thick, dark hair, testing the silkiness of the texture as our bare
feet leisurely kick up the powdery sand while we dance. I feel safe, cherished,
and completely desired.

An addictive tingle ripples through me
in sheer delight when he finally wraps his arms around me and pulls our bodies
closer. Resting my head on his strong chest during this unending dance, I
listen to the even and restful beat of his heart. The sound of it is like a perfectly
orchestrated lullaby, and I am spellbound by it.

As the enchanting lullaby plays on,
this magnificent man tilts my head with his gentle hand and studies my every
feature. He slowly leans down and warms the sensitive skin along my neck with
his soft lips. He whispers praises of how perfect I am, how he desires only me,
how I am the most perfect rose he has ever seen. Then, when I feel that my
heart cannot take any more anticipation, he rewards me with a kiss that I have
longed for all night. The kiss begins as light as a faint whisper fluttering
over my lips—gradually building as he gently nips at my bottom lip, teasingly.
He presents his lips to mine for a kiss so full of desire and urgency that it
reflects the passion along my body in flickers of warmth.

We continue to dance and to love for a
long, beautiful spell. The intensity grows until it is overbearing and I start
to feel curiously odd, as if some alarm demands me to protect myself. However,
I can’t grasp how or why to do that.

His taste grows from sinfully sweet to
bitterly sour, causing me to gag against his mouth. Panic ricochets violently
over me as I push away, but his gentle hands have become uncomfortably tight. I
find myself trapped in his grasp. Sharp stings attack my back as his nails
penetrate. I try to cry out in pain and terror but I am being suffocated from
his lips overwhelming my own. My lungs burn and squeeze as I fight against the
attack until he abruptly ceases the torture. Confusion blurs my understanding
and I try unsuccessfully to blink it away. As I look up to question why this
majestic man would do such a thing, a piercing fear slices through me. My
companion is gone, and an ugly beast has taken his place.

Terror engulfs me from the vulgar
transformation. His glowing skin is now tarnished with sickly, rough, brown
patches and is scored with unhealed scars oozing grotesquely. Those delicate
hands that caressed me tenderly just mere minutes ago have now turned into
hideous claws. His scaly talons strike out and tear my beautiful gown savagely
into shreds. I am frozen in the sand by fear and cannot escape or protect
myself. Violent tremors are the only movement evoked from my body.

Suddenly, he begins pushing and pulling
at me in some type of horrendous dance. Every touch riddles my body with
searing burns and throbbing blisters. A muted sob vibrates from my throat as I
take in the thick blood slowly seeping down my bare thighs in wet streams. More
confusion riddles me at the sight of my long brown curls scattering over the sand.
Panicking, my hand flies to my head and I can only feel scaly, bald patches.

Hated…
I am hated.
  

I scream out in anguish, but no sound
arises from my mouth. I have no voice.

Defeated awareness cinches my stomach,
causing rancorous acid to scorch my throat as I realize dancing with this beast
will have a deadly consequence. His clear eyes have spun to a vicious red and
now he watches me in a revolting way—making me feel dirty and repulsive. He is
growling out with laughter at me. Mocking me.

I tear my gaze away from his revolting
form to search for help but only discover the moon bleeding a scornful shade of
scarlet and the inky-black ocean crashing against the shore in a bitter attack,
wave after wave. Even the powdery sand has turned on me and is now pricking and
tearing the soles of my bare feet. I study it in bafflement and find it to be
shards of glass.

Angry…
Everything is angry
.

Lightning slashes hatefully through the
sky and thunder screams in aggravation as I mutely beg for help.
Please someone. Please save me. Please…

I’m trying to pull my arm out of his
grasp when I realize it has withered to resemble a dead vine. More attempted
screaming. Still no voice. I’m in agony, and my heart is beating in an erratic
pattern so intense it pounds harshly in my ears. Surely, I will die in this
beast’s arms. I even beg death to claim me. I need relief. I need this to stop.
Now! I’ve danced a dance with death, yet only excruciating pain claims me. I
can find no relief.

I continue my attempted screams in
agony, voiceless, until finally the volume begins to slowly rise in my vocal
chords as I’m released from the nightmare. Suddenly awake, I bolt up in a
sitting position in my bed, shaking in a cold sweat. I hold myself tightly to
discourage my trembling and rock back and forth.

It
was only a dream… It’s okay... He is dead... He can’t hurt you anymore… It was
only a dream... He’s dead… He can’t hurt you anymore… It was only a dream…

Chapter One

Dear
Friends,

It
would be an honor for you to join us for a

Night
of Fabulous Food

And
a Celebration of Friendship

On
the Evening of…

Dear Friends,

I would like to apologize for not being
able to carry on. Please forgive…

The
Evening’s Menu

Smoked
Gouda Canapés

Watercress
and Endive Salad

Lobster
Stuffed…

My earthly possessions are few but
should belong to…

Dessert
Menu

Fresh
Strawberries and Dark Chocolate Mousse…

I cannot fight the demons any longer…

With the ghosts
of failures past and the demons of my history dancing nonstop today, nothing
feels right. My mind is such a terribly confused place. All I want is some
peace, and offing myself seems to be the only way to obtain it. I beg the
demons to hush up!
Focus, Savannah
.
Reluctantly, I pull the dinner invitation back on the screen, hiding the
suicide note underneath so I can try once again to focus on the planning.

Tucked away
in the den of my beachfront condo, I slouch at the desk with my eyes
continuously sweeping from my laptop screen to the dreamy views of the Atlantic
Ocean outside my window. It’s early, and the sun has just begun its morning
meeting with the sky. Warm rays are glistening off the ocean waves so serenely.
This is the same alluring ocean I grew up loving, but it is a great deal
farther north from the beaches of South Carolina. Rhode Island’s coastal water
never seems to warm enough for leisure hours in the surf for my southern blood
except for only a short window of time each summer. It’s satisfying enough for
me to just be able to see the beauty of the majestic creation anytime I see
fit. I give the view a little bit more of my attention, but with a sigh, I
place my focus back to the computer screen.
Focus,
Savannah
.

Another
dinner party should be a breeze for me by now. I should be excited, right? This
is what successful CEO wives pride themselves on accomplishing with perfection.
Right?

I don’t
mean to sound so bratty, nor do I want to be difficult. Honestly, a fancy
dinner party hostess I am not. I’d rather have a tooth pulled over getting all
fancied up and serving fancy food. Glancing down at my comfortable loose-fit
jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt, I cannot help but chuckle. Sure, I have a closet
full of fancies, but they are not me.

Who am I,
exactly? It’s a question I have to ask myself a little too often. Today, my
answer would be a resounding, “I haven’t the earthliest idea.” I’ve lost myself
at some vague point along the way and am having the hardest time tracking down
that elusive being.

If you ask
my mother, she would gladly tell you that I am a stubborn, smart-mouthed
procrastinator who rarely follows through with anything.

Don’t
listen to her!

Well…she
may be right, just a little. The only thing I am sure about is God made a
mistake. Yes, He did! I was a mistake, and my mother would agree. I’ll explain
later. Maybe… I’ll try to get around to it. You might need to remind me,
though.

The broken
record of
I’m lost…I’m bored…I’m
worthless…I’m confused…
is on a repeat and won’t leave me the heck alone.
I’m at my wits’ end with myself, and that is why I’m wrestling with the
decision to just autopilot another stupid smile-until-it-hurts dinner party.
Or, should I just bite the perpetual bullet and write the dang suicide note
already?

Overwhelmed.
I’m so overwhelmed...

As I rise
from the desk, my anxious legs drag my body in a nervous pace around the den. I
skim my hand along the back of the plush couch as I pass it while thoughts of a
nap flicker. I don’t sleep well, no matter if it’s day or night. I abandon the
nap idea by the couch and pace some more. As I take a deep, cleansing breath,
the rich aroma of coffee assails me. I glance towards the kitchen.
Maybe a third cup
. No. This idea is
dismissed as well. My insides are already jumping and hopping in a restless
torment, and more caffeine will only make it worse. I wring my hands to smooth
the trembles out. It’s not working.

“Argh!” I
yell, trying to relieve some of the built-up frustration. I wish I could take a
break from myself.
I could really use a
break…

With this
thought, my eyes glance back over to the computer where the hidden document
calls out to me.
Just hit print. You can
do it…

I sort of
have the suicide planned out. I should probably keep this to myself… Yes… No…
Okay. I’ve gone as far as to purchase three bottles of sleeping pills. They are
tucked away in the back of my vanity, waiting patiently. I don’t sleep well, so
I thought this would be the perfect way to go. A nice, deep sleep sounds
heavenly. My eyes grow heavy and my mouth waters for a pill right this very
moment. Fatigue weighs down on me so heavily; I have to plop on the couch. My
eyes drift shut but too many demons attack in the darkness of it, so I have to
pry them back open.

I demand my
focus to shift toward the silver picture frames littering the coffee table with
hopes of pulling up a good memory, but my eyes land on a poor choice. It’s of
us in our small aluminum boat. It’s the very same boat I plan on taking out as
far as I can in the ocean before popping the pills. I don’t want to stain our
home with the memory of my death. Lucas doesn’t deserve that. My sweet husband
deserves better than me. Most days, I can almost talk myself into taking that
boat ride but, of course, I’m a procrastinator and keep putting it off.

With all
this nonsense whirling around in my confused mind, I’m thinking a quick walk
down the coast is in order. I just want the demons to stop dancing for a while.
Maybe I can outrun them for a spell.

Easing back
over to the computer, I hesitantly delete the suicide note and save the
invitation instead. I feel good about this decision for now. As I power down my
laptop, the phone begins to taunt me with its annoying ring. I’m not much of a
phone person. Chitchat isn’t my thing. As I glance at the hour on the wall
clock curiously, I have no idea who would be bothering me this early in the
day. It’s not quite seven in the morning. I catch a glimpse at the number
displayed on the phone and it nearly sends me right back to composing my
suicide note.

Caller ID
can do that, as I’m sure you know.

The area
code is from a region located about five states south of me and has sent my
will to live crashing down. Talk about perfect timing.

~ ~ ~

Forcing myself
to head towards the one place I have avoided for the past several years, all I
can think about is how it’s going to feel to come home again. Home is the wrong
word. Personal hell is a better description. Why would someone willingly go
back to a place such as this? No other way around it, I suppose.

Home
is Bay
Creek. It is a small touristy town located on the eastern coast of South
Carolina. You have the indulgence of the warm, sandy beaches and the unending
view of a vigorous ocean. The appeal of nearby farmland and the sleepy little
beach town makes for many an ideal place to settle down and raise a family. Not
for me. It holds too many nightmares. As soon as the opportunity presented
itself, I escaped with not so much as one glance back. But look at me
now—Savannah Monroe, a terrified twenty-eight-year-old girl heading home again.

Before I
can wrap my mind around what’s happened, I have packed my bag and am heading
towards the most colossal challenge of my life. Sliding into my car, I poise
the keys towards the ignition. “Come on Savannah. You
have
to do this.” Before I can change my mind, I cram the keys into
their slot and twist the car to life. Taking a deep breath, I put the car in
drive. With trembling hands, I pull out into traffic with a churning
combination of determination and trepidation to begin my unexpected trek home.

I hope you
don’t mind too terribly that I’m sharing my story with you. You seem like such
a polite listener, and honestly, I think it’s time. Well, I guess we best be on
with it.