Persuaded

Persuaded

by

Misty Dawn Pulsipher

Copyright
© 2014 by Misty Dawn Pulsipher

Cover
design by Cindy Canizales

Cover
photos by Shutterstock

ISBN-13:9781500570842

ISBN-10:1500570842

There they
returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their
reunion, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more
fixed in a knowledge of each other’s character, truth, and attachment.

—Jane Austen,
Persuasion

PROLOGUE

SUMMER
RAIN

Half the sum of
attraction, on either side, might have been enough.

—Jane Austen,
Persuasion

The
sky is bleached white in some places, bruised a foreboding gray in others. The
street is slick with rain, and everything is washed of color except for him, as
if we are in an old photo. His sea-green eyes and subtle strawberry hair stand
out like a beacon in a storm. Do those eyes see that every time his hand
flinches up to catch me in case I slip, I want to take it and keep holding on?
Maybe he wants that too.

The
rain is beating down around us, but we don’t feel it. The harder the drops try
to wash away our joy, the more we smile. A flame sparks in his eyes and a
childlike smile curves his mouth. Then he jumps into a puddle with both feet,
soaking me through. I just laugh, offering my face to the sky, taunting it to
do its worst.

When I
open my eyes, he is watching me. Has the rain rinsed away his smile after all?
Looking at him, I want to memorize every detail: the way his white shirt clings
in pleats to his soaked skin, each raindrop on his eyelashes, the smattering of
golden freckles on his face and arms. I see him, but seeing isn’t enough. I
want to breathe him in and let him sustain me. I want to reach my hands under
his skin, beneath his muscles and bones, and brush his soul with my fingers.

Does
he see all this in my eyes? He watches me for a moment, and we are still while
the rain lashes the ground. When he brings his lips to mine I taste his smile.
This moment in time, this point of light in the universe that is us—I stamp it
on the flesh of my heart where the erosion of time has no reach.

With
every summer rain, I will remember.

ONE

DREADFUL
GOOD DREAMS

Her attachment
and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an
early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect.

—Jane Austen,
Persuasion

Hanna
Elliot bolted upright in bed, clutching a hand to her chest and gathering her
nightshirt in her fist. Sweat had beaded on her skin, and the cotton twisted
around her body in wet clings. She felt lightheaded, as if there wasn’t enough
oxygen in the room.
It was only a dream
, she told herself.
Just a
dream.

Unfortunately,
it wasn’t the kind of dream that makes you glad to wake up.

In the
dream, nothing had been following her—no phantoms closing in on her, no
frightening images chasing her into consciousness. There had been only
rain-kissed lashes framing those green eyes as they drilled into hers. Rain
collecting in his spiky hair, streaming down his cheeks and over his lips like
tears. His stooping and peering into her face, a question in his eyes, before
pressing his rain-washed mouth to hers. The taste . . .

Hanna
stifled a sob, propelling herself off her bed and into the bathroom. Stumbling
to the sink, she braced her hands on each side and focused on taking even,
controlled breaths. She filled a glass with water, then straightened and drank.
Her eyes settled on her reflection and a belated sort of surprise grasped her.
Along with
him,
she had seen herself in the dream—her eighteen-year-old
self—the self that had just graduated high school and had a lifetime of
possibility before her.

Now,
ten years later, she and her reflection were engaged in a standoff of sorts.
Something akin to disappointment settled over Hanna as she faced herself in the
mirror. She had slate blue eyes, a rather ashy shade of blonde hair, and pale
skin that had an inconvenient habit of getting splotchy whenever she was embarrassed
or upset. Some might think she was lucky to have maintained her figure all
these years—if flat-chested-with-no-hips could be considered a figure. Her
married friends always gushed about her slim form, envied her metabolism—but
all Hanna saw was that their bodies had changed with marriage and motherhood,
with the progression of their lives, and hers was stuck as if frozen in time.

All in
all, Hanna bore a striking resemblance to a dull, dusty book that no one had so
much as pulled from the shelf in ages.

Images
from the dream washed over her again, and the pain clawed its way up her
throat. She wrenched the medicine cabinet open, glad to lose sight of her
present-day self. Seizing the Omeprazole, she shook one into her palm and
chased it down with the vestiges of her water.

It was
anxiety, plain and simple. It had to be. On top of turning twenty-eight a few
days ago, she had barely made it through the last couple weeks of school before
collapsing on Day One of summer break.

Hanna
loved her job as a kindergarten teacher. Having no kids of her own, her career
gave her the opportunity to still experience bits and pieces of
motherhood—except that all thirty of her “children” were the same age.
Sometimes, at the end of the day, she felt a bit like a hen who had been pecked
to death by her adorably fuzzy chicks. But the work was fulfilling, and she
took pride in the fact that she made a difference in the world.

Pulling
her nightshirt off and tossing it into the corner hamper, Hanna climbed into
the shower. As the hot water beat down on her skin, the tension in her muscles
started to release.

Still,
the dream was fresh in her mind; the images, stark and the emotions they
caused, potent. Yesterday, when she began packing for her vacation, Hanna had
come across an unwelcome reminder of that first summer after high school. Even
though she was sorely tempted, she didn’t open the little box that fell out on
her bed when she upended the drawer. She had only stared at it, suddenly feeling
as if it was just the two of them alone in the universe.

Throwing
the shower curtain open, Hanna stepped onto the cushy bathmat and reached for
her towel. Though her memories of that summer had dulled with the passage of
time, she could still make out their edges, like shadows seen through a sheet
of ice: her first day of work at the Port of Brookings Harbor, the storm
assaulting the roof as
he
ducked into the store to buy an umbrella,
talking for hours as he waited out the weather, holding the umbrella over both
their heads as he walked Hanna to her car after work . . .

Hanna
sucked in a breath at the twist of pain in her chest. No. No more memories. No
more wading in the muddy flood waters of the past. Shaking her head to break up
her thoughts, Hanna dressed in a long peasant skirt and a loose-fitting top.
Her plane left first thing in the morning, so she had the rest of the day to
take care of things before she left town. Checking her watch, she twisted her
hair into a knot off her neck. She’d promised to meet Maude for lunch today,
and she had a few errands to run before noon.

TWO

SOUPER
SALAD

It was in fact,
a change which must do both health and spirits good.

—Jane Austen,
Persuasion

Hanna
inhaled as she came through the door of Souper Salad, relishing the smell of
freshly baked French bread in all its crusty, buttery glory. With every soup
imaginable and about a gazillion different salad combinations, Souper Salad had
always been Hanna’s favorite restaurant. Maudelaine Russell, Hanna’s godmother
and consequently her favorite person in the world, sat at a table just inside
the door, talking on her cell phone. Maude was a British woman with silver hair
that was always piled elegantly atop her head, crinkly skin, and rosy apple
cheeks. She and Hanna’s mother, Eliza, had met at college and remained best
friends throughout their lives. Maude stood by Eliza’s side at her wedding, was
present for the births of both her children, and held her hand while she lost
her battle with terminal cancer.

Maude
could be a little rough around the edges, but inside she was nothing more than
goo—like a candy-coated gummy bear. Hanna blinked out of her thoughts when
Maude motioned her over to the table, mouthed the word
Shepherd
while
pointing at her phone, and rolled her eyes.

Hanna
smiled her understanding. Mr. Shepherd was Maude’s boss and the reason for her
high blood pressure. He was nice enough, except for his belief that anything
worth doing was worth doing yesterday. The man had quite possibly invented
things like rush delivery.

Unsure
how long it would be before Maude could escape her employer, Hanna decided to
get in line. She could order for Maude easily enough, seeing as her godmother
always got the same exact thing: garden vegetable soup and a Caesar salad. Hanna
couldn’t recall a time in the last decade when Maude’s choice had varied.

The
line was long today, giving Hanna nothing but her thoughts to focus on while
she waited to place the order. Seeing Maude’s face had given Hanna a lift, but
she still felt as though she had her own personal rain cloud—the
dream—following her around. Such a dream was not to be recovered from quickly,
but she didn’t want to give Maude any cause for alarm. It was nearly impossible
hiding anything from her.

Several
minutes later, Hanna had moved through the buffet line and stood at the cash
register with two trays. Maude, who had just terminated the call, rushed up to
the cashier and waved a credit card in her face before Hanna could pay. Hanna
protested but was silenced by Maude’s glare. They stopped off at the soda
fountain to fill their cups—iced tea for Maude and Coke for Hanna—then sat at
the table. With a steaming bowl of soup and their own favorite salads before
each of them, they dug in.

“Everything
okay at the office?” Hanna asked, needing a distraction from the rain cloud.

Maude
swallowed her mouthful of soup. “The Walters are due in at one.”

Ah, so
that explained it. Maude worked as an executive assistant at the Shepherd Debt
Consolidation Agency. Mr. Walter, a fifty-ish man with an inflated sense of
self-importance, insisted on being addressed by his rightful title of “Sir
Walter.” Though he was born and bred in the good old U.S. of A, “Sir” Walter
had joined an online knighthood and had the framed certificate to prove it. To
make matters worse, his twenty-year-old daughter was the quintessential spoiled
rotten daddy’s girl. “Beastly” was the word Maude routinely used to describe
Liz Walter.

“Maybe
you better double up on your Xanax today,” Hanna suggested, spearing a forkful
of salad.

“That
man is off his trolley,” Maude answered. “If he’s British, I’m Helen of Troy!
Sir Walter indeed!
Sir Nutter
, more like.”

Hanna
snorted, her eyes tearing up from inhaling her soda.

Maude
ripped off a large chunk of bread and dunked it in her soup. “The last time
Walter brought that beastly daughter of his into the office, Shepherd suggested
putting her into a budget boot camp. One of those rehabs for shopaholics, you
understand. You should have seen her face, poppet! I thought she was going to
have a bloody piglet.”

Hanna
listened to Maude rant for a few minutes, content to focus on something other
than the dream. When her godmother’s energy had been exhausted on the topic of
the Walters, Maude changed the subject. “All set for your holiday, then? What
time is your flight?”

“Five
thirty a.m. tomorrow.”

“Dreadfully
early. Any stop offs?”

“No,
it’s a direct flight. I’ll be landing around one p.m. eastern time.”

Maude
heaved a monumental sigh. “Well, I hope you’ll think of me while you’re sunning
on the beach.”