Seven Years of Bad Luck (38 page)

“C’mon, get up Chey! Seriously, no more dragging your swollen feet.” I stifled a giggle at my snarky little jab. Cheyenne rolled away from me into the mountain of pillows around her and groaned a long string of inaudible words. “Nope, let’s go.” I demanded. I was anxious to get the show on the road. Cheyenne clearly wasn’t.

“I just got comfortable enough to sleep, like, five freakin’ minutes ago, Kat!” she whined. I laughed at my best friend’s pathetic attempt at laser-eyeing me to death.

“I know how you feel. I sympathize; I really do. Now let’s go. Doc said we have to be there by 7AM!” She huffed dramatically and rolled out of the bed she shared with Tucker. He stood at the open door and watched his very, very, pregnant wife shooting dirty looks in every direction. I was still immune to those laser eyes and lucky for Tucker, he was too.

Ouch! Ignore it. Not today, no way.

I thought about the tightening feeling in my swollen belly. I knew that even though I wasn’t quite due, I could easily be in real labor. I had endured a few false alarms that set my world on its side because it was far too early for our sweet baby to make a debut. “Let’s go already! I’m dying to dig out these cigars!” Ben’s deep voice boomed from down the stairs. I shook my head knowing that he was serious about the cigars. He had waved the foul smelling things in my face when he brought them home. “Celebratory cigars” is what he said they wIre. i thought about how it was unfair that the men got to smoke cigars while the wives who just gave birth lie spent and exhausted in some uncomfortable hospital bed. I never voiced my opinion, of course. I just smiled sweetly and said “That’s great, baby.” We convoyed across town to the hospital and got Cheyenne all checked in, and the show began. Cheyenne was scheduled for a cesarean section that day since her little guy refused to cooperate and nestled himself into a cozy, albeit inconvenient, breech position. Doctors had no choice but to go forward with a cesarean section. Cheyenne was right on target at forty weeks pregnant, and we could not be happier that she was able to conceive and carry her miracle baby to full term. I was thirty-eight weeks pregnant and sat in the waiting room trying to decipher whether or not the contractions that I was feeling were the real deal or not.

Can’t be in labor right now. It’s Cheyenne’s day. Oh, hold off just a little longer, would you?
I begged inwardly, hoping that our baby could hear my pleas and sit tight just a day or two longer, but it would seem that Benjamin Chase’s offspring inherited his strong genes because my begging went unanswered, and right there in the waiting room, my water broke.

“Uh-oh” I whispered.

“Uh-oh? What is uh-oh?” Ben jumped up from his seat, and his large frame went rigid when he looked down and saw the puddle of amniotic fluid on the floor. “Oh shit, baby, you, oh shit—” Ben began looking around and panicking.

“Ben!” His attention snapped to me. “Calm down. We’re in a hospital. Remember? It’s going to be okay. We need to tell a nurse that I’m in labor.” I remained as calm as I could for my husband’s benefit, but on the inside I was more nervous than the day we were married.

The day that Cheyenne and Tucker tricked me into going to Ben’s house, we said we loved each other for the first time, and not a minute later after making love, Ben reached into his nightstand and withdrew the most breathtaking vintage diamond solitaire ring. He told me that his mom passed it down to him the day after she met me in his living room. It had been her mother’s ring. She died years before, and the staggering big glistening diamond ring now belonged to Ben. She had told him that I was ‘the one.’

He apparently agreed since he pulled out that ring, and with tears in both of our eyes, he asked me to spend the rest of my life as Mrs. Benjamin Chase. I said yes, of course, and Ben had me moved into the house with him the next day. We were married only two months later under tall oaks on Turtle Creek. Aidan was at our wedding and had been around, but not nearly as much as he was when he first moved to Dallas. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected there was a new lady in his life. He never volunteered any information, and I never meddled. Things were comfortable between us, and I planned on it staying that way.

Things at the firm settled down, though Janis’ whereabouts were still a mystery. John Murray was apprehended in Mexico and extradited back to the United States where he was now awaiting trial on charges a mile long, including the murder of Mrs. Kemp’s husband. Turns out, Murray’s goons sang like I knew they would when they were caught at the Canadian border. They were offered a deal in exchange for their testimony against John Murray, and they took it. My night terrors still tormented me, but Ben was a healing presence at my side every night. I had long since dropped my snooping efforts, but Janis was never far from my mind. Not knowing where she was made me uneasy, and I knew being too complacent could cause disasters. I found that out the hard way at the hands of one bat wielding overweight guy and his muscle bound side-kick.

“Oh, that’s strong,” I said while trying my best to keep breathing. Ben held my hand dutifully through each contraction and coached me just as he had learned in the labor and delivery classes we attended. He was fantastic when it came time to deliver our little angel. I was and still am one lucky woman. We welcomed seven pound, two ounce, Serafina Esme Chase to the world. Our brown-haired, blue-eyed angel was born a mere four hours after our godson, Marshall Charles Barrett.

All of that brings me to the present where I sit comfortably in the living room of the home that Ben and I share. I was sorting through the hordes of congratulatory greeting cards that our friends, family, and Ben’s associates had sent us. I slit the seam of yet another card open and looked up from my lap. I could think of no sight I loved more than the one before me. Our precious newborn, Serafina, swaddled in her pink blanket as my husband slowly swayed to and fro with her tucked safely in his arms. My seven years of bad luck brought me here, and here couldn’t possibly feel any better than it already did. I flipped open the greeting card, and my blood turned to ice.

“No,” I mumbled. I was looking at the birth announcement that I mailed out to everyone we know. The photo is of Ben and me cuddled up with our sweet baby girl. It was the perfect photo and choosing it from the lot of photos was an easy task. Except this one that had been sent back to me is not what I sent out to everyone. Not by a long shot. This was our photo alright, but someone has vigorously scratched out both Serafina’s and my faces.

Who would have done this?

I was frightened and panicked now. Me being threatened is one thing, but our innocent, newborn child being threatened by someone who was hiding behind an anonymous envelope was a whole new world of fear, anxiety, and anger that I was being thrown into. I knew who the hell did this.

I held up the destroyed photo, and Ben’s swaying stopped. He stood frozen in place, and his face has paled as he took in the disturbing picture. I looked him in the face. “Told you that psycho bitch needed to be stopped.”

I have always believed that people are born with a predetermined calling. A teacher is born to one day teach. A singer is born to one day sing. A writer is born to one day write. I know that writing was what I was born to do. It is as natural and necessary to my existence as drawing breath. Along the line somewhere, I misplaced my pen and paper. I longed to have them back, but knew not where to look. Then one day, someone gave me back my pen and paper. To this person, I say, thank you. I am indebted.

To the countless friends who have supported me so vocally. Your encouragement and support were necessary tools in the writing of this book. Thank you.

To all my friends in the Indie author community: You all are an outstanding group of talented people who humble, inspire, encourage and entertain me everyday merely with your presence in my small world. Thank you for including me in yours.

To my family, a beautiful group of people with varying personalities without which I would live a dreadful, boring life: You are all invaluable to me. To my mother: You have been nothing but supportive in my endeavor to write. You have spent countless hours perched on a stool beside my desk listening to me read my work aloud. Your enthusiasm and encouragement have never wavered, and I thank you for that. It has been a gift beyond measure.

To Mandi: You are my Cheyenne. You are the muse to my writing and my life. You are a beacon of light through the dark when it threatens to cloak my world. It’s you who I look to when I need a laugh, a shoulder, an ear, or a friend. Thank you for being you. Your friendship, support, understanding, honesty, and love enrich my life even further every day. I love you forever. Together, we take flight.

“Anchored” by Tony Lucca

“Some Devil” by Dave Mathews

“Trust In Me” by Etta James

“Baby I Want You” by Amos Lee

“Shelter” by Ray LaMontagne

“Edge Of Desire” by John Mayer

“Bluebird” by Sara Bareilles

“Slow Like Honey” by Fiona Apple

“Give Me Love” by Ed Sheeran

“It Will Rain” by Bruno Mars

“Show You Love” by Cas Haley

“Falling Slowly” by Glen Handsard, Marketa Irglova

“I Want You” by Third Eye Blind

“Blue In Green” by Miles Davis

I’d like to thank all the artists that have been such an inspiration to listen to during the writing of Seven Years of Bad Luck. Many of the scenes in the book really came to life for me thanks to great music playing in my office. If you haven’t heard any of the artists I’ve mentioned, by all means, go and purchase their music.

USA Today Best Selling Author, J.L. Mac is twenty-seven years old and currently resides in El Paso, Texas, where she enjoys living near her family. She was born and raised in Galveston, Texas. J.L. admittedly has had a long and sordid love affair with the written word and has loved every minute of it. She drinks too many glasses of wine on occasion, and says way too many swear words to be considered “lady-like.” J.L. spends her free time reading, writing, and playing with her children Check out Twitter @JLMacbooks and Facebook-
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and blog
http://jlmacbooks.blogspot.com/