The Color of a Promise (The Color of Heaven Series Book 11)
Read The Color of a Promise (The Color of Heaven Series Book 11) Online
Authors: Julianne MacLean
The Color of a Promise
A Color of Heaven Novel
by
Julianne MacLean
The Color of a Promise
Copyright © 2016 Julianne MacLean
ISBN-13: 978-1-927675-35-9
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or a portion thereof, in any form. This book may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc.
Formatting: Author E.M.S.
Table of Contents
Other Books in the Color of Heaven Series
Praise for Julianne MacLean’s Historical Romances
Other Books by Julianne MacLean
PART I
Prologue
Jack Peterson
It’s kind of embarrassing to come back from the dead and still not
get it
. One would think, after something as profound as a close brush with death, you would have a greater understanding of your true purpose and how to steer your life in the right direction. I regret to say that’s not what happened to me. It wasn’t until much later—years in fact—that I realized the significance of certain events in my life. Before then, I thought I knew everything. In actuality, I had been living in the dark.
Now I see how arrogant I was, believing things were a certain way, and that my life was more extraordinary than others’.
I suppose, in my defense, there
was
something special about me. Something I kept secret because few people would ever believe what I knew about life. Most people would call me crazy. Professionally, I couldn’t afford to risk being judged or misunderstood because I was ambitious in my career as a television journalist and foreign correspondent for CNN. For appearances sake, I had to keep quiet about my personal beliefs if I wanted to remain in Afghanistan, covering the war.
But there was, of course, more to my desire to remain in Afghanistan than just my career as a journalist. There was a reason I hadn’t wanted to return to the United States. At first, I thought it was heartbreak that kept me away—because I had been jilted by the woman I’d believed to be “the one.”
Later, I came to realize it had more to do with my ego, because I had lost that woman to my brother Aaron, who had always been my rival. He had been the one to win her heart, and for a long time, I was angry about that and chose to break away from my family.
Now I understand the truth. I know that what kept me away was not bitterness toward my brother, nor was it my bruised ego. It was fate—because the timing hadn’t been right. The moment had not yet arrived to fulfill a promise I had made many years earlier.
Chapter One
I don’t think anyone can deny that staring death in the eye is a wakeup call. The woman I fancied myself in love with—the one who had jilted me for my brother—had spoken to me about that once. Her name was Katelyn, and she had been involved in a cycling accident where she flew over the handlebars of her bicycle and nearly tumbled over the edge of a steep cliff. By some miracle, she had lived to tell the tale.
When she described it to me, she explained that in that instant, her life had flashed before her eyes with astounding clarity. A common occurrence for many people.
Or so I’ve heard.
In my case, there was no time for reflection in the flashing, terrifying instant of my impending doom. All I recall is the thunderous sound of the bomb going off, and an explosion of dust outside the car windows, followed by a violent jolt as our vehicle flipped over half a dozen times before bursting into flames.
o0o
I wish I could report that while I was clinically dead for approximately ninety seconds in the helicopter while the doctor performed CPR on me, my experience was magical and awe-inspiring and provided irrefutable evidence about the existence of heaven.
The reality is this: I have no memory of angels singing, neither do I recall floating out of my body to watch from above while I was brought back to life. I remember nothing about being pulled from the burning wreck by a team of American soldiers who had been following close behind us on the road. Nor do I remember anything about the trip to the hospital. I don’t know where my mind went during all of that, for I recall nothing but blackness, until the moment I regained consciousness in Germany.
That is not to say that I didn’t reflect upon my life when I woke. I thought about it a great deal after I opened my eyes and discovered that the person at my bedside—the first of my family members to arrive in Germany—was the last person on earth I wanted to see.
Chapter Two
My older brother Aaron was one of those exceptional individuals who seemed to be born under a shining star. Between the two of us, he had always been the better-looking one. He got straight A’s without breaking a sweat, while I was a consistent B student and had to work hard for my grades. While Aaron was captain of the basketball team and went on to become valedictorian of his graduating class, I led a quieter existence as a member of the debating club, where there were no pretty cheerleaders to help us celebrate our wins or take the sting off our losses.
It was obvious to everyone that Aaron was athletic and popular, while I was more of a silent, brooding intellectual who, as a quintessential “angry young man,” read
Newsweek
and
The Economist
, and studied the classics and political science in college. Aaron, meanwhile, was making a name for himself in the sailing community—buying old boats, refurbishing them and racing them for medals that gained him a reputation that would later pay off in spades. Aaron had always belonged with the elite.
And yes, I will be the first to admit that part of our rivalry stemmed from jealousy on my part, but not because he was better looking or more popular—and later, far wealthier than me.
The fact of the matter was this: Our rivalry began eons before all that, with extremely deep roots in the past. But I won’t go back quite that far at the moment, because that’s a story for another day. As far as today is concerned,
this
is what you need to know about Aaron and me. It’s the thing that truly matters, although I had no notion of its importance while it was happening.
Chicago
1984
Chapter Three
“This is definitely true love,” I said to my friend Gordon during lunch hour, as we sat down on the bench by the chain-link fence. We each withdrew a sandwich from our lunch bags.
We were thirteen years old. This was seventh grade.
We both sat transfixed as Jeannie Morrison pulled a comb from the back pocket of her designer jeans and ran it through her long, gleaming, jet-black hair. She laughed at something one of her friends said, and I marveled at her perfect, straight white teeth and full lips, and how glamorous she was. Then the girls all turned to look over their shoulders at the grade nine boys playing soccer on the field.
Jeannie flipped her hair, and as she was sliding the comb back into her pocket, she glanced in my direction. Our eyes locked and held from opposite sides of the basketball court, and my heart began to race as she stared at me for a long moment. I swear on my life, I stopped breathing and all the blood raced to a halt in my veins. Then Jeannie lowered her gaze shyly and glanced up at me again with a coy expression, before she winked.
It was one of those unforgettable, life-changing experiences I knew I would replay in my mind for years to come. I couldn’t believe she had looked at me that way. I’d always thought she was the most beautiful girl on the planet, ever since she moved into the big house at the bottom of our street four years earlier. We didn’t hang out or anything. I never had the courage to talk to her. But it appeared that
finally
my time had come, probably because I had grown three inches over the summer.
I decided right then and there that it was time to grow up, because Jeannie Morrison was in the eighth grade. She needed a
man
.
Gordon whistled. “
Holy cow patty
,” he said with amazement. “Did you see the way she just looked at you?”
“Of course I saw it,” I replied, “but don’t make a big deal out of it. Just eat your sandwich and act cool.” My heart pounded for the rest of the lunch hour while I stole glances at her whenever I could, and hoped for a repeat of that exhilarating wink.
She did look at me again—only once—but I quickly looked away. She did the same.
Later, when the bell rang and everyone filed through the double doors for afternoon classes, Jeannie and I bumped elbows.
“Hey, Jack,” she said with a flirty grin. “I like your shirt.”
“Thanks,” I replied, making an effort to sound laid back. “I like yours too.”
She smiled again and nudged me hard with her elbow, knocking me a few steps to the left. I shoved her back and she laughed. Then we went our separate ways down the wide hall, past all the lockers to our respective home rooms.
I went to sleep that night feeling as if I were floating…miles and miles above cloud nine.
o0o
The following day during lunch hour, I sat down with Gordon on our usual bench by the chain-link fence inside the basketball court.
Normally I was a decent student, but I hadn’t paid much attention in class that morning. This was out of character for me, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was the spectacular possibility that Jeannie Morrison might talk to me again—or even
look
at me—during lunch break. If she did, it would be enough excitement to fuel my happiness for an entire year and thrust me like a bullet out of bed each morning to arrive at school on time.
Sure enough, not long after Gordon and I finished our sandwiches, she came walking over…along the center line of the basketball court with her four friends close behind. I nearly choked on the last bite of my sandwich as I stuffed the crusts into the cellophane wrap and shoved it into the paper bag. Then I balled that up and shoved everything into my backpack.
