Stars Fall From the Sky (Reigning Hearts Book 2) Read online

  ***

  A half a mile away, in a small apartment above the only medical practice in town, Jonathon lay in bed staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to wallow in self-pity. But after reading the first chapter in his workbook, and reflecting on all that had transpired in the past year, his mind buzzed with somber memories.

  On Abbie’s last birthday before her untimely death, she was too weak to travel because of the unrelenting chemo and drugs. Desperate to do something memorable for her, he managed to find and hire a professional opera singer and trio of musicians who came to their Atlanta home to serenade her. He could still envision the cheerful expression on her face enhanced by the glow of thirty-five candles atop the decadent, multi-tiered chocolate cake he splurged on as the music swirled around her. He vowed that night that he would take her to every opera in every city in the United States once cured. Her laughing response echoed in his mind, causing the pain in his chest to expand uncomfortably.

  What would have been Abbie’s thirty-sixth birthday recently came and went a few weeks earlier, with no beachside fanfare or celebration, just a forlorn widower sipping expensive bourbon alone in the dark while listening to an album from his dead wife’s operatic collection. Looking back, he was mortified that he held a particular distaste for opera while they were together and was often a pompous ass about it. The only exception he made for his beloved wife’s passion was once a year on her birthday when she would scope out and make plans to see a show in the nearest city—a lover’s retreat to celebrate her life. If he had it to do over again, he would keep their home stereo on a loop of opera day and night to please her. As he sat in the dark alone and listened to her favorite Italian libretto to commemorate her last birthday, the words the trained dramatic soprano sang were foreign to him. Turning up the vinyl several notches, he tried to drown out the chatter of his regretful mind with the high pitch of the wailing singer. He sat there all night replaying the album, allowing the haunting melody to shroud him in his misery as he tried to imagine himself gladly seated with Abbie, alive and well by his side in a darkened theatre entranced by the show.

  Closing his eyes, Jonathon pushed the memory back into the vault he carefully kept in the deepest recess of his mind as the urge to get up and pour himself a stiff drink to smooth his edginess tempted him. Knowing he had to get up and work in a matter of hours, he remained in bed and tucked his arm behind his head on the pillow, letting his mind drift elsewhere. Like a feather caught in a subtle breeze, his thoughts shifted, floating in the nothingness——until they landed on Ginger McCormick’s sunny smile.

  Where did that come from? Jonathon scowled and grazed his top teeth over his bottom lip, his focus like a spotlight aimed right at Mrs. McCormick. Seriously, why was it so important for him to know her story? Could he help her and her family in some way? Furthermore, why did she have to be so…pretty?

  Forcefully throwing the covers off into a heap at the end of the bed, he sat up quickly and tried to shake the image of Ginger’s mega-watt smile from his thoughts. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floors as he tromped to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and blinked in the harsh brightness. Once his eyes adjusted, he stared into the oval mirror and rubbed his hand down his stubbly chin. Noticeable circles were under his eyes, and his hair was a disheveled mess. Pressing his hands on either side of the sink, he bowed his head and breathed deeply, the muscles in his arms and chest straining. The cold water was a relief as he splashed it across his face and tried to shake the random thoughts that flitted through his mind. The water dribbled down his cheeks and onto his bare chest as he pondered his reflection. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable—a shell of the man he once was. He had lost a considerable amount of weight, his already thin frame appearing gaunt in the bright light, and his hair was getting too long again.

  Grabbing the nearest towel off the rack, he abruptly rubbed it across his skin. “Fuck me,” he muttered.

  Dr. Jonathon Walden had never been a man who showed much emotion. He had never, ever allowed himself to cry in front of his wife, Abbie. For two years, during her battle with cervical cancer, he was her rock, steadfast and solid—an expressionless statue in the direst moments of her illness. As a trained physician with a professional bedside manner, he had conditioned himself most of his career not to show emotion during stressful situations. It was a coping mechanism and one that spilled over into his private life. Looking back, he was concerned he never shed a single tear in front of her. Not even when the diagnosis turned terminal, and they wanted to move her into hospice…

  “It’s bullshit, Abbie. I’m not accepting this. We need another opinion.” The coil of anger in his belly was wound tight like a poisonous snake, ready to strike.

  “That’ll make a hundred and twenty-seven opinions so far,” Abbie sweetly replied, her voice frail but with the slightest hint of humor. She always knew how to soothe him and forged her small hand into his hair as she angled her head to offer him one of her trademark smiles before uttering the words that forever changed their lives. “I don’t want to be drugged up or loopy in my last days, please. Let me…” She closed her eyes briefly, before opening them again in a trembling exhale. “Let me be me. Whatever time I have left, I need to be able to say goodbye on my terms. Please, Jon. I’ve had enough.”

  The blue in her tired eyes was mesmerizing as she pleaded with him. Silently, he brought her trembling hand to his lips and held it there until he could get a grip with what she was saying. This was the moment he should have let go and wept as he held her in his arms, rocking her back and forth, allowing the enormity of what was happening to settle over them both. But when he finally exhaled, he held his head high, determined not to come undone by her last request, joking rather than weeping. This was it. This was the beginning of the end.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting that terrible opera music playing at all hours of the day. What will your new neighbors think?” he teased, cocking his eyebrow for optimal effect. When she laughed out loud, he teetered on edge, fearful he might fall into the depths of despair right in front of her. But the surge of warmth he felt from her penetrating gaze, alive and beautiful at that moment, kept him from tumbling.

  “Jonathon Walden, you know me like the backside of your dick,” she teased in return. “Of course, there will be opera music! Lots of music!” Weakly, she reached for his face and held his head in her two hands, kissing him on the lips. Her tone turned wistful as she continued to hold him. “Seriously, how did I get so lucky?”

  The heat from her sapphire eyes bore a hole into his soul. His lower lip quaked for a millisecond before he wrapped his arms around her and held on for dear life. “I’m the one who is lucky.”

  ***

  After falling asleep for an hour in Rusty’s recliner, Ginger awoke and moved into the daybed in Daisy’s room. Subsequently tossing and turning, she decided to get up, afraid she would wake her daughter if she kept moving around on the squeaky mattress. Standing outside the master bedroom after using the hallway bathroom, Ginger palmed the closed wooden door with one hand and sighed. How many times had she attempted to go in and reclaim the sleeping space she had once shared with her late husband? She couldn’t even count. With a heavy heart, she moved past the door, disappointed yet again that she couldn’t go through with opening it.

  Sunrise was still hours away, yet she was wide awake. For some odd reason, a glass of wine sounded good to her. Thinking it might take the edge off, she shuffled her slippers across the floor into the kitchen to open a bottle. Because she was a breast-feeding mother, she was diligent in not drinking more than one glass in a sitting. She also had an entire freezer full of breastmilk if she thought she had overindulged. The expensive wine was a gift to her and Rusty from one of her baking clients after a successful cake delivery.

  Cake.

  Shaking her head, she uncorked the bottle, poured a glass, and took a sip before looking for that special recipe. Stashed on the ba
ker’s rack against the wall sat several black binders—one for cakes, one for cookies, one for pies, and one for miscellaneous desserts. Sitting at the charming table for two in the corner of the small efficient kitchen, she flipped through the plastic-covered pages looking for the cake recipe she would use to make Emeline and Cappy’s Southern hazelnut praline wedding cake. Thankful for the diversion from her earlier thoughts, she scribbled ingredients onto a pad of paper until she started to ponder the upcoming beach wedding. Her hand twitched with nerves knowing that in less than two months, she’d be standing barefoot near the ocean wearing a pretty pastel dress next to her best friend as the official matron of honor——or was she now dubbed, maid of honor? Either way, she was going to have to watch Emmy get married with the dark shadows of the pier looming in the background.

  Pausing to gulp some wine, and with all the false bravado she could muster, Ginger muttered, “You can do it. You have to do it.” As she scribbled the word, “hazelnuts” too hard on the slip of paper, the tip of the pencil broke, causing her to slam the writing utensil down on the table. “God!” she squealed between gritted teeth.

  Taking another swig of wine, she got up from the table too fast, which caused the kitchen chair to fall over. She shushed herself before grabbing the open bottle and walked swiftly through the living room. Once again, she stood in front of the master bedroom door, but this time, she gripped the antique knob with purpose and twisted it open.

  Flicking on the lights, she looked around with wide eyes, determined to find what she was looking for. The bed was made up since her mama left, and nothing seemed out of place——it was as if time stood still. Rusty’s favorite fire-station tee still hung off the hook on the bathroom door, and his athletic shoes were in the same position next to their closet as if he would come home from work, slip them on and go for a jog on the beach.

  Eyeing the room, Ginger carefully tipped back the bottle of wine and drank a fair amount before setting it on the dresser. Picking up the edges of her robe, she knelt beside the bed and reached beneath the frame, feeling around for the large rectangular box that was stored underneath. When she pulled it out, she sat with a thump on the floor.

  Lifting the lid, white tissue paper seemed to float over the satin gown cushioned safely in the protective packaging. Ginger swallowed her emotions and stood up, bringing the floor-length dress with her. Turning toward the large dresser mirror, she tilted her head and held her wedding dress in front of her, running her hand across the silky fabric. Her daddy had spared no expense for his only daughter’s Southern wedding, a one-of-a-kind, custom made gown designed especially for her.

  Biting her lower lip, she got an idea. It wasn’t rational and made absolutely no sense, but for some reason, she needed to see the dress on. Hurriedly, she stripped out of her robe and nightclothes, and shimmied into the gown, languishing in the smoothness of the fabric against her bare skin. Looking over her shoulder with her back to the mirror, she made several attempts to zip it up, but it was no use. Her boobs were too big since having Daisy. Undeterred, she bent over the box one last time and retrieved her veil. The long gauzy material floated in the air like an angel’s wing, the lacy edges landing softly on the bed. Adjusting the crystal-embellished headband over her hair, she turned back to the mirror and exhaled the huge breath she had been holding.

  Ginger remembered the moment she looked at her reflection for the first time decked head to toe in her wedding finery. The excitement she felt being a bride was something she would never forget. The poignant look on Rusty’s face was also something forever etched in her memory, images flooding her mind of walking down the aisle of the Dixie Baptist Church to the rhythm of the traditional wedding march on the arm of her father.

  Grabbing the bottle of wine, she took another sip before she carefully picked up the heavy folds of her full skirt and retreated to the living room. She knew exactly where her wedding video was and popped it into the DVD player in their outdated entertainment system with a few clicks. Sitting on the couch sipping straight from the bottle surrounded by a cloud of white satin and crinoline, Ginger was transported back to that unforgettable day when she officially became Rusty’s wife. The same surge of nerves ran through her when the familiar organ music floated through the air, and she couldn’t help but smile as she watched her wedding party come down the decorated aisle one at a time. She could almost smell the sweet traces of magnolia flowers and roses amidst the white ribbons in her sizeable bridal bouquet. It was sensory overload, and her tears freely flowed as fondness replaced her sadness. The happy memories paired with the wine caused her to laugh out loud several times as she watched herself and Rusty playfully get through their wedding vows in front of their pastor.

  It wasn’t until Rusty repeated the last lines of the traditional wedding oath, “to love and to cherish, till death do us part,” that Ginger’s smile faded like the flowers from her bouquet pressed into a scrapbook. Since high school, he was the only man she had ever loved with every fiber of her being. They had been through it all—the good times, and the bad. Next to having their daughter, her marriage to Rusty was one of the greatest chapters in her book of life.

  Looking back on those pages fondly, she realized she didn’t want to hurt anymore. There was no way she could ever stop loving Rusty McCormick——he was the father of her child and the love of her life. But she needed to find a healthy way to move on and make new memories with their daughter. She needed to work again and sleep in her own bed. She needed to stop being afraid, to face the fears that kept her tied down. She needed to be there for her friends on their wedding day—even if it meant standing near the dark water that stole her forever against her will. She needed to be brave.

  Pointing the remote at the television screen, Ginger paused the video, the screen stilled with a fuzzy shot of her and Rusty facing the congregation. They were holding hands, joyful in that moment long ago, frozen in time. The heavy fabric of her wedding dress sagged off her shoulders as her body slumped with her head against the couch cushions, and she contemplated her next steps. For the first time in months, her emotions were depleted—empty.

  It was time to turn the page.

  Chapter Nine

  “Boy, howdy! Something smells good,” Fire Chief Rutland cajoled as he walked into Ginger’s home, taking his ball cap off in the process.

  She giggled in response, thankful for his pleasant entrance not marred by the anticipated morose hug. “Well, I knew you were coming and wanted to make something special to take back to everyone at the station.”

  The chief inhaled a deep breath as he wiggled his handlebar mustache humorously. “Smells like peanut butter to me.”

  “You’re right. Come on in. I’ve got the sweet tea ready and a batch of cookies straight out of the oven with your name on them.”

  Chief Rutland eagerly followed her through the living room into the small kitchen. “Thanks for the invite. I’ve been lookin’ forward to this all day. Where’s sweet Daisy? I’ll bet I won’t recognize her one bit. She must be all grown up by now.”

  The chief’s easy-going banter helped Ginger to relax. She had spent all morning baking his favorite cookies, anticipating their little get-together. It had been weeks since she’d seen him, always putting him off with excuses that she was too busy or too tired. She needed to speak with him now—to get his take on an idea she had formed.

  “Daisy will be waking up soon from her nap. I promise you’ll get to hold her soon. Have a seat, Chief.” She held her hand out toward the kitchen chair. Earlier, she had carefully laid out a plate of cookies, a pitcher of sweet tea and two tall glasses. She even cut up a lemon and splayed the wedges like a flower in a side bowl.

  “Would ya look at all this? I’ve always said, you are the hostess with the most-est, Ginger McCormick. You need to open up a bakery and share some of your sweetness with the rest of the county.” He winked playfully at her as he eased his large frame into the chair.

  Ginger blushed while caref
ully pouring him a glass of tea. “Well, funny, you should mention that…”

  “Mmmmm,” the chief interrupted with his eyes closed. There were traces of cookie crumbs already scattered in the hairs of his mustache. “I’m sorry, honey. I couldn’t wait,” he chuckled with his mouth full. “These are amazing. They melt in your mouth, just like I remember.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You were saying?”

  Ginger wiped her hands on the frilly apron tied around her waist and cleared her throat as she sat across from him. “You know, Rusty used to tell me the same thing—about sharing my baked goods with the rest of the county. That’s why I always entered the Fall Festival Bake-Off and then started baking for a few friends here and there. And then those friends told others, you know, word of mouth?” Pausing, she took a quick sip of tea and looked around. “My kitchen is so small. What if…what if I did open a bakery in town, Chief? Is that a crazy idea?” She leaned in, clutching her hands together, and waited with bated breath for him to answer.

  Once he finished chewing, he took a quick gulp of tea. “I was wondering when you’d branch out. I think it’s a great idea! When do we start?”

  Ginger was taken aback by his enthusiasm and couldn’t help but grin. “Whoa, I don’t know. I’m processing the idea of a bakery.” The chief had always been like a father to her and Rusty, and she trusted him. His feedback on her idea was important.

  Chief Rutland nodded and wiped his face with a checkered napkin Ginger had laid out earlier. He was dressed casually in fatigues and a blue pocketed t-shirt, not in his customary uniform. “Have you done any research about where you might want it to be?”