Saving Alice , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - David Lewis

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174 pages

English

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A Novel of Second Choices, Second ChancesEmotion-Packed Fiction From a Bestselling AuthorStephen Whittaker had determined never to be like his dad, someone he considered a loser in every way. Stephen had distanced himself from those early years in Aberdeen, South Dakota, and it was working--an Ivy League education, a great job offer with a New York law firm, and an engagement ring and the proposal all worked out for lovely, talented Alice...Losing Alice meant that everything changed for Stephen. Back in Aberdeen, he tried to pick up the pieces of his life again. He married his best friend and had a precocious, charming daughter. He went into business and was making big money. It looked like he had things back in hand.The gradual downward spiral came so slowly he didn't see the signs--and then it was too late... Or was it? If only he could turn the clock back...

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 janvier 2006
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585587636
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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S AVING A LICE
By David Lewis
Sanctuary Coming Home Saving Alice

Saving Alice
Copyright 2005
David Lewis
Cover design by Studio Gearbox
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0051-9 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7642-0096-0 (Hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7642-0097-7 (Large Print)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lewis, David (David Gerald)
Saving Alice / by David Lewis.
p. cm.
Summary: Stephen Whitaker has his whole life planned, but when he loses his true love-Alice-a gradual undetected spiral begins. When everything starts unraveling, whom will Stephen turn to? -Provided by publisher.
ISBN 0-7642-0096-8 (alk. paper)-ISBN 0-7642-0051-8 (pbk.)-ISBN 0-7642-0097-6 (pbk. lg. print)
I. Title.
PS3612.E964S28 2006
813 .54-dc22
2005028050
To Jerry, my father my friend.
God works in mysterious ways.
C ONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY - TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY - THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY - FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY - FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY - SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY - SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY - EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY - NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY - ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY - TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY - THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY - FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY - FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY - SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY - SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C HAPTER O NE
F ourteen years later, I still dream of her.
I find myself slipping back in time as if not a day has passed. The images are fragmented, not in any particular sequence, as if they are occurring at the same precise moment in time. But I can t miss the scents of vanilla and pizza the sound of oldies playing in the background the glisten of her brunette hair in the afternoon light. Then comes the relentless sense of dread, building into sudden panic, and the slippery feel of her silky blouse in my fingers the momentary burst of relief she s safe and the final piercing echo of her scream.
Usually when I awaken, I m gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. Donna wakes up beside me and touches my shoulder. Are you okay, Stephen?
I swallow hard, then nod. I m sorry I ve awakened her, and I hope she doesn t ask any further.
The same dream?
I m tempted to fudge my answer: a little different, or kinda -just to spare her feelings. But Donna knows the truth, and although she pretends otherwise, my answer breaks her heart. I give her assurances which she accepts graciously, and then she strokes my back momentarily- sleep tight, Stephen -and turns over.
Later, as I feign sleep and as Donna slumbers beside me, I ponder the dream, and in spite of myself, I still wonder .
What if I had saved Alice? Where would all of us be? Alice, Donna, and me.
I m aware of my wife s gentle form beside me. In the stillness, I sense the rise and fall of her breathing. I gently place my hand on her hip, feel the warmth of her, and guilt consumes me.
When I think of our sleeping daughter, Alycia, I get up and wander my way downstairs to open her door quietly-my little girl hidden beneath a mound of pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals. I watch until I detect the rise and fall of her breathing.
Another shudder of relief washes over me, not unlike the dream, only this one is real.
She s safe .

Alycia was only ten when she came to me with a matter of life-and-death consequences. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was relaxing on our secondhand pea green couch watching an exhibition game on our fuzzy TV. My spirits were bright because the Twins were pummeling the Rangers.
Wearing faded jeans and a pink Hello Kitty T-shirt, Alycia meandered into the living room and plopped herself onto a brown corduroy floor pillow.
I turned on my side and appraised her sudden melancholy. What s the matter, Alley Cat?
She looked away and sighed. I throw like a girl.
This is as earthshaking as it normally gets for my melodramatic daughter, but rarely am I presented with such opportunities. Maybe because you are one?
Da-ad, she whined. It s not funny. She twisted on the floor to face me. I want to make the team, okay?
The team? Surely you don t mean the boys softball team?
Yes, she said, her squint intended to nip my playful chauvinism in the bud. They re letting girls try out.
Really?
Her squint turned into a frown. So what am I supposed to do?
I was reminded of my own childhood obsession with the sport- collecting cards and plastering my walls with pennants. I wasn t much younger than my daughter when our next-door neighbor gave me an old ball and mitt, and I remember bursting into our trailer, hoping to persuade my dad to throw with me. He did, lasting all of five minutes.
Got an idea for you, he said, heading back in. You re gonna love it, Stephen.
Next day after school I found a strange, beat-up apparatus in our side yard, resembling a sideways trampoline. My father introduced me to my new friend.
It bounces the ball back to you, he told me. That way you don t need me. He tousled my hair and returned to the trailer as I proceeded to throw the ball against the canvas monstrosity. I lasted all of five minutes.
I now turned to my daughter, and with what I hoped was a twinkle in my eyes, said, I m afraid you ll have to accept your lot in life. You re a girl and girls don t-
Wham! The brown pillow hit me squarely on the head. Gleefully Alycia leapt to her feet and began pelting me. My arms provided little protection, and my chortles only riled her further. Finally, with the pillow lodged against my important air cavities, we reached a truce.
Instead of our usual father-daughter activities-kite flying, bike riding, or library lurking-we commenced vigorous training sessions. For several hours each day after school, I taught her the rudiments of the game-how to throw and hit, how to catch grounders, and how to pitch. All that was missing was the theme from Rocky .
Six weeks later she tried out, and later that evening, I was the one who took the call from Coach Wolf: Alycia had made the team. I d never seen her so psyched. By the end of summer, I was in the stands when my daughter, the only girl on the boys team, hit a home run. She crossed home plate, turned and waved to me, and the catcher followed the direction of her gaze. My heart swelled with pride as I read her lips. That s my dad!
After the final game, she hung up her cap and never looked back. Been there, done that.
That s it? I complained. After all our hard work?
I m a girl, remember?
That retort inaugurated a spirited chase around our house-living room to kitchen to bedroom to hallway back to the living room, over and over again-followed by a visit to the Ice Cream Shoppe on Sixth Avenue, where we discussed my daughter s next big challenge.
Sewing? I suggested, licking my cone. Cross-stitch, perhaps? Or
She narrowed her eyes.
basket weaving, I finished excitedly. There s an idea worth exploring.
I m thinking brain surgery, Alycia replied, licking her own cone. But I might need a few years to prepare.
A few, I agreed.
As we sat in the frenetic atmosphere of an ice cream store, the casual observer would have seen the kind of father-daughter relationship that often takes decades to develop, if it ever materializes at all.
But things were different for Alycia and me. Her mother occasionally lamented that she felt like an outsider looking in on a private party, a perception I tried to dispel with little success. The truth was, Alycia and I had a special bond.
Alycia-pronounced Ah lee see ah, which she later shunned for the more traditional Ah lish ah -was a pretty brunette girl, waif thin, approximately five feet of pure energy. Graceful like a cat, she seemed destined to avoid the usual adolescent awkward stage, and yet, in spite of her athletic gifts, her heart-shaped face was almost doll-like- ivory soft with high cheekbones, expressive blue eyes, and the cutest little Minnie Mouse ears.
She s all eyes, her mother liked to say, and sometimes Alycia, in the right light, seemed European, a reflection of my distant French ancestry. To me, Alycia s features were reminiscent of an adolescent Audrey Hepburn-only with wavy curls. When I first told her this, her face clouded with despair. Audrey who?
You know. My Fair Lady .
Ugh.
Just you wait, enry iggins! I taunted her as only a father can, to which she covered her ears and moaned.
As with all pre-adolescent girls, appearance dominated Alycia s attention. About a year after her home run, she arrived home from school on the brink of tears. In spite of our persistent inquiries, she refused to open up. It s just so terrible , she finally wailed. It s too terrible to say.
I might have been more concerned if I hadn t been familiar with Alycia s tendency for theatrics. She slunk off to her downstairs room, closed the door, and turned off the lights. She sat in darkness for nearly two hours until I decided it was time to make another effort.
When I knocked, a quivering voice whispered back, What does a girl have to do to get ice cream?
At the Ice Cream Shoppe she finally fessed up. I d been prepared for something earth-shattering: perhaps a popular boy had looked at her wrong, possibly one