Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
They’ve been soulmates, best
friends, and sweethearts since they were kids living next door to each other.
Twenty years. Everyone in Cordial Creek, Vermont expects thirty-year-old Sam,
an architect, and twenty-eight-year-old Megan, a paralegal, to tie the knot.
They were about to do that until the untimely death of Sam’s dad two years ago
devastated Sam and settled him even deeper into the small town he loves. He
threw himself into his construction company and took on new responsibilities as
his mother’s shoulder-to-lean-on. Megan adores him but is struggling with the
changes in their relationship—and with some doubts about herself that she can’t
quite identify.
One small, reckless mistake on
her part—a silly ploy to shake Sam out of his doldrums—explodes into a painful
turning point. He sets out to remind her of all the special bonds they share
and why they’re perfect together. If the memories don’t solve Megan’s
crisis, all the little things that they love about each other may not be
enough to keep them together.
Heidi Sprouse writes romances about ordinary men who
become extraordinary through their actions and the women who love them.
She lives in historic Johnstown, a small upstate New York town on the fringe of
the Adirondacks, with her husband, Jim, and son, Patrick. Please visit her at www.heidisprouse.wix.com/heidi-sprouse or find her on Facebook at Heidi Sprouse Writing "All the
Little Things" and More.
Coming soon!
Just Out for a Sunday Drive
IN RETROSPECT, Sam kept
noticing all the little things about that fateful day. It was a Sunday. A
beautiful, sunny, not-a-cloud- in-the-sky kind of Sunday in Cordial Creek,
Vermont. The kind of day that made a person want to stop time, freeze it, stick
it in a pocket to keep it forever. So bright that it stabbed at his eyes, made
him squint and grab for his sunglasses. He always forgot his sunglasses.
Even though it was autumn,
the sun took the chill off, settled like a blanket on the air, made coats fall
off and short sleeves come out of the closet. It also begged for classic cars
to come out of the garage. Sam put the top down on his vintage, cherry red,
1963 Corvette roadster. More little things—the long list of details about a
car—but vital to a car enthusiast. It felt good to drive out and meet the day
with nothing between him and the wind tugging at his hair and clothes, filling
him with a sense of freedom.
MEGAN TAYLOR woke up early that morning, before
the sun. Stared up at the ceiling with dry eyes. Watched the dawn creep in,
splashing the walls in a wash of pink, red, gold. She climbed out of bed and
made a pot of tea. Like she did, every single morning, work day or not. Scalded
her tongue but drank it down with fingers that trembled. It was Sunday. People
were supposed to look forward to Sunday, so what was the matter with her?
The newspaper remained on the kitchen table,
unopened except for the comics, in search of something, anything light-hearted.
Her shower stretched until the water ran cold. In a soft, terrycloth robe in
hurt-your-eyes red, she stood by the mirror and dried her hair until it was a
golden mass of curls gleaming down her back. Sam loved her hair, would run his
fingers through it, press his face to it when they held each other close.
Thoughts of Sam made her want to cry. It was no fault of his own; the problem
rested in Meg.
She changed her clothes twice, three times,
stood in front of the floor length, antique mirror that had been her
grandmother’s. Stepped into heels that hurt her feet but made her legs look
good; some insensitive man had probably invented the torture devices. Turned
once, took one more slow turn, glanced over her shoulder. Blue eyes—cerulean;
that was the color on the crayon box—stared back at her, shocking in their
intensity. Questioning. It all hung in the balance, what she was doing today.
It was a gamble, a chance she was willing to take. Still made her feel shaky,
made her doubt her sanity.
Megan stood in
the kitchen and watched the clock. Her heart hammered in time with its ticking.
Today would be a first for her, something she’d read about, seen in the movies,
but never had to do. Her stomach was flip-flopping. She closed her eyes and
breathed in and out through her nose, striving to settle everything down when
the purr of an engine made her eyes snap open again. She’d know that sound
anywhere; Sam, come to pick her up, in the Corvette. She hadn’t warned him,
couldn’t talk to him, didn’t know what she would say. Time to find out. She
swallowed hard, afraid.
ONLY ONE thing could make this day perfect—
spending it with his girl. Sam didn’t have to tell her he was coming; this was
their Sunday routine. The sweet hum of the Corvette’s engine announced his
arrival. Megan came to the door in a cute little dress that was a splash of
fall colors, hues of orange, red, and yellow setting a fire in his veins. He
wondered later, should the dress, on a lazy, Sunday afternoon when she usually
wore jeans, have tipped him off? Or the forced smile as she slid in next to him
and barely brushed his cheek with her lips? He started a conversation, had a
few brief responses, and let the silence take over. Maybe she wanted to be
quiet, enjoy the day, like he did. He only wanted to take in the sights...
and her.
The road stretched out before them, filled with
twists and turns—more foreshadowing of what was to come? When it came to their
relationship, Sam saw one lane running straight into a blazing sunrise of a
future. A little girl with sunshine in her hair and the sky in her eyes, like
Megan. A tyke of a boy, a miniature Sam, with dark waves of unruly brown hair
and coffee eyes, toddling to keep up. A cozy house that would reach out and
tuck them in with two rockers on the porch to grow gray in...
They pulled up to a four-way stop at an
intersection when Sam’s vision hit a dead end. In a blink, Megan was out of the
car, walking away as fast as her high heels—she only wears heels to work or
special occasions flashed through his mind—could carry her. Frozen until
the beat of his heart started again, Sam jumped out, left the car door open and
the motor running. Horns blared. People yelled and made rude gestures. Others
stopped to watch the soap opera. Sam caught up with her, long legs easily
closing the gap, and grabbed her arm. "Meg, what is this?”
She turned, tears in her eyes. "I can’t do this
anymore—one more Sunday drive and I’ll go crazy. Sam, I care about you, but let
me go. I don’t even know how to explain it. I’ll tell you later. Call me in the
morning.” His arm dropped as his fingers turned numb; it felt like something
had bitten him, sent a slow poison running through his veins. He remained in
the middle of the road, while she continued walking away. Unbelievably, she
stepped into a waiting cab. The only cab in Cordial Creek. She’d planned this.
It pulled away before Sam could make himself move.
Traffic continued to flow around him, the wind
of its passing pushing at him. "Hey, Sam! Out of the road!” a man called.
Red and blue lights flashed—they should mean
something. A young officer, solid, with a crew cut and strong jaw, reminded Sam
of a marine as he stepped beside him and touched his arm. "Sam, you need to get
out of the road. Do you need assistance?”
Switch gears. Focus. Ignore the pounding in his
head and stabbing in his chest. Was this having a heart attack?
"Yes... I mean, no, I don’t need help. I lost
something... out of my car. I’ll move my car.”
The officer directed traffic, keeping the
shell-shocked man in his line of sight at all times. Sam moved as if
underwater, in slow motion, and pulled his car to the side of the road. Once
there, he didn’t move. He didn’t have any reason or inclination to go anywhere.
He tipped his head back and stared, unseeing, at the clear blue sky trying to
figure out what happened.
MEGAN SAT BY the window of the cab, face turned
to the glass as the tears flowed. She didn’t look back at Sam, couldn’t look
back at him. Now or never! Her heart was racing until it hurt. Her hands shook
in her lap until she clasped them tightly together over her purse. Her eyes
were squeezed shut but Sam’s face, the shock and the hurt when she got out of
the car, told him no more, could not be erased.
She hadn’t meant for it to happen that way; her
mind had raced for days—no, weeks—in an effort to find a way to tell Sam that
she was unhappy and couldn’t figure out why. All of her life, she had done the
right thing, the predictable, followed the regimented life of a military
household. Her relationship with Sam, it had always been there, something that
she fell into like falling into bed at night; it was that easy, moving from
friendship to something more. Right now, she wanted something spontaneous, the
unknown. Sam was the only boyfriend she’d ever had, an old pair of shoes, the
only pair she’d worn, comfortable and familiar. She was the only girlfriend
he’d ever had. They were on an absolute path to marriage; had been, for years.
What if she made a disappointing wife? An
inadequate mother? She had to find out what was tearing her apart inside.
The cab pulled into a small town next door to
Cordial Creek. Megan stepped out at a small café, paid the driver, and set up a
time for him to return. She wiped her eyes and set her shoulders. Standing by
the door was a tall man in a dark suit, eyes hidden by sunglasses, black hair
slicked back. Mr. Classic, tall, dark, and handsome. He raised a hand to her in
recognition. She returned the gesture. She’d only seen him in a photograph on
the online dating site, but she knew it was him.
The road was clear. Butterflies fluttered in her
stomach as she walked across, greeted him, and let him open the café door.
This is a mistake, a huge mistake. I hate his
slick hair already. Her heart sank. Oh, Sam.
"Are you ready for anything?” His touch sent a
chill up her arm, and she wanted to jerk away. New territory here; she wasn’t
sure how to handle it. She smiled coolly. They set out for a simple
get-to-know-you lunch that seemed as sad, mysterious, and terrifying as a trip
to another country.
Oh, Sam. What have I done?
2
The Morning... Aftermath
IN THE EARLY morning hours, Sam’s life was
divided into two photographs, sliced down the middle by a stop sign and the
slam of a car door. Everything before Megan got out of the Corvette was alive
and rich in brilliant color; everything after faded into black and white.
He sat in a chair, in the dark, eyes wide open.
He hadn’t slept that night, couldn’t sleep. There was a painful knot in his
stomach, twisting with a vengeance, bringing a bad taste to his mouth. That and
a headache at the base of his skull made him feel like his head was about to
explode. His blood pressure was probably through the roof, threatening a
self-induced stroke. He should go to the hospital, get some drugs, or find
oblivion in a bottle.
His mind wouldn’t let it go, kept the images
rolling from the moment Megan sat down beside him on the white leather seat of
his classic car to the instant her feet touched the ground, carrying her away.
He couldn’t turn off the replay in his head. Time was a punishment, dragging by
at a painfully slow pace, and the night wore on. Memory was most cruel, a video
stuck in the same spot—yesterday afternoon. Made him watch it over and over,
looking for answers.
It didn’t make sense to him. Megan had been in
his life for twenty years; they’d met as children, grown up as best friends;
becoming a couple had been as easy as breathing. Sam had thought the next step
would be marriage. He’d often brought it up, but somehow Megan had avoided the
topic. That should have been a red flag.
Instead, they would spend their spare time
together at each other’s homes; Megan would come by in the morning with wake-up
coffee then stop by after work, or Sam would surprise her at her place. The
weekends were always something to look forward to, a time for day trips, to get
away, to be together.
Was that the problem? Not forcing the issue of a
commitment? Too much familiarity? Falling into a routine with no edge to it
like two old people, nothing to make her feel alive? Had he made it too
comfortable so that it was easier for her to walk away? His thoughts went in
circles, sharks snapping vicious jaws. Dawn finally arrived, but he was at a
loss as to what to do with the daylight. This really shouldn’t be so hard or
dramatic. It happened all the time. Boy meets girl. Girl breaks boy’s heart.
End of story. Tell that to his heart.
The ticking of the clock kept beating on his
brain, reminding him that there was something that he had to do. He picked up
the phone, dialed, and reached his secretary. Had to clear his throat at the
sound of her voice, silently cursing its cracking. Heaven help me, don’t let
me lose it. "Janet, it’s Sam. I’m feeling lousy today. When Michael comes
in, tell him he’s in charge. I’ll try to be in tomorrow.” None of it was a
lie—his voice proved just how lousy he felt. His secretary assured him she’d
take care of everything and hoped he’d feel better.
His chair was his refuge, where he remained the
rest of the day and into the night, moving only when the demands of the
bathroom and thirst required it. No sleep. No food. No relief. He was
waiting—for the phone to ring, the door to open, or for merciful sleep to come
and erase the last twenty four hours. Being real life, none of those things
happened. His eyes burned with the need to rest. His stomach protested with the
need to eat. His heart ached with the need to beat again.
Cursing himself, unable to sit still any longer,
Sam showered, pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and peeled out of the driveway in
his pickup truck. He went way too fast, kicking up dust on the dirt road, blind
to the scenery around him. Destination—anywhere but here, as long as it was out
of his mind.
MICHAEL FLANNIGAN pulled in early to the
construction site of his latest project, an office building that resembled an
old brownstone. He usually was the second one in after his workaholic boss,
although he tried to beat him as a personal, daily challenge. He thought he’d
finally managed the day before only to find out Sam wasn’t coming in. Odd—Sam
didn’t miss work. Many a time, he’d come in dead on his feet, sicker than a
dog. However, today the boss’s faded blue, beater Chevy was in its typical
spot. Whatever had kept him home couldn’t be that serious.
Sighing deeply at having lost the morning race
again, Michael sipped his black coffee in an effort to wake up. He tipped his
head back and relaxed just for a moment more. Might as well savor the
life-restoring properties of good coffee, take a few more minutes. What was the
rush? The boss was already there; no chance for brownie points today. Not that
he had to anyway. They were partners, and Michael pulled his weight; it was a
matter of principle to get there first. Eyes closed to shut out the blaze of
sunrise beating directly into his eyes, a loud pounding made its way into his
consciousness and had him sitting up with a jolt. He bit his tongue as coffee
spilled down the front of his shirt—what a waste!—and jumped out of his truck,
a rusted, green monster to rival Sam’s in age and condition. His heart picked
up the pace, matching the loud thudding that continued. What was going on? Was
there trouble at the site? Vandalism had happened before, and no demolition was
scheduled for today. Visions of trouble makers, bent on destruction, were
supplied by a colorful imagination.
Michael broke out in a cold sweat as he covered
his disheveled, black hair with a hard hat. Had to follow the Boy Scout motto,
be prepared for anything, by picking up a sledgehammer. He held it down low,
close to his side to provide the element of surprise. Just topping off six feet
tall, and hard from being outdoors and working construction, he was a force to
be reckoned with. That and the fear that Sam might be in trouble resolved
Michael to center himself and step out on to the work site, unprepared for what
he found.
Sam also hefted a sledgehammer. Not only did he
hold it, he was wielding it, making quick work out of destroying one interior
wall on their project building. They had been—key word being had—ahead of
schedule. Sam’s voice was hoarse from yelling, torn with emotion as he shouted
with each swing. "Damn it! How could you do this?!” A pause as he wiped
dust—and possibly tears?—out of his eyes. "What the hell did I do? What the
hell am I supposed to do now?” The force of his rage and anguish sent the
hammer flying across the yard. He stood, head bowed, hands on his hips as he
tried to slow his breathing. Large and formidable, covered in dust, most would
not have approached Sam at that moment. Michael was not most.
"All you had to do was tell us if you weren’t
happy with that wall,” Michael told his best friend, hoping humor would help
salvage the pieces of whatever wreckage buried Sam. He had to look up; Sam
topped him by a few inches and wouldn’t let Michael forget it.
Sam met his old friend’s gaze; a sea of pain
crashed in his eyes, taking Michael’s breath away. Not the boss of anything at
that moment, especially himself, Sam walked away into the shell of the building
until he reached the opposite wall. He sank down onto the floor and pressed his
head to his knees.
Completely at a loss, Michael did the only thing
he could do—he followed. He had been Sam’s shadow since they were kids. They’d
seen each other through all of the minor scrapes through the years and the big
ones, the heart-stopping, bring-the-world-to-a-halt-moments; looked like this
might be one of them. Nothing had changed with the years. His friend was in
trouble; Michael was there. He sat down beside him and rested an arm on Sam’s
shoulders.
It was like holding onto a rock, muscles
clenched so tightly with tension he was shaking. Michael held on anyway. "Tell
me. What happened?” Sam was strong, carried the load when others put it down.
Michael didn’t like what he saw in his friend’s eyes.
Sam shied away from the comfort offered. He
looked into deep, green eyes that he knew almost as well as his own and saw
only calm waiting for him. Wished he could have one small piece of it. Sam
looked away. "I can’t right now. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
They didn’t talk for several minutes; the sound
of Sam’s harsh breathing was the only thing between them. Michael cleared his
throat. "The guys are going to be here any minute, Sam. Why don’t you take off?
I’ve got it covered.”
His friend barely nodded. "Thanks,” he whispered
then stood up and walked out, head bowed. Michael was right to tell him to go.
He wouldn’t be good for anyone.
MEGAN CALLED into work Monday morning. A brass
band was blasting inside a head that weighed at least one hundred pounds. Too
much wine. What had possessed her to drink an entire bottle of wine? Sam’s face
and the hurt that bloomed in his eyes floated to the surface of her mind, and
she covered her head with a pillow, tried to drown it out. She’d seen him every
time the stranger at the café offered to fill her glass.
She didn’t know what she was looking for, and it
was driving her crazy. Tossing and turning in a tangle of sheets, stomach
pitching along with her pounding headache, she couldn’t escape the fact that
all thoughts returned to the man she’d been trying to
forget... her childhood sweetheart. Was it possible to meet
your true love as a child and make it last? As a girl, that had been the fairy
tale, but somewhere along the way, Megan stopped believing in pixie dust,
Tinker Bell, Peter Pan, or happily ever after.
Flinging back the covers, she ended up on the
bathroom floor, clinging to the toilet as her stomach rebelled. Everything made
a return appearance, possibly every meal she’d ever eaten in her life. When it
was over and she was reduced to a shaking, sniffling mess, Megan stretched out
on the cold tile and did what every girl did when she’d made a mess out of her
life... she cried her eyes out.
