HIM J.M. Elliott This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, occurrences, or locations is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2020 by J. M. Elliott All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without the copyright owner's written permission to use quotations in a book review. First paperback edition: 2020 Cover design by Coven Design Cover image by Michael Coven Interior Design by Classic Interior Design ISBN 987-0-578-79219-4 (paperback) Published by Short Mag Books Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 HER Chapter One Acknowledgments About the Author For my late Grandmother She was my biggest supporter and my number one fan. My grams would be incredibly proud of me for fulfilling a dream of mine. I love and miss you so much. I will always be your little Boo Bear! Chapter One A deer runs out in front of my car, bringing me back to reality. I forgot how much wildlife the scenic route has. The forest has grown a lot, and I find it hard to recognize the scenery around me. I have been in the city for so long that I have forgotten how beautiful the countryside is. I've been away for six years, college, then settling into my first job. I haven't made time to come home much. I've been so consumed in my own life to care about anyone else's. I wish the circumstances that finally pushed me to go home were different. If I had perhaps come home more often, my father might still be alive. I may have been there at the time he took his last breath. I wipe away a few tears that have tumbled down my cheek. I had so much fun with my father as a child. He taught me so much. Even though he was a single parent and it was us against the world, he was the best father anyone could ever ask for. I am still driving the same 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 we rebuilt together back when I was in High School, Junior High, and part of Elementary. I remember rushing home from school to work on it with my dad every day. I did not think we were ever going to finish it. The mustang was gifted to me, freshly painted and in all its glory, as my graduation present. I TRAVEL DOWN MY FATHER’S DRIVEWAY; cars lined up on each side of the road. I pull up closer to his house; it hits me. My father is gone. He will not be greeting me when I get out of my vehicle, nor will he have that ridiculous smirk on his face that he used to have when I would pull up in the mustang. He loved this car, and he loved that I still drove it. I flip down the visor and check my makeup before opening my door. I dab under my eyes to fix my runny eyeliner, throw on some lip gloss, then toss my hair back in a low ponytail. I take a deep breath before I get out of my car. I pull down my black dress to try and release some of the wrinkles from sitting—what seemed like forever. I notice that there are a lot of people here. My father was very well-liked, so I can only smile, knowing they are all here to pay their respects. My heart sinks as I walk closer to his house. I notice a row of classic cars parked on the lawn. My father loved classic cars. He would search the countryside for one and restore it. It was his passion. He even opened a tiny shop just outside of town to devote his time to those rust buckets. He always said, why should they sit and rust? He looked at life so differently than most. He took the bad and saw the good, he took the old and saw the new, he took the lost and made them found. As I walk up the driveway, I can hear my father's friends and my family's chatter while conversing with one another about their lives and memories with my father. I see a group of men wearing the same shirts; gray collared shirts with short sleeves. There is red, white, and black writing on the back. Rob's Classic Restoration it reads. My dad's shop. Are they all his workers? I do not remember that there were this many when I left for college. All I remember is him, Ernie, my uncle Dave, and a couple of others that would come by and help from time to time. Now, there is at least twenty or so. I've missed a lot since I have been away. "Allison!" I hear my aunt squeal, as she rushes over to hug me. I smile and say, "Hey." "How was the drive?" she asks sympathetically. "It was good. Long but good," I reply. "Thank you so much for putting all of this together." "No problem, sweetie. That is what I am here for," she says with delight. My aunt is quite the social butterfly. She is always the first to put on a social gathering or a funeral in this case. I sit down, and I can feel everyone staring at me like I am a celebrity. As the pastor starts to talk about my father's wonderful characteristics, I
