The cop flashes his light in my face. He has to shout so I can hear him. Everything all right?
One week earlier, we all watched that jet explode into the South Tower, explode into the South Tower, explode into the South Tower. I had to ignore that instinct. Me and thousands of others, we had to open our arms and let the ones we love go. Frank chose this life freely and I freely chose him.
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But before I let him go, in a dark parking lot out of sight of the looming gray amphibious assault ship that would carry him away, I sat next to him on the curb and listened to his voice. Nothing important. He could have had a calculator the size of a credit card, but he chose the locket because he thought I might like it. This morning I put it on.source link
A Cool Moonlight - Perma-Bound Books
In the star-speckled, moonless night I saw him smile. We met in Florida in when we were both in college. I was in the pew because of a car, and he was behind the altar because of an apartment — he lived at the church in a little studio. He took care of the property and chose to help out Sundays with the service. Some of my best friends were cute guys.
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A very nice big goofy guy had taken me to a basketball game where I listened to him and his basketball pals talk about great moments in basketball, of which there were apparently a lot. My other date brought along his ex-girlfriend, who sat at our table and watched him dance with me, looking bored, smoke rising from her cigarette, as if he dragged her along on his dates with other women all the time.
Driving myself home after that date I had prayed: Okay God, I give up. So the pastor was praying. He was good looking in a tough, scruffy mutt kind of way, not my usual type; my type usually wore glasses. He looked like the kind of guy who had a lot of ex-girlfriends. All of a sudden he snuck a peek at the congregation to count how many wafers he was going to need for communion, he later told me, popped open his eyes without even raising his head and saw a whole sea of bowed heads, hair-dos, comb-overs, and bald spots, and a single pair of eyeballs, mine. Before I could look away, he did something horrible.
I was naked blushing mortified. It was middle school all over again, when the absolutely last thing you want a guy to know about you is that you like him. It gave him power over you, the power to hurt and publicly humiliate you. I was a twenty-one-year-old virgin, had never said much more than hello to this guy and now I vowed I never would. The only difficulty was that I parked at the church every day because it was next to the campus, so I took care to park out of sight of his apartment.
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So I have to resort to a note. Is your grandfather mad at me? He brushed past me the other day like he was. Or is that just his German way? Also… do you watch me in services a lot? Am I wearing the alb wrong? Is my hair messed up? My zipper down? But how could you see that? I reread the note, and then the last line really hit me — I was being pursued.
The Girl Who Drank the Moon
But romantic pursuit? I had no idea how to handle it. It was a big dark frightening unknown. I stuffed the note in my backpack and sped out of the parking lot through the back exit.
But I was too quick at hopping out to unhook the chain, driving through, scampering back to rehook the chain, then roaring off. I arrived at my car in the middle of a tropical downpour one afternoon to find a note instructing me to knock on his door so he could let me out. I considered walking the five miles home in the rain instead. But, I told myself, all I had to do was knock, then leap back into the car and wait there while he unlocked the chain. I pulled up to the exit and left the engine running. I ducked through the downpour to tap at his door, huddled beneath a covered walk.
No answer. I tapped again. I pounded on it. Still no answer. I was turning away, annoyed and wet, when a nearby door to the church banged open.
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It was him. He looked out beyond the covered walk at the solid wall of rain. Sit within two feet of him for the time it would take to drive thirty yards? That would be very bad. He put his hand on the door handle. Another endless thirty-yard ride? No way. But the rain was pounding on the car. When he jumped in again, he was wet to the skin, hair plastered to his head. He cheerfully declared his leather boots ruined, and I, relieved to have something to talk about, told him how he could save them with newspaper and saddle soap. I stopped the car outside his apartment.
He just sat there, slouched on one elbow, looking up at me. The rain on the car roof was like a drumroll, and there was something about the way he was looking at me — suddenly I got a bad feeling. My heart was thudding.
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Let me know if you need help finding a book, I'll be sure to return the favour. Hi guys i'am so glad to have found this place I have been looking for this Victorian romance about the hero being engaged since he was young by his father. He falls in love with his newfound bride and so does she. But she tries to be more of a lady and so his best friend teaches her how to act in society while our hero is on a trip The sister in law is in a wheel chair and is trying to get rid of the heroine and also there are snipets of their past lives Sorry if it sounds confusing but I' ve been looking for this book forever!
My name is Florecer and I am a new member of this group. First let me answer the question of Nyah99, the post number 84 about the last novel: the description sounds like "The Shocking Lord Standon" by Louise Allen, and is part of the Revenhurst Saga. Here a leave the book description.
He cannot honorably deny them, but he won't be forced into marriage.
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