Chapter 1
Prologue
Miranda Kensington should have been sad at her husband's funeral, but she wasn't.
She was angry.
Every time she looked at her husband's deceased body, lying still in the coffin, she wanted to slam the cover shut and yell that she was glad he was dead.
But she couldn't. She was surrounded by loving and grieving church members, friends, family, and her children. For their sakes she had to put on the front of a widow in mourning.
She was in mourning all right, but not for her dead husband. For herself. For wasting twenty years of her life with him. No one knew of the pain and heartache she'd endured all those years. As far as everyone else was concerned, she'd had a privileged life with Tom. He'd given her a lovely home, two beautiful children, and all the luxuries a person could want or need.
But they didn't know the price she had paid. Had they known, perhaps they would be hugging her and telling her she was finally free from all the torment and emptiness.
No, he'd never physically abused her, but sometimes she wondered if that would have been easier than the verbal put-downs, the constant rejection, and the complete lack of companionship that had existed in their relationship.
But those things were nothing compared to her learning the one final secret that nearly did her in. A secret that was forever buried in the plane crash that killed her husband, a secret no one could ever know.
There was no point in telling anyone what had really happened the night of the fatal accident, because it wouldn't change anything. But she wished she had someone to confide in, talk to, pour out her heart to. She was alone in her pain because everyone she knew loved her husband. No one would ever be able to understand, or even believe, she was telling the truth.
No. She just needed to bury him and his memory and go on with her life.
But exactly how to do that, she didn't know.
Chapter One
Fourteen months later
So this was her life.
Miranda looked down at her baggy, heather-gray sweats, crumpled t-shirt, and mismatched socks and sighed. Nothing had turned out like she'd thought it would.
Since her husband's death just over one short year ago she'd gone from being married, active in church and PTA, involved in her children's lives and her own busy life, to becoming a widow and a recluse who left church after sacrament meeting and shopped at the grocery store after eleven p.m. so she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.
And to top it off, today was her birthday. She vowed not to answer the telephone or the door, just in case any well-wishers decided to remind her she was turning forty.
Forty!
And in all those years what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Well, almost nothing. She had Ashlyn and Adam.
Her kids validated her life. But Ashlyn was in college and moving on, and Adam was busy being a teenager, discovering the thrill of having a driver's license. In three years he'd go on a mission. Then what would she do?
Ding-dong!
She froze. It couldn't be the kids; they were both at school. Keys rattled in the lock and the door squeaked open. "Miranda, you home?"
Pulling an afghan over her head, Miranda huddled against the couch cushions, hoping her sister would leave if she didn't answer. No such luck.
"Hey!" The voice was in the room with her. "What are you doing?"
Regretting I gave you a house key. Miranda exposed her face. "Hiding from you."
"For heaven's sake, why?"
Rachel sat on the edge of a wingback chair. She was forever the perfectionist, and her neatly coiffed hair and freshly pressed skirt reminded Miranda that she hadn't even bothered bathing that day, or the day before or . . . Now that she thought about it, when was the last time she'd gotten cleaned up?
Rachel's perfection stretched from her flawless skin and makeup, to her four times a week aerobicized body, right down to her sculptured nails. Rachel was the kind of person who intimidated and infuriated a person. Miranda had never felt as pretty or "together" as her older sister. Sometimes it made her mad. Not so much at Rachel, but at herself. Part of her wanted to be as organized and in control of herself and her life as Rachel was. But then another part of her wanted to be nothing like her sister. Miranda knew it didn't make sense. But still, it was how she felt.
"I came to take you to lunch for your birthday."
"I'm not hungry."
Her sister stood and busied herself opening curtains, filling the dark room with the annoying sunlight of a beautiful March day.
"I won't take 'no' for an answer. Besides, I want to see how you look in this." She handed Miranda a beautifully store-wrapped present.
Miranda let out a frustrated sigh. "I wish you wouldn't have done this. Really, I just want to stay in today and be alone."
"Too late. We've got reservations at that new Chinese restaurant, then I'm taking you to this wonderful boutique in South Valley. I'd like to find something to brighten up your place. Maybe a floral arrangement for the dining table." Rachel perused the room trying to locate a spot in desperate need of a toll-painted birdhouse or a basket of cheerful sunflowers.
Knowing her sister's unyielding personality, and not up to the fight it would take to stay home, Miranda sighed, took her wrapped gift, and headed for the shower.
Some birthday this was going to be.
Miranda Kensington should have been sad at her husband's funeral, but she wasn't.
She was angry.
Every time she looked at her husband's deceased body, lying still in the coffin, she wanted to slam the cover shut and yell that she was glad he was dead.
But she couldn't. She was surrounded by loving and grieving church members, friends, family, and her children. For their sakes she had to put on the front of a widow in mourning.
She was in mourning all right, but not for her dead husband. For herself. For wasting twenty years of her life with him. No one knew of the pain and heartache she'd endured all those years. As far as everyone else was concerned, she'd had a privileged life with Tom. He'd given her a lovely home, two beautiful children, and all the luxuries a person could want or need.
But they didn't know the price she had paid. Had they known, perhaps they would be hugging her and telling her she was finally free from all the torment and emptiness.
No, he'd never physically abused her, but sometimes she wondered if that would have been easier than the verbal put-downs, the constant rejection, and the complete lack of companionship that had existed in their relationship.
But those things were nothing compared to her learning the one final secret that nearly did her in. A secret that was forever buried in the plane crash that killed her husband, a secret no one could ever know.
There was no point in telling anyone what had really happened the night of the fatal accident, because it wouldn't change anything. But she wished she had someone to confide in, talk to, pour out her heart to. She was alone in her pain because everyone she knew loved her husband. No one would ever be able to understand, or even believe, she was telling the truth.
No. She just needed to bury him and his memory and go on with her life.
But exactly how to do that, she didn't know.
Chapter One
Fourteen months later
So this was her life.
Miranda looked down at her baggy, heather-gray sweats, crumpled t-shirt, and mismatched socks and sighed. Nothing had turned out like she'd thought it would.
Since her husband's death just over one short year ago she'd gone from being married, active in church and PTA, involved in her children's lives and her own busy life, to becoming a widow and a recluse who left church after sacrament meeting and shopped at the grocery store after eleven p.m. so she wouldn't run into anyone she knew.
And to top it off, today was her birthday. She vowed not to answer the telephone or the door, just in case any well-wishers decided to remind her she was turning forty.
Forty!
And in all those years what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Well, almost nothing. She had Ashlyn and Adam.
Her kids validated her life. But Ashlyn was in college and moving on, and Adam was busy being a teenager, discovering the thrill of having a driver's license. In three years he'd go on a mission. Then what would she do?
Ding-dong!
She froze. It couldn't be the kids; they were both at school. Keys rattled in the lock and the door squeaked open. "Miranda, you home?"
Pulling an afghan over her head, Miranda huddled against the couch cushions, hoping her sister would leave if she didn't answer. No such luck.
"Hey!" The voice was in the room with her. "What are you doing?"
Regretting I gave you a house key. Miranda exposed her face. "Hiding from you."
"For heaven's sake, why?"
Rachel sat on the edge of a wingback chair. She was forever the perfectionist, and her neatly coiffed hair and freshly pressed skirt reminded Miranda that she hadn't even bothered bathing that day, or the day before or . . . Now that she thought about it, when was the last time she'd gotten cleaned up?
Rachel's perfection stretched from her flawless skin and makeup, to her four times a week aerobicized body, right down to her sculptured nails. Rachel was the kind of person who intimidated and infuriated a person. Miranda had never felt as pretty or "together" as her older sister. Sometimes it made her mad. Not so much at Rachel, but at herself. Part of her wanted to be as organized and in control of herself and her life as Rachel was. But then another part of her wanted to be nothing like her sister. Miranda knew it didn't make sense. But still, it was how she felt.
"I came to take you to lunch for your birthday."
"I'm not hungry."
Her sister stood and busied herself opening curtains, filling the dark room with the annoying sunlight of a beautiful March day.
"I won't take 'no' for an answer. Besides, I want to see how you look in this." She handed Miranda a beautifully store-wrapped present.
Miranda let out a frustrated sigh. "I wish you wouldn't have done this. Really, I just want to stay in today and be alone."
"Too late. We've got reservations at that new Chinese restaurant, then I'm taking you to this wonderful boutique in South Valley. I'd like to find something to brighten up your place. Maybe a floral arrangement for the dining table." Rachel perused the room trying to locate a spot in desperate need of a toll-painted birdhouse or a basket of cheerful sunflowers.
Knowing her sister's unyielding personality, and not up to the fight it would take to stay home, Miranda sighed, took her wrapped gift, and headed for the shower.
Some birthday this was going to be.
