Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (37 page)

“Yeah,” I say. “God love him.”

“Come along, then, we’ll miss our trolley.” My father is bossy. By the quick stride he takes up the mountain, no one would be able to tell he nearly died eight months ago.

Declan ignores him, is too slow to move as we near the visitor’s center. In his hands are three lawn chairs, and a blanket is slung over his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem encumbered by their weight. He is too intent on the mountain around us. The Smokies are beautiful, captivating, and he seems unable to make his eyes stop moving around the looming trees or the mist seeping up from the peaks.

“Deco, come on now,” Joe barks, pulling my boyfriend out of his trance.

“Alright you old bollocks, I’m moving.”

I still haven’t gotten used to their banter. It shouldn’t surprise me. They aren’t blood tied, but Declan has adopted some of my father’s most colorful expressions, even scratches his growing beard just the way my father has always done. I should be unsettled by this; I am, after all, embracing that “little girls date their daddies” cliché, but it doesn’t worry me. They are both good men.

We finally manage to reach the trolley, jumping aboard just as the engine starts up and, after a quick eye roll at Declan, my father relaxes, pulls his walking stick between his knobby knees. “This will be fine, lad, you’ll see. I believe Autumn was ten, perhaps eleven the first time we took her to see the swarms.” He stretches around Declan who sits between us. “Beautiful, wasn’t it, love?”

“It was, Da. I remember that.” He nods, a small jerk of approval and then Declan and I exchange a smile. We’ve so effortlessly become a family. It surprised me how quickly the awkwardness went away. Declan and I have been inseparable, spending most nights at my apartment and then less so once Joe was released from the hospital. He wanted us together, but I don’t think he liked how many nights Declan slept in my bed. Or the fact that his little girl was old enough to have someone sleeping in her bed.

Still, we have formed a routine. We have family dinners every Sunday afternoon after Mass, which Joe insists we attend together. And we attend every match Declan plays, home and away, Dad and I make sure we never miss a single one. They even made my first holiday season without my mother bearable. We ate pizza and pies at Thanksgiving because Joe’s attempt at a dinner was a disaster. My baking was not. And Christmas we spent at Ava’s. That had been wonderful. Ava and her finally returned husband and Joe and Declan, and I settled around the table, exchanging stories, holiday memories and before too long, I wasn’t thinking about my mother’s absence or how she would miss many more holidays with our newly resurrected family.

Joe gave me comfort. Declan offered tomorrow.

When the tour guide stands up, his thin, pale legs blazing against his red cargo shorts, Declan fits his hand over my knee, encouraging me closer. He does that. Wants to always touch me, doesn’t like it when he’s not.

“Good afternoon, folks, welcome. This is going to be a treat for you all, and before we let you all settle down to grab a good spot to see the swarms at sunset, let me explain the scientific…” the guide babbles on, describing the internal sensors of this species of fireflies; the time it takes for the insects to detect each other, the tit for tat play of their lights bouncing back and forth and the performance they undertake. He isn’t wrong, it is a beautiful sight, waves of blinking lights that cascade through the mountains; a wonder of nature.

We finally are released from the trolley and Joe makes quick work laying down the blanket, unfolding the chairs, organizing our comfort like this is the most monumental outing we’ve yet to attempt. There have been many over the past eight months since Da seems desperate to make amends for the years we’ve been a part. I don’t mind; neither does Declan.

The sun sets and the crowd around us grows quiet. Cell phones are extinguished, placed on vibrate; children are shushed and settled in their parents’ laps and then, small flickers begin. My smile is wide, remembering the last time I was here. My father settled my mother on his lap, kissed her neck until I complained and she laughed at my grim expression, embarrassed by their blatant affection.

Declan must catch me smiling, because he sits up, touches his lips against mine and I inhale, loving the way his kisses never fail to electrify my skin. “You’re beautiful. Every day, but especially when you smile, McShane.”

“Sweetheart,” Joe whispers, his voice urgent. “If you don’t take Deco’s mouth from your face, he’ll miss the show.”

“Right, sorry.”

Declan turns away from me and his green eyes catch the light from the swarm. The fireflies are majestic, flicking dots of light back and forth, a symphony of streaks that swing through the trees, that rumble across the mountain and my breath catches at Declan’s expression. It is open, the same unguarded expression he gave me the first time he admitted he loved me. It is usually reserved for me alone, a private view at what emotions have hold of him, but now, sitting here in the dark, watching his shock, his amazed grin as the fireflies dance through the night, I wish that he shared it more often. To me, it is more beautiful than the specks of light dancing around us.

I watch Joe’s face, his gleaming teeth broad against the same light, joy lighting up his features so that if I touched him, just now, I could feel the current of his happiness skimming into my skin. My father points across the sky, shows Declan one thing or another that fascinates him and they wear similar smiles, contentment that I don’t believe I will ever tire of seeing. 

I remember the moment I said goodbye to the past. It was out there on that murky trail at the Dash, with exhaustion—and elation—pressing on me, weighing me down as Tucker, my yesterday, reached for me. I thought that moment was so profound, the greatest instance of power and hope I’d ever felt. I was wrong. This is. Now, in this place watching the two men I love most in the world; my father who left so that I would not be hurt by his past and the boy onto whom he had transferred all his love and affection.

My Daddy.

My Declan.

Right now, at this moment, I celebrate today and tomorrow both wrapped together and resting in my heart. 

I love you, Today, because you give me peace, you give me a sense of who I am meant to be, because you proved that not every word is a broken promise. And I love you, Tomorrow, because you are limitless, because every thought, every hope I have right now is reflected in you. I can't say I love you too much because my heart is an all-consuming, constantly replenished source of potential. It is full, bursting with hope, with serenity.

“It’s a sight, isn’t it, love?” Declan whispers against my ear. He leans over, runs his thumb along my bottom lip.

I smile, rest against his warm chest, enjoy the sound of his steady heartbeat. “Yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful.”

THE END

Acknowledgements

Bev Marshall, here is the acknowledgement you always wished for from one of your students. You taught me to write with my heart. I won’t ever forget that. I love you.

Bryan Camp, thank you for never laughing at any of my stories, not to my face anyway. Thank you for teaching me more than you ever realized. I haven’t wanted to punch you in the throat in a long, long while. You make me smile.

A book is born not by the single will of the individual writer, but by the community of the creatively minded. The idea is formed in the writer’s subconscious. It is her discipline, her aptitude for storytelling that engenders the embryo of a story. The editor nurtures that embryo, affixes it with reason and logic, with blood and bone that shapes it into being. This book would not have been possible without the careful consideration and gentle urging of Sharon B. Browning. She is, simply put, a writer’s
dream
reader. Without you, Sharon, this book would still be a glimmer in my eye, simply existing amid the depths of dead space on my hard drive. You made me a better writer and you made this book a reality. I am humbled by your generosity, by your incomparable ability to live inside a story and examine how it can be made better. Thank you for your friendship and your guidance. I’ve never loved anyone more for calling me a whimp.

Brady Allen brought Sharon to me. I still owe you a smooch for doing that, buddy. Kele Moon, my friend, my second favorite ginger ever, thank you for your invaluable, abundant advice, for your tireless patience when my questions and queries and requests for your opinion went on and on. You’re my soul sister and I am so grateful to you for your friendship and mentorship.

My most heartfelt gratitude goes out to Ryan Conner for being indie friendly and to Steven Novack for enduring my endless niggles about the cover. Thanks, Tee Morris for you advice and encouragement and that impressive way you navigate “The Humpty Dance” like a pro. The dance Autumn and her friends work at Fubar’s is all for you, Twin. Thanks to Tee and his talented bride Pip Ballantine for letting me borrow their characters. You two are the sweet cogs and turns in my heart. Thank you to Ashley Braud and Brandye Jagneaux for making me look like a real, live girl.

To my bints and betas: Karen Chapman (I cannot say thank you enough, hon, for everything!), K. Imani Tennyson, Judy Lovely, Amy Feldman, Shannon Veach, Allison Coburn, Angela Waites, Dr. Risie Preston, Emily Gould, Lesley LeBlanc, Christine Case-Lo, Christopher Ledbetter, Jessica Shamburger, Janette Myers, Angie Dilmore, Franny Guillot, Leighanne Henegar Sisk, Sara King (thank you for the bathroom scene!) and Kelly Piraino Roberts. Your careful eyes meant so much to me, your friendship and encouragement means so much more. Sharon, Jess, Karen and Chris, you talked me off the ledge so many times. Thank you. I have since stopped eating Crazyflakes.

Karen Chapman, thank you for letting me read all your dirty books when famine time at work lingered and thanks for listening to me talk about this book until your eyes glazed over
and
for letting me pick your lovely brain about Mollie and her Marine for book two. Thank you to Andrew Spencer-Lee for not batting an eye when I requested vacation time to finish this book. You, sir, are cool, even though you’re afraid of the dark. Silly Canuck. Thank you, Christine Rose for holding my hand through this process.

Thank you to my Commandos, Joe Iriarte, Catherine Warren, Sarah Smith, Kristi Charish and Mary Daley for being patient with me while I wrote a smoochy book. Best. Critique. Group. Ever. And thank you,
thank you
Cat Rambo
for putting us together and for being such a damn rock star.

Thank you to
Ing Cruz
for her insane marketing skills and for loving Declan after only a small tease and to all the wonderful, generous bloggers who reviewed and loved this book. You folks are amazing. To my #WritersRoad family on Twitter, especially Heather McCorkle, thank you for your love and support. To my
LitStack
crew who endured my slacking while I got this book written.

Jay Lake, you will probably never read this book, but I want you to know that you are the bravest, most diligent writer I have ever known. You amaze me.

Thank you, Joss Whedon, for writing all the best Big. Damn. Heroes. and to the creators of all things I geek out over. These characters are for you.
 

Finally, I’d like to thank my family. My husband Chris does nothing less than help me live my dreams. He changed my stars and makes me feel like the luckiest bint alive. To my daughters, Trinity, Faith and Grace, thank you for your patience while your mom was in the zone and the world faded away and you still said you loved me and that you believed in me. You can’t read this book until I’m dead and you’re very, very old. To my sweet mama, I’m sorry about the cursing and I hope you still love me despite it. Thank you for teaching me to be a dreamer. To my brother and sister, thank you for your support even though you, too, are not allowed to read this book. To my niece Jennifer Jagneaux who squealed when I told her about the evil plot twist, I love you. You
can
read this book, but don’t tell your mom.

And to my daddy who I miss with every breath, with every thought. Declan speaks from the heart when he says that the knot in your gut at the thought of a lost parent never really goes away. We just learn how to live with it. I hope everyone who reads this book will be encouraged to support the
Pancreatic Cancer Action Network
. And wear purple. Wear the hell out of purple until this disease is eradicated.

Thank you all for reading.

I hope this doesn’t suck.

Eden Butler is an editor and writer of New Adult Romance, SciFi and Fantasy novels and the nine-time great-granddaughter of an honest-to-God English pirate. This could explain her affinity for rule breaking and rum.

“Chasing Serenity” is her debut novel and begins the four-part Seeking Serenity series.

When she’s not writing or wondering about her
possibly
Jack Sparrowesque ancestor, Eden writes, reads and spends too much time watching rugby, “Doctor Who” and New Orleans Saints football. Currently, she is imprisoned under teenage rule alongside her husband in Southeastern Louisiana.

Please send help.

Find Eden on
Twitter
,
Facebook
and her
blog
.