Of Body And Soul
Authors: L. J. Valentine
Of Body And Soul
By L. J. Valentine
About Of Body and Soul
Every Christmas when the wind swirls the snow around like a spinning top and mingles with the scent of fresh Pine, Kurt Purcell remembers the first time he saw Andrea Wilson. It was at a Christmas party and it was love at first sight.
Of Body and Soul is the story of a man, a woman, and the devastating secret that threatens to keep them apart.
After six months of marriage, Kurt’s happiness is shattered when Andrea tells him she’s pregnant. Not wanting children, he abandons her.
Confused and hurt, Andrea calls a close friend and asks if she can stay with her while she sorts things out. On her way to her friend’s house, Andrea’s in a severe car accident, which leaves her in a coma. When Kurt is notified by the police that Andrea is badly injured, he rushes to her side.
After coming out of the coma, Andrea is left with amnesia and believes Kurt is her nurse.
Afraid to tell Andrea that he’s her husband, Kurt continues the charade. With months of therapy behind her, Andrea decides to get on with her life. Not knowing who or where her husband is, she’s determined to raise the baby alone. Accepting she’s fallen in love with Kurt, she confronts him with her feelings.
When Kurt tells Andrea that he’s her husband and not her nurse, the shock brings gripping memories of their last night together.
Can their marriage survive the hidden past? This story tells how Kurt and Andrea’s love is torn apart by his secret, and unites the struggles of their fears with the wonder of their intense love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank my family for their love and support.
Thanks to Frances Travis, author, and the late Kay Oderkirk, former teacher, who had faith in my ability to write.
Special thanks to Linda Hengerer who worked hard to edit my mistakes and format the book for publication.
To Phil and Susan Russo who have always made themselves available to edit, and to Martha Powers who cared.
OF BODY AND SOUL Copyright © 2012 L. J. Valentine
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the a
uthor’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
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Andrea
Wilson wrapped the heavy chenille robe tightly around her slim body. She gazed through the frosted studio window at a below-zero December morning. She strolled over to her work counter splotched with colored pigment of every hue. Unopened tubes of oil paint, mason jars crowded with brushes, and palette knives of different sizes and shapes, sat on the table.
She inhaled the familiar smell of turpentine and
oil paint and scrutinized the finished canvases with deep satisfaction.
Four months ago, af
ter she had asked Jason Miles, her lover of five years, to leave, she resumed painting with a passion. Canvases became her life once again. There were days when she forgot to eat.
The
Cape Cod style house she’d rented across the street from Emily Purcell, her closest friend, had a studio with a southeast exposure on a beautiful lake. In the distance, the Catskill Mountains stood sentry in their winter-whites. The night temperature had plunged to minus three degrees Fahrenheit leaving a blanket of fresh snow.
I wish I had the time to walk on the lake. I love the sound of cracking ice under my feet—seeing the splinters fan out like spider webs, yet never slipping into them,
she thought.
Engulfed by the quiet, her gold
-flecked brown eyes danced with quick movement as she critiqued the canvases haphazardly set against the walls.
Andrea approached
a stack of paintings. She flipped through them accordion-fashion. A kaleidoscope of reds, sapphires, emeralds and ocher, held together with compassion, courage, love and sometimes hostility had emerged into her best work. A woman of pride, this montage of color and emotion rocked her.
"This is it!" S
he murmured and inhaled deeply. Now, she was finally ready to call her friend Arthur, owner of the Arthur Glaser Gallery on Broadway and Prince Streets in New York City. She recalled his words. “Get a collection together, and I’ll have an
Invitation Only
exhibit of your work.” That was right after Jason had moved to Los Angeles.
Andrea had only a
month to complete the final two paintings of the twenty she’d promised him.
She glanced at her wa
tch and knew if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for the flight and her freedom flight from Jason. In spite of her resolve, her mind drifted back to that night, five years earlier when she had met Jason Miles in Arthur's gallery.
Jason
walked into Andrea Wilson’s life when she was vulnerable and still ached with grief from her parents' fatal car accident. At that time, his confidence overruled her uncertainty —his self-assurance trumped her insecurity and his remarkable humor drove away her fears. That was five years ago.
He
was exquisite. There was no other word for him. She could still picture him as he ambled toward her in tight Calvin Kline jeans, a white collarless shirt and a black Armani cashmere jacket cut to perfection. His forbidden deep blue eyes expressed more challenge than curiosity.
"Hi," he’
d said seductively and handed her a drink. "Arthur tells me you're the creator of these magnificent paintings." She smiled and savored the pleasurable memory.
Andrea
studied the photo of them, which sat on the table. It was taken last Christmas. Who was this couple staring back at her? Where was the warm, deep, pervasive love, which two people shared after being together for five years?
When Jason moved in with her, she thought
they had wanted the same thing
s
. . . marriage, children and a huge house with a white picket fence. Now, she realized that was impossible. After searching her memories and emotions, she knew he hadn’t been her true love.
During those years
together, Jason had become a successful architect—driven and passionate about his work. She tried to adjust to his self-righteous attitude, his compulsions, and his obsession of her . . . the clothes she wore, the color of her hair, the way she kept the house and people with whom she talked. Jason had become a stranger consumed in work. He had shut her out; closing the door of marriage and children. Their relationship was irreparable.
Yes, Jason was there to wipe away her tears and to hold her during the painfu
l periods of grief after her parents passed away. However, she was there for him when his career stalled for more than a year. Their relationship became safe, convenient and secure. They'd become friends and after this evening, she hoped they'd still be friends. She placed the photo face down on the table and sighed deeply after she reflected on what might have been.
Andrea closed her eyes
and recalled their last phone conversation.
“
Andrea, I promise I’ll change," he implored. "Meet me in Vail. We need to talk."
Jason
detested the English and Oriental antiques that had been in her family for decades—the neutral linens and floral chintz covering the pillow-backed sofa and chairs. After he left, she took out the photographs of her parents which now sat on mahogany tables among the organized clutter.
A brick
fireplace, the focal point of the room, held her dad's rare book collection, which now stood like a battalion of soldiers flanking either side of the hearth. Her favorite biographies were neatly stacked on the bottom shelf.
Jason felt he should have
the signed botanical lithographs which adorned the yellow breakfast room along with her collection of Blue Willow porcelain, but they were hers. Even the oils of English gardens and Italian villas that lined the dining room walls, were hers. He came into the relationship with nothing of his own and that’s how he left.
What a jerk. Why did he think she owed him anything?
Art books sat on a carved oriental chest in the living room along w
ith more photos. She scanned the room and was pleased that Emily, her best friend, had encouraged her to stay after Jason’s departure.
She loved this
suburban area of Albany, New York, because of its successful mesh of old and new.
Now that she was alone, she and Emily spent
a lot of time together. They were like sisters. Emily had been her sounding board. Her friendship and understanding helped Andrea come to the inevitable decision to fly to Vail and have final closure.
Tonight she would tell Jason it was over for good
. And after the remnants of him disappeared, like the last gray slush of the winter snow, she knew everything would be okay.
In just a few weeks she would be thirty-five. She could hear her biological clock tick away along with her dreams of a fa
mily. She had known for a long time she and Jason had been wrong for each other, but . . . .
"Enough!
" she shouted to the empty room. Andrea quickly dressed, zipped up her luggage and carried the pieces down to the entrance hall. She stopped to stroke the oil she had painted of her parents. She gave the painting an
I'm okay
smile, then picked up her luggage and carted it out to the porch. After the house was secured, she carried her suitcases to the driveway. For a moment, she stood and felt the cold air pinch her face. It made her feel alive. Suddenly, an indescribable softening engulfed her.
Without warning, a
blue sapphire BMW Z4 sped down the street and came to an abrupt stop in Emily's driveway. She turned to see a tall man jump from the vehicle. He adjusted his sunglasses and dashed two steps at a time into Emily’s house.
He looks
familiar,
Andrea thought. Probably one of Emily’s friends from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, the college where Em worked.
With a coppery tan like that, he must have just gotten bac
k
from the islands.
She smiled.
That’s where I should be heading,
she thought.
Since Andrea
and Jason had separated, Emily played the matchmaker. She had introduced Andrea to a number of colleagues from the college. She’d been out with a few of them, but not this one. She would have remembered this one.
Could it be
Kurt?
Emily had mentioned her brother would be back from Afghanistan this week. Was it this week or next? She couldn't remember. She shook her head and glanced across the street again.
No, it can't be him.
A
s she checked the time, the thought slipped in and out of her mind. If she didn't hurry, she'd miss her flight to Denver and her meeting with Jason. She had just locked in her seatbelt when she realized that she’d forgotten to pack an envelope of photos that she’d promised Jason. She quickly released the buckle and ran back into the house.
Before Kurt Purcell jumped from his BMW he’d glanced through his rear view mirror just in time to see Andrea turn and look in his direction—a piece of luggage in each hand. She looked thinner and her long dark blond hair shimmered with light blond streaks, giving her an ethereal look.
She's more beautiful than I remembered
, he thought.
Kurt
slammed the front door when he entered his sister's house.