Decidedly Married

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Epigraph

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Copyright

Saturday 23 June

Heavenly Father, I don’t even know what to write in these pages, except that I feel so far removed from being the kind of loving person You want me to be. Just when I thought I could reach out to Michael, Beth intruded on our lives. How can I compete for his love when I feel such distance between us?

And Lord, help me to know how to handle Katie. Lately she’s more remote than ever. I feel as if I don’t know her, or what she really needs in her secret heart.

And Father, I ask for the miracle of discovery, of knowing myself and those I love beyond the window dressing and shiny veneer. Give our family—each one of us—the miracle of Your love!

writes from the heart about contemporary issues facing adults. Considered one of America’s best-loved Christian fiction writers, Carole was born and raised in Jackson, Michigan. She is the recipient of two Pacesetter awards and the C. S. Lewis Honor Book Award. Over 800 of Carole’s stories, articles and poems have been published in more than 100 Christian periodicals. She is presently under contract for her fortieth book.

A frequent speaker at conferences, schools, churches and women’s ministries around the country, Carole finds fulfillment in being able to share her testimony about the faithfulness of God in her life and the abundance He offers those who come to Him. Carole and her husband, Bill, have three children and live in Moreno Valley, California.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. This is the first commandment. And the second, like it, is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.

—Matthew 22:37-40

To my husband, Bill, who has always been there for me and made more things possible than I had ever dreamed. I love you, darling—decidedly!

Memories.

Neil Diamond is singing something croony and sensuous, the melody getting under my skin, doing a job on me, turning this moment electric, unforgettable.

Memories. Dusky and fleeting as a sunset sky. But I remember that warm spring night seventeen years ago as if it were yesterday…

…The muggy, hypnotic warmth of Harry’s Steakhouse. The booth cozy and dark, a familiar cave. The air sweet with perfume, tangy with garlic and charcoal, and tinged at its edge with cigarette smoke, faint and hazy and distant as the voices around us I sit tapping my neatly clipped, pale pink fingernails on the linen tablecloth, a nervous gesture. I’m wound too tight, walking the edge, wanting to please him.

Michael.

Michael Ryan.

He raises his glass. “How about a toast?”

I touch the stem of my goblet, lift it high and hear the ring of fine crystal.

“To us.” Michael speaking.

“To us.” I raise the drink to my lips and sip the chill, bubbling effervescence.

But my gaze is fixed on Michael.

He sits across from me in sport shirt and slacks, bronzed and strapping, elbows on the table, hands folded, his thumb nudging his sturdy chin. He is smiling, not quite smiling, just the slightest curve in his lips. He is smiling more with his eyes—lazy, half-closed eyes, warm with amusement Hazy blue, inviting, bedroom eyes.

I am swimming in those eyes.

Drowning in those eyes.

“I feel as if I’ve known you forever.” He says it without moving. Without disturbing that smile.

“Three weeks,” I say breathlessly.

“Three?”

“We’ve known each other three weeks. Don’t you remember? Three weeks ago tonight Mr. Plotnik’s drawing class began.”

“Ah, yes Dear Mr. Plotnik. He was in rare form tonight, wasn’t he? The Southland’s answer to Salvador Dali—those piercing eyes, that rare mustache, the look of genius—or insanity.”

I stifle a laugh. “Don’t be unkind, Michael. He’s actually quite good. I’ve learned a lot in three weeks. Haven’t you?”

“I suppose so.” Michael winks and says invitingly, “But there’s so much more I want to know.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. His touch is warm. I feel it like an electric charge shooting up my arm, like a tickle, a tremor, the thrill of a sudden dip in the road, the tummy-turning sensation of a roller coaster ride. My heart is turning somersaults, my skin turns to goose flesh. Holding hands never felt so good.

“You’re the best in the class, Julie,” he says. “In every way.”