For Better, for Worse, Forever
Lurlene McDaniel
Brandon’s request was eloquent and simple and it touched her. April recognized that Brandon wasn’t some kid with a hidden agenda. Like her, he was lonely. He also had something buried deep inside his psyche that was painful. She guessed it had to do with the loss of his mother. She wouldn’t probe. If he wanted to talk about it, he would.
“I would like that very much,” she said. She gazed out to the open sea. A sailboat leaned into the wind against the horizon. “You know, I’ve watched those boats from the first day I arrived, and I’d love to go sailing on one. Do you think we could do that sometime?”
TURN TO THE BACK OF THIS BOOK
FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW OF
Till Death Do Us Part,
the companion to For Better, for Worse, Forever.
ALSO AVAILABLE IN DELL LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS
FREEDOM BEYOND THE SEA, Waldtraut Lewin
GATHERING BLUE, Lois Lowry
HEAVEN EYES, David Almond
THE RANSOM OF MERCY CARTER, Caroline B. Cooney
PLAYING FOR KEEPS, Joan Lowery Nixon
GHOST BOY, Iain Lawrence
THE RAG AND BONE SHOP, Robert Cormier
SHADES OF SIMON GRAY, Joyce McDonald
WHEN ZACHARY BEAVER CAME TO TOWN, Kimberly Willis Holt
THE GADGET, Paul Zindel
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Dell Laurel-Leaf
an imprint of
Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Text copyright © 1997 by Lurlene McDaniel
Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are from the
Holy Bible, New International Version.
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.
Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
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eISBN: 978-0-307-81598-9
RL:4.7
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
To Flo Conner
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
REVELATION 21:4 (NIV)
1
At the top of the hill, a girl, her red hair gleaming in the sun, stood gazing out at the sea. As she lifted her eyes skyward, she turned and spun in a circle, her arms flung out straight and wide.
She stopped spinning, reached into the pocket of her shorts, and took out a red balloon. She put it to her lips and blew, filling it up so that it rounded out. She tied it off, then reached back into her pocket and pulled out a long thin yellow ribbon. She tied one end securely to the balloon’s knotted tail.
As a balmy breeze blew from the sea, she unleashed the ribbon and the balloon flew upward. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun and watched as the air current caught the balloon and pulled it so that it rose until it became a tiny red dot lost against the endless blue sky.
Brandon Benedict couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A girl—a beautiful girl—with hair so fiery red that it glistened in the sun like sparks from a fire stood shielding her eyes as a red balloon sailed upward into the vibrant blue sky high above the island of St. Croix.
He’d gone hiking alone in the green hills. What an odd thing to discover. She hadn’t seen him, so he stayed behind some bushes, out of her line of vision. She appeared to be conducting a private ritual.
Brandon decided not to intrude, but when his heel crushed a dry branch, its loud crack made the girl whirl and catch sight of him. He heard her gasp, then shout, “What do you want?” Her fists were clenched and he thought that she might strike him.
“Nothing.”
“Why are you spying on me?”
“I wasn’t spying.” Her angry gaze bore into him, and he felt defensive.
“Why are you up here?”
He felt his anger rise as he replied, “It’s a free country, you know. I was just out hiking. Sorry if I ruined your day.”
Now she looked less angry, more embarrassed. “I thought I was alone.”
“And now you will be.” He turned and started back down the hill.
“Wait!” she called after him. Her voice was gentler now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You just surprised me, that’s all.”
His irritation vanished and he turned back to her. Her blue eyes were heavy with sadness. He felt it like an electric current. He recognized that sadness. Even now, he could feel the darkness of his own pain, but he shook it off as he smiled. “I’m Brandon Benedict. I live on St. Croix. I hike up in these hills a lot. I had no idea anyone was up here. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“My parents have rented that house.” She pointed and he saw the white barrel tile of a roof below. “I’m April Lancaster.”
“You’re renting the Steiner place? I’ve grown up here. I know most every house and its owners on this side of the island,” he explained. “The Steiners were regulars at the Buccaneer Golf Course until Mr. Steiner had a heart attack. They moved back to the States. I work at the Buccaneer. After school and during summers, I mean. But I guess I’m telling you more than you probably want to know.”
She offered a tentative smile. It pleased him immensely. “It’s okay. Actually, we’ve been here three weeks and I haven’t met a soul.”
“You’re kidding! You’re so pretty. I—I mean, all you have to do to meet people around here is show up in Christiansted.” He waved in the general direction of St. Croix’s largest city. “There’s nightlife down there.”
The veil dropped over her eyes again. “I’m not into partying.”
He itched to know what would make such a pretty girl so sad and isolated. “Everything around here is low-key. Even our parties. Where did you come from, anyway?”
“New York. Long Island, actually.”
“How long will you be staying?”
She shrugged. “As long as it takes.”
“As long as what takes?”
“Forget it,” she answered quickly, then added, “we don’t have a time limit on our visit. Maybe until the weather turns horrible.”
Brandon laughed. “Then you’ve got a long visit. It’s always beautiful here. Summer can get hot, but that’ll be months from now.” He came closer and saw that her complexion was the color of cream, with the faintest hue of rose across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. He realized he was gawking and felt self-conscious. “You need to be care
ful of the sun. It can fry you, even on cloudy days.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
He was running out of small talk, but he didn’t want to walk away from her. “They say too much sun can cause cancer.” She gave him an odd, almost amused look he couldn’t read. “You’re not afraid of cancer?”
“No.” Her answer, low and soft, sounded so final that it made him shiver.
“I’m running off at the mouth,” he confessed. “I, um, guess I should be going.”
“It was nice to meet you,” she said politely.
“Look, if you ever want someone to show you the sights—”
“That’s all right. I appreciate it, but I’m not looking for company. Nothing personal,” she added hastily.
It struck him that she probably had a boyfriend back in New York. A girl as attractive as April must have a boyfriend. “If you change your mind, I’m in the phone book under William Benedict. That’s my father.”
She shook her head. “I won’t change my mind.”
Feeling awkward, Brandon turned and jogged downward, skidding on the rough terrain but not looking back until he’d come to the bottom of the hill. Stopping to catch his breath, he turned for a look. She stood, small against the blue sky, looking up. He decided she was searching for the balloon, and he too gazed up. All he could see were puffy clouds and a seagull or two. The balloon was gone. He hoped it had gotten to where she’d wanted it to go. It surprised him when the idea of heaven crossed his mind.
April scanned the brilliant blue sky until the brightness made her eyes water. The balloon was gone. It had been swallowed up. She wished she could still see it. It represented her link with Mark. The red balloon had been her tribute to Mark until the boy had come along and interrupted her. Brandon. Brandon’s face was so different from Mark’s. Brandon had sun-streaked brown hair and blue eyes; he was tan, muscular, and robust-looking. Mark, who’d had curly dark brown hair and intense deep brown eyes, had been tall and thin, a victim of cystic fibrosis. Mark was dead and nothing could change that awful reality.
She shivered from the memories. Her mother was probably worried about her by now, so April started down toward the villa where gardens teeming with exotic flowers slashed color along the white stucco walls. Her parents, at the breakfast table, looked up, and her mother asked, relief flooding her face, “Out for a walk?”
“Yes. It’s a nice morning.”
Her father lowered the fax he’d been reading from his office in Manhattan. April couldn’t get used to him in Bermuda shorts and flowered shirts; she’d rarely seen him in anything but a suit, back home. “Hi, princess.” A smile split his face. “Hungry? Mango and papaya?” He gestured toward a platter of cut-up tropical fruit.
“Maybe later. I’ll be in my room.”
As her parents exchanged glances, her mother said, “You should eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She wasn’t in her room for five minutes before her mother knocked, came in, and eased onto the bed, where April sat staring out the window at the sea. “Honey, we should talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.”
“We’re concerned about you. It’s been months since Mark—”
“I know how long it’s been. I don’t need you to remind me.”
Her mother sighed. “We thought that coming to St. Croix would help.”
April bit back her irritation. It wasn’t her parents’ fault. In fact, they’d tried everything to help her feel better. “Coming here has helped,” she said earnestly. “If I’d had to stay in New York, I’d have gone crazy.”
“But to us it doesn’t seem to have helped. You barely eat. You keep to yourself day in and day out. You never want to go anywhere with us. It’s a wonderful island, April. We thought we’d go into town tonight and eat at a Danish restaurant in Christiansted. Fine food.”
“You and Daddy go. I really don’t want to.” Why couldn’t her mother leave her alone?
“April, it’s not only your depression that worries us. We’re fearful about your health too. You are feeling all right physically, aren’t you? I mean, you aren’t experiencing headaches and not telling us, are you?”
April hardly ever thought about her health these days. It seemed as if the headaches, dizzy spells, blackouts, and six weeks of radiation treatments that she’d had to endure because of the brain tumor had never happened. Or at least, hadn’t happened to her. She’d been so focused on Mark, so consumed with his hospitalization and, in spite of his imminent death, her commitment to having a wedding that she’d shoved her own problems aside. “Dr. Sorenson told us the tumor was dormant, and I’ve no reason to think it isn’t,” April answered truthfully.
“I know what he said, but what matters is how you feel.”
“I feel fine,” April insisted through gritted teeth. “I mean as fine as a person can feel who watched her fiancé die.”
“Oh, honey …” Her mother reached for her.
April turned away. “Don’t. Please. I don’t think I can stand one more tear.”
That evening her parents went into town for dinner and April moped around the sprawling house. Far out to sea, she saw a storm brewing, the clouds on the horizon gray and angry looking. She fell asleep on the sofa and in her dreams relived the terrible night at the racetrack. In slow motion, she saw Mark’s car strike the bumper of the car in front of him. She saw his car spin out of control, hit the retaining wall, and catch fire. She tried to run onto the track, but in her dream, her feet had taken root in the grandstand and all she could do was watch helplessly.
A roar like flames split the night and she screamed Mark’s name. Then she bolted upright, and rain was pelting her face. Wind had toppled a lamp and it had broken on the tile floor. Gasping, sobbing, she stumbled off the sofa and struggled against the wind to shut the French doors. By the time she’d closed them, she was soaked, and rainwater had puddled on the floor and stained nearby furniture.
The tropical squall had moved like quicksilver, sending shards of lightning from the sky to the ground, furious in its intensity. She leaned against the door, watching trees and bushes whip in the dark, watching delicate flowers rip from branches and smear on the glass. And she felt a kinship with the flowers. She knew what it was like to be torn apart and sacrificed to the winds of cruel fate.
2
Brandon paced about his room like a caged animal. His father was out of town on business. Not that Brandon cared. They didn’t have much to say to each other these days. Brandon flopped on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. It had been a lousy week at school. He’d all but slept through his classes, he’d been so bored. And even though he’d taken on extra hours at his job, he wasn’t tired enough to fall into bed so totally exhausted that he could check out. And forget.
He thought about calling his best friend, Kenny, but remembered that Kenny was out with Pam, his red-hot romance of the past few months. Mentally Brandon skimmed his list of other friends and rejected the idea of calling any of them. Truth was, he’d been in such a dark mood for the past five months that nobody wanted to be with him. Even Flo, the girl he’d dated since the previous summer, had dumped him.
“You’ve got to get over it,” she’d said with a toss of her blond head. “Life goes on, Brandon. You can’t crawl in the grave with your mother, you know.” She’d told him she was sorry, but that she wanted to have fun her senior year, not be tied down to a guy who was so moody.
Brandon sat upright and wandered out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. The place was spotless. His father saw to that. Not at all like the mess his mother had barely maintained when she was alive. He searched through the refrigerator, now well stocked by the housekeeper who came every day, but nothing appealed to him. He slammed the door and hurried out of the room and into the den, where his father kept a bar.
He pawed through the array of bottles. He could have anything he wanted and there was nobody there to police him. He cou
ld get stinking drunk. And pass out. Except that was the course his mother had chosen, and look where it had gotten her. He felt like jumping out of his skin. The house was so quiet. So lonely. He missed his mother. Despite the depression that had ruled her life for the previous three years, he missed her and wanted her back. People don’t come back from the dead.
Brandon knew he had to get out. Go somewhere. Maybe getting lost in a crowd would help. Maybe it wouldn’t. All he knew was that he couldn’t hang around this house with its ghosts and memories. He grabbed his car keys and bolted out the side door.
The sound of the doorbell startled April. Her parents were out for the evening and they had no friends in St. Croix that she knew of who would drop by. Maybe it was someone up to no good. It occurred to her that she had opened up the house after the storm. Cool tropical air stirred through the French doors, which led to the garden. Anyone could walk in. No need to ring the bell. In New York doors were locked and bolted, and their house in Long Island had an elaborate security system.
The bell chimed again and she went to the door, flipped on the light switch, and saw Brandon Benedict through the clear glass panes of the front door. He waved and smiled. “Remember me?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
He leaned against the doorjamb. “Company.”
The way he stood came across as loneliness. His smile was more bravado than happiness. “Um—my parents—” She stopped. Should she admit that she was alone? Yet, if he’d meant to harm her, he could have done so when they were on the hill. Deciding against sending him away, she unlocked the door and opened it. “My parents are out to dinner, but they’ll be back soon. You can come in.”
“Thanks.” He stepped over the threshold, his hands jammed in his pockets. “I know I shouldn’t have just popped in on you. You made it clear that you weren’t interested in seeing me again, but I was hoping you might change your mind.”
She gestured to the sofa in the living room. The two of them sat, and she curled her legs up under her and turned to him. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I just haven’t been in the mood to meet new people.”
