HIM
J.M. Elliott
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, occurrences, or locations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by J. M. Elliott
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without the copyright owner's written permission to use quotations in a book review.
First paperback edition: 2020
Cover design by Coven Design
Cover image by Michael Coven
Interior Design by Classic Interior Design
ISBN 987-0-578-79219-4 (paperback)
Published by Short Mag Books
Contents
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
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
HER
Chapter One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my late Grandmother
She was my biggest supporter and my number one fan. My grams would be incredibly proud of me for fulfilling a dream of mine.
I love and miss you so much. I will always be your little Boo Bear!
Chapter One
A deer runs out in front of my car, bringing me back to reality. I forgot how much wildlife the scenic route has. The forest has grown a lot, and I find it hard to recognize the scenery around me. I have been in the city for so long that I have forgotten how beautiful the countryside is.
I've been away for six years, college, then settling into my first job. I haven't made time to come home much. I've been so consumed in my own life to care about anyone else's. I wish the circumstances that finally pushed me to go home were different. If I had perhaps come home more often, my father might still be alive. I may have been there at the time he took his last breath.
I wipe away a few tears that have tumbled down my cheek. I had so much fun with my father as a child. He taught me so much. Even though he was a single parent and it was us against the world, he was the best father anyone could ever ask for.
I am still driving the same 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 we rebuilt together back when I was in High School, Junior High, and part of Elementary. I remember rushing home from school to work on it with my dad every day. I did not think we were ever going to finish it. The mustang was gifted to me, freshly painted and in all its glory, as my graduation present.
I TRAVEL DOWN MY FATHER’S DRIVEWAY; cars lined up on each side of the road. I pull up closer to his house; it hits me. My father is gone. He will not be greeting me when I get out of my vehicle, nor will he have that ridiculous smirk on his face that he used to have when I would pull up in the mustang. He loved this car, and he loved that I still drove it.
I flip down the visor and check my makeup before opening my door. I dab under my eyes to fix my runny eyeliner, throw on some lip gloss, then toss my hair back in a low ponytail. I take a deep breath before I get out of my car. I pull down my black dress to try and release some of the wrinkles from sitting—what seemed like forever. I notice that there are a lot of people here. My father was very well-liked, so I can only smile, knowing they are all here to pay their respects. My heart sinks as I walk closer to his house.
I notice a row of classic cars parked on the lawn. My father loved classic cars. He would search the countryside for one and restore it. It was his passion. He even opened a tiny shop just outside of town to devote his time to those rust buckets. He always said, why should they sit and rust? He looked at life so differently than most. He took the bad and saw the good, he took the old and saw the new, he took the lost and made them found.
As I walk up the driveway, I can hear my father's friends and my family's chatter while conversing with one another about their lives and memories with my father. I see a group of men wearing the same shirts; gray collared shirts with short sleeves. There is red, white, and black writing on the back. Rob's Classic Restoration it reads. My dad's shop. Are they all his workers? I do not remember that there were this many when I left for college. All I remember is him, Ernie, my uncle Dave, and a couple of others that would come by and help from time to time. Now, there is at least twenty or so. I've missed a lot since I have been away.
"Allison!" I hear my aunt squeal, as she rushes over to hug me.
I smile and say, "Hey."
"How was the drive?" she asks sympathetically.
"It was good. Long but good," I reply. "Thank you so much for putting all of this together."
"No problem, sweetie. That is what I am here for," she says with delight.
My aunt is quite the social butterfly. She is always the first to put on a social gathering or a funeral in this case. I sit down, and I can feel everyone staring at me like I am a celebrity. As the pastor starts to talk about my father's wonderful characteristics, I
