Worthy of Thorns

By Melissa Service

For every action, there is a reaction—and sometimes we find redemption in unlikely places.

​​​​​​​Anne Greene doesn’t know what Peter Van Doorne’s life was like back in Savannah. What she does know is only what he’s told her—that he’s the youngest of five children born to a Southern preacher of Dutch origin, and that coercion pushed him from the confines of his charmed life in the South. As much as Anne is attracted to him, she sees red flags.​​​​​​​ What is Peter not telling her?

​​​​​​​While Peter struggles to grasp a future he can’t quite keep a hold of, and tries desperately to outrun a past he can’t change, Anne discovers his secret—and the truth that everyone, at some point, is ... Worthy of Thorns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melissa Service
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476032306

Melissa Service

I grew up in a tiny, magical town in Illinois—total population: 800. In 2014, I brought my love of books, a Midwest hankering for a good Horseshoe Sandwich (also known as fat-on-a-plate), and Southern Sweet Tea to sunny SoCal.About an hour north of Los Angeles, I live with my husband, Craig, two of our three kids, and our sweet, slightly neurotic, standard poodle, Eisley. My oldest daughter flies the friendly skies, so if you see a super cute flight attendant named, Elyssa, be sure to say, hello!When I’m not chasing Eisley, or chauffeuring my teens around town, I’m writing.

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Worthy of Thorns

A novel by Melissa Service

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 Melissa Service

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

To my husband, Craig

Thank you for believing your wife is an author. I love you more and more with each passing day.

To my kids, Elyssa, Kate, and Aidan

I love you all very much. Thank you for your sweet notes and words of encouragement. I am blessed to be your mom.

To my friends and family

Thank you for listening to me talk about my book.

It's finally here—I hope you like it.

To Audrey, Anthea, and Laura

Thank you for all your help, advice, and editing.

I am thankful for our friendships.

And, Finally,

To all our men and women in uniform

My deepest heartfelt appreciation goes out to you and your families. Thank you for your service

and your sacrifice.

You can close your eyes

to the things you do not want to see,

but you cannot close your heart

to the things you do not want to feel. ~Unknown

PROLOGUE

Sunday, July 20~

PETER bolted upright from a dead sleep, drenched in sweat. He sat still for what felt like a minute trying to gather his thoughts, but it was no use. He tugged at the twisted, wet sheets and fell back against the hard mattress. He hated that dream. And he hated this tiny twin-sized bed.

The only illumination in the cramped room came from the taunting red glow of the alarm clock on the maple laminate nightstand. The clock’s blazon numbers mocked his desire for sleep, but sleep, as of late, eluded him. Peter turned onto his left side, tucked his arm under his head, and closed his eyes again, but it was obvious the sleeping pill had done all the good it was going to do. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. In the eight months he’d been here, he’d counted the acoustic square tiles and all their contents more times than he cared to, or probably ever should, admit. In total, there were 16,279 pinhole-sized dots on the ceiling tiles hanging over his bed.

He hated the ceiling, too, he decided.

Peter forced the air from his lungs and threw back the damp white sheet. Damn it, he groaned and recoiled, pulling his bare feet from the floor. Why the hell can’t they pipe heat into these rooms? With slow expectation, he lowered his right foot first, and then his left foot to the cold concrete floor again and leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, surveying his living area. The room’s dorm-like furniture lacked the charm and appeal of the décor in his old two-bedroom apartment back in Savannah, but this was his home now and he had to get used to it. He did allow himself, however, one consolation—knowing he had a bedroom to himself and didn’t have to sleep with four grown men above or beside him on cheap built-in bunk beds. Peter should have known he’d end up in some place cold—cold and unappealing—but he was in his own personal hell and he had the next two years, two months, seven days, and three hours for the thoughts of his actions to fully permeate themselves into his memory.

He rubbed his freshly shorn head and stared at the dresser. It would be cheaper and more effective to drink what he had on hand, but it wasn’t Bourbon, and drinking alone wouldn’t drown the demons chattering in his head, so he reached for the light. He knocked Raleigh Warren’s picture from the nightstand and mumbled a newly learned phrase while he picked it up and set it back in its proper place. Peter lingered on the picture before standing up. He slipped into his favorite tattered jeans and white Polo, and studied himself in the mirror. Disgusted by the reflection staring back at him, he grabbed his wallet, security card, and cigarettes—another new habit he’d picked up this year—and walked out the door.

CHAPTER ONE

Friday, June 28~ thirteen months ago

ALREADY half an hour late to his parents’ anniversary party, Peter raced his black A4 down Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard and hung a sharp right onto Congress Street. He downshifted into second gear and dropped the clutch, carefully calculating the Audi’s fishtail trajectory toward some orange construction pylons before he corrected. Raleigh’s long silky blonde hair jostled as she faltered towards him. He was sure his actions would get her going, and like usual, he was right.

She shifted her weight back to the center of the black leather seat and steadied herself while Peter flashed the most enchanting Southern smile he could muster, but his smile had little effect. To everyone else in town, Peter Van Doorne was the poster boy for Southern men—tall with thick, unkempt dirty blonde hair, chocolate eyes, a heavy accent, and lots of money, though none of it by his own acquisition. Most people would agree calling him a twenty-nine year-old charming rebel was somewhat of an understatement, but then, most people didn’t know him like Raleigh did. Peter, please, she implored. She leaned over and slid her hand down his inner thigh, trying to coax him into slowing down.

You’re fine, he said. It’s just a little fun. Peter found few people able to resist his seductive charm, and Raleigh—for better or for worse—had become one of those people. It hadn’t always been that way with her, and it wasn’t that he purposefully tried to seduce the unsuspecting—it just seemed to be a God-given talent. After hearing enough sermons from his father’s pulpit about God’s gifts, he figured this was his and he shouldn’t squander it.

Peter scanned the next block for a parking spot while Raleigh pulled the vanity mirror open, pouted her shimmering pink lips together, and pushed her wispy blonde bangs to the side. He almost asked her to watch for a parking spot, but he didn’t. He knew what her response would be—pay the nine dollars and valet park like everyone else who mattered did—which in Raleigh’s world meant her daddy. But Peter didn’t want anyone else driving his car, and he had no desire to emulate Bobby J. Warren.

Tourists lined Congress Street waiting for a seat at The Lady and Sons restaurant, but most of them would be out of luck—at least tonight, anyway. With more than half of the congregation from the Dutch Community Church of Savannah rambling about the restaurant, garnering a coveted table was virtually impossible. The restaurant was his mother’s favorite place to hold any sort of family function, and her fortieth-anniversary party was certainly no exception. Peter suspected the restaurant was her favorite place because his practical, hospitable-to-the-ends-of-the-earth mother, Bette Mae, could easily pass for Paula Deen’s twin sister (if Ms. Deen had a twin sister), and she enjoyed the star-struck attention she received when they dined there. His suspicions were simply that though—suspicions—and he had been raised well enough to know better than to come right out and ask her why she picked this place for every important meal.

Peter spotted an elderly couple crossing over to Whitaker Street, and he slowed the Audi to a crawl. He turned on his right blinker and smiled, knowing the parking gods were on his side—at least they wouldn’t refuse his charms. He parked in front of Sweet Melissa’s bar and climbed out. Studying himself in the car's black tinted windows, he ran his hand through his mussy hair, straightened his icicle blue tie, and turned the collar on his tan dinner jacket right side out before racing around to the passenger side of the car to open Raleigh’s door. He held his hand out for her and she slid out of the seat, pressing down the pleats of her pink and light blue plaid Burberry skirt as she stood up. Typical Raleigh, he mused. The weatherman predicted a heavy driving thunderstorm with high winds and hail after seven o’clock, but she chose to wear a short skirt and a silky blouse—more pretense than substance, and not very good for keeping warm on a questionable Savannah summer night.

He leaned against the back quarter panel of the car, standing guard—waiting while she gazed at her reflection in the window, and passed the time listening to the live music wafting from the bar through the warm air. He jingled the small amount of change he had in his pocket as Raleigh wrinkled her nose and let out a heavy sigh. Not a good sign, he surmised, so he switched tactics. He rocked back and forth on his heels and whistled the Jeopardy tune, hoping she’d get the hint, but instead, she fiddled with her headband—though it wasn’t necessary. She was the type of girl for whom someone had created headbands. Raleigh, please. Peter crossed his arms and glanced down at his watch. We’re late, he added.

She ignored his pleas, and pouted her lips together again.

There were days he grew weary of her tireless primping, but then he shuddered and decided it was better than the other option—a woman who didn’t primp at all. Okay, honey. You look beautiful, he said and grabbed her hand, pulling her away from her reflection. But, my momma’s gonna kill me. He flashed another smile—this time wide and apologetic—but Raleigh rolled her eyes at him.

Yeah, like that would ever happen. If Raleigh could be certain of one thing in life, it would be this—even though Bette Mae had never come right out and said it, she had one favorite child, and Raleigh was clutching that boy’s hand while they crossed the street to the restaurant. Through the plate-glass window, she caught a glimpse of Peter’s sister-in-law, Ellie, glowing and holding her six-month pregnant stomach. Ellie’s short brown hair bobbed back and forth with each nod of her head, as she laughed in agreement with whatever her companions had said. I hope I look as good as she does, Raleigh said.

An affectionate smile crossed Peter’s face and he shuffled around her to hold open the heavy wood door as was customary for men in the south. A cacophony of sounds reverberated off the green pipes along the ceiling of the main dining area and spilled over into the brick alcove. Peter glanced around the room. He was right—the majority of the guests were members of the Dutch Community Church, but there were also a few lucky tourists roaming about who he didn’t recognize. He nodded at a couple of his parents’ friends and cast a smile at a younger guy standing across the room talking to his second cousin while he and Raleigh wound their way through the bar area looking for Winston, the Lady’s bartender and Peter’s old roommate. A few people stopped talking long enough to catch a glance at the Dutch Community Church of Savannah’s own version of royalty.

Well, I guess she decided to come after all, Winston said to Jill, a cute waitress he liked flirting with, and the redhead turned and looked over her shoulder.

And here I thought it was going to be a drama-free night.

I’m surprised she came. But I guess that’s part of the allure of being Raleigh Warren.

Ah, Peter, the church organist, Greta Frederic said, grabbing Peter's arm. He skidded to a halt and turned to greet her. You look quite smashing tonight, she said, giving him a once over. Her eyes danced with delight. Peter had gone through the drill with her enough times to know what was coming next, though he had never grown comfortable with it. Greta leaned into him and nuzzled his ear. I only wish my Jenna hadn’t let you get away.

Eh, Ms. Frederic, Peter said in a polite, sweet manner, though brushing her aside. It’s been good to see you, but I really must find my parents.

Why they’re over there, Peter, she said and pointed in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go. Out of his periphery, he saw Winston dart back into the kitchen, and not wanting to be a liar, he set a new course in his parents’ direction—under the congratulatory banner, huddled next to his aunt and uncle at the back of the room. His mother beamed from all the attention she appropriated and his father, well, he looked like usual—a prelatic, paternal figure dressed in his solid lilac colored button down, black dinner jacket, and horn-rimmed glasses. He looked as though he should be giving the weekly sermon instead of celebrating with his wife and two hundred of their closest friends.

Peter’s smile brightened, catching his mother’s glance. He swam his way through the throngs of people waiting in some informal congratulatory line, and Bette Mae pushed past the same people until they met in the middle and she engulfed him in one of her famous full-body hugs. Oh, Peter, honey. You finally made it. I was beginnin’ to think I was gonna have to send out the dogs. She kissed his cheek, then wiped the faint red smudge of her lipstick from his face and stepped back to inspect his attire. She smiled, deciding she was pleased with his choice, and turned her attention to Raleigh. Oh, mother, Peter thought. He noticed her right eyebrow crease as she studied Raleigh’s silky blouse and small skirt. That’s a pretty shade of lipstick, Raleigh. Is it a new color, hon? She pressed against Raleigh and embraced her with a one-armed hug.

Peter grunted and turned his attention to his father. The ice cubes in Deidric’s whiskey glass—though it held no whiskey—clinked with every back and forth sway of his hips to the Britney Spears tune playing overhead. Peter looked around the room to see who was watching, feeling uneasy by the series of questions darting through his mind. Did the congregation think his glass held whiskey, or some other sort of taboo beverage? Was it appropriate for a pastor to sample the liquor? And what about the song? Was it appropriate for a pastor to listen to Britney, let alone sway to her provocative, catchy lyrics? He shook his head and focused on his father's face. Dad, can we talk for a minute? he asked. There’s um-, something I want to tell you.

Sure, Deidric said and continued swaying.

Peter tugged at his father’s arm and pulled him aside. I mean privately.

Deidric frowned. I’m not giving you an increase, he said and followed his youngest child, three feet away from where he had been standing.

I’m not asking for money, dad, Peter said and pursed his lips together. He glanced over at Raleigh talking to Jan Garble, his mother’s best friend since college, and he knew this wasn’t the time or place, but it was a celebration, and he figured his parents would be more forgiving. Besides, he also wanted to make that swaying stop.

Raleigh stared at the two men talking, trying to assure herself Peter wouldn’t do something stupid and spoil his parents’ party. She hoped he was asking for an increase in his trust fund allowance, but as she saw the hint of a mischievous smile on his face, she knew he wasn't discussing money. She discreetly shook her head at him, and then gave Mrs. Garble, Bette Mae, and the church gossip, Mrs. Vonderhill, who had joined their private conversation, a counterfeit smile, pretending to listen.

So, Raleigh, Mrs. Vonderhill said. It’s coming up on five years now. She took a small nip of gin and looked at the other women. Are you and Peter ever going to tie the knot? I mean, most women your age already have a home set up and couple of kids under their belt. Mrs. Vonderhill glanced over at Jan. You know what they say about a man doesn’t propose within the first two years.

I’m sorry, Raleigh said absently—still focused on Peter and Deidric’s hushed whispers. Wh-what was the question?

Mrs. Vonderhill shot Raleigh a look of annoyance, irritated by her lack of regard and focus. I asked if you and Peter ever planned to marry, dear.

Peter and I have plans, she said and smiled squarely at the nosey woman, then let her eyes wander back across the room—settling in on Peter. Mrs. Vonderhill’s face lit up over the implication of an upcoming announcement of marriage and at having a tantalizing new piece of gossip.

Well, Bette Mae interjected. Deidric and I’ve always said it would be better for Peter to wait until he finished grad school and got out into the real world. No sense in rushing into marriage and family without being prepared. Bette Mae flashed the women her own counterfeit smile. She liked Raleigh well enough, or at least that’s what she tried to convince Peter and everyone else in town into believing. But a good deal of the time—say, for the past two years or so—she couldn’t help but wonder if there was nothing more to Raleigh than cocktail parties and society page photo ops. Bette Mae’s family had been a fixture in Savannah since 1733, and she had been taught how to act in private and in public, and for all the times Raleigh got her name and picture in the Savannah News, Bette Mae couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t someone out there better suited for her youngest son. However, she knew the odds of any other prospects were slim and Peter would ask her for her approval one day, though she dreaded that day because she knew she’d have to be firm about her position on the matter and he, along with everyone else, wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

Mrs. Vonderhill excused herself—no doubt to tell everyone she could about Raleigh’s revelation, and Raleigh and Bette Mae shifted their attention to Peter, both wondering what he and Deidric were talking about, but clearly for two very different reasons.

Your brother and your sisters have really outdone themselves this time, Deidric said, pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, and looked around at the bustling room.

You know I’ve been busy, right? Peter asked. Deidric shot him a resentful look, and Peter drew in a deep breath before exhaling slowly through his nose. He couldn’t afford to ruin his chance, so he resigned and gave in to the fact his brother and sisters had done a great job. You’re right, dad. It’s a great party.

Have you thought about your Uncle Maarten’s offer?

Peter shook his head. No. I told him I’d give him an answer by Monday. He leaned close to his dad. Listen Dad, he said with a whisper. The architecture job isn’t what I want to talk to you about.

Deidric raised one eyebrow and peered at him over the top rim of his glasses. Well, what else is there?

I-I know this probably isn’t the time, he said. But Raleigh and I had planned to talk to you later. Peter walked over and grabbed Raleigh’s hand, pulling her from the women. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and held her close while Raleigh forced a ventriloquist smile and whispered through her teeth.

What are you doing? she asked, continuing to smile.

Just go with it. It’ll be fine, he assured her.

Peter, please. Don’t do this. She pulled away from him. Whatever hair-brained scheme you have planned isn’t going to help or change things. This isn’t the right time.

He jerked her hips towards his body and smiled at his father. Trust me, he whispered. It’s going to be fine. Deidric watched the confused show between his son and Raleigh, but Peter breathed a sigh of relief when Deidric stopped swaying. Dad. We are-.

-Getting married, Deidric shouted, breathing his own sigh of relief. His eyes widened, and he shot a hopeful look in his youngest son’s direction. Finally, Peter was doing something right. Deidric smiled and cupped Raleigh’s face in his hands. This, my dear, is exactly the right time. Deidric turned to find Bette Mae. He pulled her away from Jan while Mrs. Vonderhill nodded from across the room and turned her attention to Peter and Raleigh, as did the rest of the congregation.

Raleigh’s poignant glare pierced Peter. He wondered why his father had to jump straight to that conclusion, but he figured he couldn’t blame the old man. He and Raleigh had been together a long time and the majority of their friends were already married after relatively short courtships. It also didn’t surprise Peter everyone in the room had stopped talking and turned in their direction, but what did surprise him was the apprehensive look that had washed over his mother’s face. Knowing there was no point in turning back now; Peter smiled at his parents and prepared to work his magic. "That’s not exactly it, Peter said, and Deidric shot him a queer, confused glance. This wasn’t how he had rehearsed it in his head. In Peter's head, the speech was more eloquent and the crowd was more congratulatory, but there was no way of turning back now, so he did what he always did when he got into trouble. He looked directly to his mother for support. We’ll get married, he said, placing his hand over Raleigh’s stomach, but not until after-."

Mrs. Vonderhill gasped along with several others and, then—like the great Savannah fire of 1796—the hushed whispers quickly spread throughout the room. Peter didn’t finish his sentence—he didn't need to. He saw the color drain from his father’s face and his mother roll her eyes toward the ceiling, the way she used to when he was younger pretending she hadn’t heard what he said, and he knew he needed to turn up the magic. Mom, can you please? he asked, reaching out for her hand.

Deidric shot Bette Mae a betrayed, accusatory look. You knew about this?

I most certainly did not, Bette Mae asserted.

Well, please what? Deidric asked. What does he expect you to do?

Deidric, how do I know? This is the first I’ve heard of any of this, and I’m just as surprised as you are, she said. Bette