Forever in My Heart: The Larkspur Valley Series, #3

By Connie Keenan

Take another trip to Larkspur Valley, that small town in rural Pennsylvania. Five years has passed since then, enough time for some new people to have moved in. That includes Violet Dunne, a woman with something to hide, who happens to have caught the attention of Dr. Charles Wilkinson…Lauren, who's married to Kyle Jamison, a man with some secrets of his own…and Nancy Lockridge, the new woman in Sheriff Dean Carlisle's life. There are lots of old friends to catch up with, too—like Vanita MacMackin, Timothy Gordon, and even the town talebearer, Cynthia Truesdale, in a story about friendship, love, forgiveness, and what happens when God touches lives. The third and final book of THE LARKSPUR VALLEY SERIES.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Connie Keenan
• Release date: Apr 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301734993

Connie Keenan

Connie Keenan, who has also written under the pseudonym Consuelo Vazquez, is the author of more than twenty-five novels and novellas and over one hundred short stories. With many more works to come, she's mostly written Christian fiction and sweet contemporary romance. She loves hiking, discovering fun little shops, trying out new recipes, and spending time with her family. Connie and her husband Bill live in North Carolina with a spoiled German Shepherd and two sassy Chihuahuas.

Book preview

FOREVER IN MY HEART

Connie Keenan

Copyright © 2013 by Connie Keenan

Cover art and photo by Bigstockphoto.com, shock

All names, characters and events featured in this novel are imaginary. They are not inspired by any individual person, incidents or events known or unknown to the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

MORE BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

Glimmers of Heaven

’Twas the Spy Before Christmas

Dimension

Champagne Taste

Sea Siren (writing as Consuelo Vazquez)

More Than Sparrows

The Christmas Waltz

The Cop and the Mermaid

Paradise Road

PROLOGUE

Mr. James Kendall remembered, with clarity, his last stroll through downtown Larkspur Valley, and there wasn’t very much he remembered with clarity anymore.

That hadn’t been very long ago at all…or perhaps it was, and it only seemed like it had been a few days earlier. The last thing he remembered, if foggily, was that the doctors had put him on sedatives or painkillers, he couldn’t remember which. Definitely something very strong. He’d been in and out of sleep, but he’d heard them tell his family they were, trying to keep your father comfortable in his last hours.

Last hours. The end of his life. There was so much he had yet to say, so much he wanted to tell his family. He couldn’t, of course. One thing in particular that he’d meant to mention, that meant something to them, though he really wouldn’t be needing it or anything of this world anymore. His voice no longer worked; his body failed to respond to what his heart and spirit wanted it to do.

So he rested there in that strange bed, listening to his granddaughter singing hymns to him and relatives talking and moving around in his hospital room.

And he thought about his last walk through town. He’d looked forward to his walks. After he’d gotten to a certain age, exercise was difficult for his aging body. Walking was the one thing he could still do. He’d walk slowly, but he’d walk with long, pleasurable strides. He’d get coffee from the diner and a candy bar from Terence Flynn’s pharmacy, and he’d sometimes rest and read the newspaper or a book in Barringer Park. Now and then he’d feed the ducks bits of day-old bread at the lake.

All of that was part of his life there on earth. Seeing the faces of adults who’d been young teenagers in his classes when he’d been a teacher had always come as a blessing to him. They all still addressed him as Mr. Kendall. They’d address him with a smile, with unfeigned affection, with a respect that had endured through the years.

He could feel someone squeeze his hand and although he couldn’t see her, he realized that was his granddaughter. Up until then his eyes had failed him, yet he could clearly see a faint light in the doorway behind her. A light that grew more powerful, that he recognized immediately, that meant that he was no longer imprisoned in that body that was about to die, leading him to eternity…

CHAPTER ONE

"So those are our new neighbors. Now I really miss Mr. Kendall, even more than before they got here."

Cynthia Truesdale giggled after making the statement with a conspiratorial wink, as if Timothy Gordon was supposed to agree with her. As it was, he didn’t have much time to chat, and even less time to gossip. With Cynthia, who always made time for the rumor mill, he always felt like a captive audience.

Well, they’re just moving in today, he pointed out as gently as possible. Give them a chance.

Oh, I will. I always give people a chance. It’s just that…the wife, you know, she dresses sort of inappropriately. And the husband—well, he’s certainly good-looking, but he’s not too friendly.

Timothy checked his watch, more to give himself something to do. His gaze drifted back to the scene across the street, where three moving men were unloading furniture from a moving truck parked in front of Mr. Kendall’s home.

Correction: what had once been Mr. Kendall’s home. The lovingly tended Victorian had been sold a month earlier to the family that would now be living there from that day forward. A pretty woman in shorts and a top that, yes, was rather snug and revealing, stood around supervising the movers. Now and then her husband emerged from the home, dressed in long pants and a short-sleeved shirt, to grab something off the truck.

Tim observed him but looked away respectfully, not wanting to appear as if he was being nosy. The man was tall and lean, in his early forties, with a defined jaw and a stern expression on his face. The wife appeared to be younger, around thirty-four or thirty-five.

Maybe he’s just busy, he told Cynthia.

Or maybe he’s unhappy in his marriage to a young floozy.

"Aw, come on. How would you know that?"

I don’t know. You’re right. I’m just speculating, that’s all. But when it comes to stuff like this, I’m almost psychic. Cynthia tapped her temple with a fingernail and clutched her mail, which she’d retrieved moments ago from her side of the mailbox, to her chest. I can tell things about people.

Oh. That’s interesting. You would do better with being a little less ‘psychic’ and a little more mindful of other people’s privacy.

Really, now? That’s a very judgmental attitude for you to take, Timothy Gordon. You, of all people, should know better than to judge others. And you’re supposed to be a Christian and all.

He suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t exactly fun renting the upstairs half of a two-family house when the town gossip rented the bottom half. He also didn’t appreciate the cutting reference to his past. Getting his own mail out from the mailbox, he shrugged.

I have to get to work. But anyway, you have a good day, Cynthia.

Hmmm. Yeah, you, too. Evidently, she couldn’t resist flashing him a triumphant smirk.

Pretending he hadn’t noticed, he climbed behind the steering wheel of his car and tossed the mail onto the passenger seat beside him. Later he’d take it upstairs to his home. What was that Cynthia had said about, you, of all people? He fumed as he started the car.

You, of all people, who were an alcoholic, and a bum out on the street, to boot. You, of all people, have some nerve, standing there and judging me for being a little inquisitive!

At once, the scripture came to him, a heavenly response to Cynthia’s hurtful words: Therefore, if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. His father had quoted that scripture to him as a source of encouragement, telling him there would always be someone who would dredge up his past to use against him.

Maybe, too, it would have been wiser not to say anything, to simply let her talk. Except Cynthia had been seriously badmouthing the newcomers to the neighborhood, and something about that had seemed wrong and unfair to him.

In any case, he didn’t have time to dwell on it all day. First, he had to get to work, and then he had his Spanish class at the college to get to later in the evening, following dinner with Kay. He gave the neighbors one last glance before driving off to work and noticed the husband casting a dark scowl at Cynthia across the street.

Why did he get the distinct feeling that trouble was about to visit Larkspur Valley?

***

The Victorian was a fine, old home, which had probably been too much house for the elderly gentlemanly who’d lived there alone at the end of his life. No doubt his sons could have gotten more money for the place, but because they’d been grieving they’d let it go for a song. With its wraparound porch, its stately arches and towers, and its lattice on the side of the house, it seemed almost out of place in a neighborhood populated mostly with ranch homes and Tudors. According to James Kendall’s sons, the place had been built by their grandfather around the turn of the century.

Kyle Jamison had loved the place at first sight and had convinced his wife that it was the exact home they’d been trying to find for months. He would have changed nothing about the house…other than picking it up and placing it out in the country, rather than where it presently stood, so close to the heart of town and surrounded by so many busybody neighbors.

Then again, Larkspur Valley had so much going for it. Particularly the fact that it was far from his native Chicago, far from the city, and maybe in time, it would put sufficient distance between himself and his past.

Heck—you’re not going away, are you? he muttered in irritation at the doorbell, with its incessant ringing.

That afternoon Lauren had decided to head out on an excursion downtown, and she’d taken both of the kids with her to explore the area. She’d invited him to come along, but he’d chosen to unpack a few things and, in doing so, explore the nooks and crannies of their large new home in the process. Up in the master bedroom, Kyle glanced out the window to see a car parked in the driveway. With the porch roof obscuring his vision, he couldn’t see the person at the door, once again ringing the bell.

Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, I’m comin’! he spat under his breath and hurried down the winding staircase.

Neighbors. It was probably that bleached blonde from across the street, who’d watched his family move in two days earlier. The name on her mailbox read CYNTHIA TRUESDALE. Obviously, Miss—or Mrs., whichever the case—Truesdale was going to be a thorn in his side. If that was her at the door he’d be cordial but standoffish, enough to discourage her from darkening their doorstep the next time the urge came over her.

Kyle opened the door and sighed with relief. That wasn’t the overly curious woman but rather a slightly younger woman, dressed in a feminine pink pantsuit, short-sleeved and light for the summer. She wore a matching pink fabric headband with her dark brown bangs neatly styled beneath, right above a bright, friendly smile. With her Ford Fairlane’s engine running in the driveway, she stood holding her pocketbook in one hand and a tray of chocolate chip cookies in the other.

Good morning! she greeted him cheerfully. Is the lady of the house home?

Eh…good morning. She’s out with the kids, he replied. But she may be on the way home. He started opening the door wider but stopped. He was the only one in the house, and letting a female visitor in at that time wouldn’t be proper.

Especially if his neighbor across the street was staring through an opening in her window blinds.

I hope I haven’t come at a bad time, she went on.

No, that’s fine. I was just unpacking. We’ll be doing that for some time.

I’ll say. That’s how it is when you move into a new home. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I’m running some errands, myself. I’m Vanita MacMackin. She let her pocketbook handles fall higher on her wrist and offered him her hand to shake. My husband is Pastor MacMackin. We pastor the Maranatha Assembly of God.

Nice to meet you. Kyle Jamison. My wife is Lauren, but, uh…maybe you could meet her at a later time.

I hope so. Here… She handed him the plate of cookies. They’re fresh. Just baked them this morning. A little gift to welcome you and your family to our neighborhood.

Uh, well—thanks. They look great.

I’m sure the kids will enjoy them. Make sure you and your wife get a couple. Vanita MacMackin laughed. You’ll love this neighborhood. My husband and I moved here a few years ago, too. I’m originally from Wisconsin and he’s from North Dakota. The Lord sent us here to pastor the church when the original pastor died.

Mechanically, Kyle straightened his shoulders. The word church had a way of doing that to him, putting him on the defensive.

Still, he managed to remain courteous as he changed the subject. It does look like a nice neighborhood. Town’s nice, too.

Oh, yes. Larkspur Valley’s a great place to raise kids. We’ve got some good schools and lots of wonderful little shops that you’ll enjoy. It’s a quiet town but we like it that way. I’m sure you will, too.

Lady, you have no idea. He grinned at her. I agree wholeheartedly.

Anyway, I’ve kept you long enough. Please tell your wife I hope to meet her soon.

I will. Thank you for the cookies. And thanks for coming.

And… Vanita paused on the bottom step, turning to him. Feel free to visit us at Maranatha, in case you’re looking for a home church.

There you go, he thought. That’s your real reason for coming here today. You weren’t just being friendly. You don’t fool me, lady.

Have a nice day, he said, shutting the door before she had a chance to get back into her car.

It wasn’t until he set the cookies on the dining room table that he realized how clever a ruse that actually was. That plate, a dainty, womanly thing with a gold finish around the edge and a print of tiny pink roses and blue violets, would have to be returned to its rightful owner. The preacher’s wife hadn’t mentioned which house she and the man of God occupied on that prim little, tree-lined street. The next step would be to bring it to the church itself.

Church people, Kyle sighed the words with disdain.

He’d had enough of church as a kid to last him a lifetime. His wife was another matter entirely, however. She had been dropping hints since they’d moved to Larkspur Valley about finding a suitable church for the family, especially for the children’s sake, because a religious upbringing was good for them.

Thanks to his experiences in the past, he didn’t agree with Lauren, but it wasn’t something worth arguing about, either. Besides, Corey was nine years old and Sally was only six. For them, church meant singing songs and drawing pictures of Noah’s ark in the church nursery and watching Davey and Goliath on TV, in between spending time with Bugs Bunny, Fred Flintstone and Tom and Jerry.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the door open a second time. Lauren burst through the threshold with bags in one arm, her other hand toting her youngest child. Corey dawdled a few steps behind.

"Whew! Well, that was a good walk, huh?" his wife was asking their son.

The boy’s answer was noncommittal: Uh-huh.

Looks like my little clan did more than just walk. Kyle came back down the stairs and kissed his wife, then swept Sally up in her arms. What did you do? Blow our whole budget on those shops?

Hadn’t Vanita MacMackin mentioned something about the stores in town? Vanita MacMackin. He had to agree, even if it was grudgingly, that the woman had a memorable name.

Oh, I did not! Lauren protested playfully with a click of her tongue. I did find some nice little odds and ends. Trying to make this place look more like home. Want to see?

"It’s not home. Home is far away, not this place."

Kyle turned to his son. Hey, buddy. You need to give yourself and this place some time…

He stopped, seeing Corey trudging up the stairs as if he hadn’t heard a word. Not surprisingly, the youngest in the family spoke up.

Corey doesn’t like it here, Sally reported to her father. He wants to go back.

I gathered that. That’s not going to happen, though, I’m afraid, sweetheart. Kyle kissed her forehead and set her onto her feet. You go on upstairs and play, okay?

Lauren was already in the kitchen, where she set the bags onto the table and poured herself a glass of iced tea before opening the bags and starting her other chores.

He just needs time to adjust, she said. And he misses Ronnie. She was referring to her son’s closest friend back in Chicago.

Yeah, well, I know that feeling. Intimately. Remembering the cookies, he made a stop in the dining room to retrieve the dish before joining them in the kitchen. With my dad in the service, I lost a lot of best friends, moving from one state to the other.

Where’d you get those?

A neighbor dropped by and brought them.

Hmmm. The nosey blonde across the street, who thinks you’re a hunk?

He chuckled at his wife, who enjoyed teasing him, and came from behind her to wrap his arms around her waist.

Ah, I don’t care about her, he said. "She doesn’t think that. She just wants to know our business. She wants to know everybody’s business, the old biddie. Besides, who needs her when I got a hot chick like you at home?"

"She’s not that old. Maybe late forties. She looks good for her age, though. Lauren took a moment to luxuriate in his embrace. So who gave us these lovely little treats?"

"Vanita MacMackin. Some