Caged Dove

By Andrea Rodgers

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Twenty years ago, Aniston Kline learned that childhood rhyme wasn’t true after being bullied in junior high. Now a newspaper reporter, Aniston returns to her hometown—a place she thought she would never return to—prepared to write an article about a boy’s story that echoes her past. Aniston wants nothing more than to slip in and out of Savanna Shores unseen and unrecognized by anyone who might still remember her; however, a brutal snowstorm ushers her into town and leaves her stranded in a snowstorm with her high school crush, Arjay. Arjay Mason was once the handsome quarterback of the high school football team. Now a police officer in Savanna Shores, he has yet to find lasting love. He realizes he already missed one opportunity with Aniston and doesn’t want her to leave again—but how could she stay in a town that once caused her pain? As Aniston faces her own demons from her past and sifts through old emotions with Arjay, the fate of a teenage girl named Maddie becomes intricately intertwined with the two adults’ to reveal a much grander plan for everyone involved. While it seemed like it was just coincidence that brought together Aniston and Arjay, the two begin to understand there’s a reason they were brought together again . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ambassador International
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781620204498

Book preview

Caged Dove

© 2015 by Andrea Rodgers

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

ISBN: 978-1-62020-541-9

eISBN: 978-1-62020-449-8

Scripture taken from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

Cover design and typesetting: Hannah Nichols

E-book conversion: Anna Riebe Raats

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To anyone who is being or has been bullied

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Information

Dedication

Letter to the Reader

Chapter 1: Aniston

Chapter 2: Maddie

Chapter 3: Aniston

Chapter 4: Arjay

Chapter 5: Aniston

Chapter 6: Arjay

Chapter 7: Aniston

Chapter 8: Arjay

Chapter 9: Aniston

Chapter 10: Maddie

Chapter 11: Aniston

Chapter 12: Arjay

Chapter 13: Aniston

Chapter 14: Maddie

Chapter 15: Aniston

Chapter 16: Arjay

Chapter 17: Aniston

Chapter 18: Arjay

Chapter 19: Aniston

Chapter 20: Maddie

Chapter 21: Arjay

Chapter 22: Maddie

Chapter 23: Aniston

Chapter 24: Arjay

Chapter 25: Aniston

Chapter 26: Arjay

Chapter 27: Aniston

Chapter 28: Maddie

Chapter 29: Aniston

Chapter 30: Arjay

Chapter 31: Aniston

Chapter 32: Maddie

Chapter 33: Aniston

Chapter 34: Arjay

Chapter 35: Aniston

Chapter 36: Maddie

Chapter 37: Aniston

Chapter 38: Arjay

Chapter 39: Maddie

Chapter 40: Aniston

Chapter 41: Maddie

Chapter 42: Arjay

Chapter 43: Aniston

Chapter 44: Maddie

Chapter 45: Arjay

Chapter 46: Aniston

Chapter 47: Arjay

Chapter 48: Aniston

Chapter 49: Arjay

Chapter 50: Aniston

Chapter 51: Arjay

Chapter 52: Aniston

Chapter 53: Arjay

Chapter 54: Aniston

Chapter 55: Maddie

Chapter 56: Arjay

Chapter 57: Aniston

Chapter 58: Arjay

Chapter 59: Aniston

Chapter 60: Arjay

Chapter 61: Aniston

Chapter 62: Arjay

Chapter 63: Aniston

Chapter 64: Arjay

Chapter 65: Aniston

Chapter 66: Arjay

Remedy Live

Acknowledgements

Contact Information

LETTER TO THE READER

CAGED DOVE WAS NOT WRITTEN without tears. At times I broke down, sobbing, while writing this story. I put off the topic for years because bullying and suicidal thoughts were something I once dealt with and overcame. Like most of us who go through something painful, we don’t want to revisit unpleasant memories and feelings once we’ve moved on. We put our experience in the past so that we can have a bright future. We don’t want our thing to define us or categorize us or remind us. But, I believe it’s also our duty to stand up for those who are currently going through our experience. I felt God tell me many times I was meant to write this book, and so I hope you will stick with me for this inspirational novel that is also a fun love story.

It began six years ago when I was walking around my house and the title, Caged Dove, came to me. I had no idea why, but I wrote down the words. However, I wasn’t 100% ready to write this book at that time, so I put it on hold until now.

I wanted to begin Caged Dove with Scripture and had chills when I opened my Bible. I’d never heard this verse before, but the following fits perfectly with my story. I now understand where my title came from:

Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest.

I would flee far away and stay in the desert;

I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.

Lord, confuse the wicked, confound their words, for I see violence and strife in the city.

Day and night they prowl about on its walls; malice and abuse are within it.

Destructive forces are at work in the city; threats and lies never leave its streets.

If an enemy were insulting me, I could endure it; if a foe were rising against me, I could hide.

But it is you, a man like myself, my companion, my close friend, with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship at the house of God, as we walked about among the worshipers.

Let death take my enemies by surprise; let them go down alive to the realm of the dead, for evil finds lodging among them.

As for me, I call to God, and the Lord saves me.

Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress, and he hears my voice.

He rescues me unharmed from the battle waged against me, even though many oppose me.

God, who is enthroned from of old, who does not change—he will hear them and humble them, because they have no fear of God.

My companion attacks his friends; he violates his covenant.

His talk is smooth as butter, yet war is in his heart; his words are more soothing than oil, yet they are drawn swords.

Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous be shaken.

But you, God, will bring down the wicked into the pit of decay; the bloodthirsty and deceitful will not live out half their days. But as for me, I trust in you.

—Psalm 55:6

ANISTON

I SIT ON MY BED and stare at a Ruger LCP .380 on my lap.

This isn’t the first time I’ve held a gun. Twenty years ago I placed a revolver near my head but didn’t pull the trigger.

These days I don’t wish to commit suicide even though my husband, David, left me for another woman. Until I was blindsided by the divorce, I was a stay-at-home mom of a two-year-old daughter, Tessa, and enjoyed the suburban predictability of women pushing strollers on my street in the mornings, the bright green lawns with sprinkler systems, and the comforting smiles from families at my neighborhood park. I live in an upper-class community, and I blend in. I have natural curly, pale-blonde hair that reaches my lower back, blue eyes, and skin that burns easily in the summer. I drive an SUV, wear mostly yoga pants with running shirts, and attend my neighborhood book club each month. No one here knows a part of my past is as dark as the chocolate cookies my neighbor brings to every new person who moves in.

My divorce became final this week, but I haven’t told anyone in my neighborhood. Right now, all they know is I’ve started freelancing for the newspaper, which isn’t odd since I was a newspaper reporter before I laid eyes on my daughter and didn’t want to ever go back to working outside of the home.

I don’t have a choice anymore. There wasn’t a chance to digest the shock, beg my husband to see a counselor, or try to put our family back together. David claimed he’d found his soulmate. They plan to get married in just six weeks—on Valentine’s Day.

Our own wedding was in the middle of our senior year of college when we were both twenty-one years old. David and I hadn’t even received our degrees yet. Those were the happiest days, before he became an anesthesiologist and his life revolved around his job. Before infertility took over mine and it became my obsession to become pregnant. And, before my husband picked up Tessa from her one full day each week at a home-daycare (so I could have a break and our daughter could have socialization), where he met Layla Ferguson. I wonder where she shops; her three kids dress in such colorful clothes, and I never see the same thing on them twice. Not a hair is out of place. No one has seen them misbehave. Layla is always perky, always wears make-up, always has time to go to the gym, and never drinks coffee.

Maybe it should have bothered me that Layla—with her dark red hair, long legs, and perfectly toned abs (she hasn’t let her mid-thirties keep her from wearing string bikinis to the pool)—flirted with my husband and he flirted back, but it didn’t faze me. David and I were together for so long—we met on the first day of college while standing in line to buy our class books when we were eighteen—that I thought, all the power to him if it makes his day less monotonous.

Except, then Layla threw her husband out and moved in mine.

I hear the garage door open. David has arrived to pick up our daughter. I haven’t said anything about him coming in without knocking. After all, he easily agreed to make payments so I can keep this five-thousand-square-foot brick house. But, now that we’re officially divorced, I have someone coming next week to change the locks and garage code.

I place the black pistol into my purse and stand up. I look at the clock. 9 pm. My daughter is asleep in her crib. A few hours ago she was screaming at me, on top of the kitchen table, throwing yogurt and wiping it all over herself. Tessa’s blonde hair had turned pink. The scene is frequent with my toddler. At first it was funny, but lately the never-ending chaos gives me a headache. I can’t remember the last time I smiled. I’m so tired.

I haven’t bothered to clean up the mess today. What’s the point? It’ll be a disaster again an hour after I clean. If you want to know what we eat, just look at our floor: cereal, macaroni and cheese, peas . . . A stack of dirty dishes overflows in the sink. Tessa’s too old to be wearing a onesie, but she is today because all of her clothes are in the laundry basket. I’m one of the only women in my neighborhood who doesn’t have a cleaning service, but I can’t afford to hire one now. I don’t know how to find my sanity, let alone keep up with housework anymore.

I tip-toe into Tessa’s purple bedroom and hear the steady rhythm of her slow, angelic breathing. Her Frozen nightlight makes Anna and Elsa glow. I wipe strands of hair away from her eyes and kiss her smooth, soft cheek. When I tucked her in earlier, we sang songs like we always do before we give each other butterfly kisses and say goodnight. I hate to think of Tessa’s peaceful slumber disturbed, so I hope she keeps sleeping while David picks her up and buckles the car seat. Now that he’s finally here for his scheduled days with her—five hours later than his anticipated arrival time after taking a New Year’s vacation with Layla to Hawaii—it’s time for me to take my own trip.

I give Tessa a second kiss before softly shutting the door. My eyelashes become wet; I’ve never spent a night away from my daughter. She’s the one who gets me up in the mornings by running into my room and saying in the most excited voice, Good morning, Mommy!

I’m glad my heart can withstand melting because it’s what Tessa does to it every day. Lately, she comes over to me when I’m lying on the couch (which I’ve done a lot of the past four months since David sprung the news), cups my face in between her hands, tilts her head with a sweet smile as she pushes the hair away from my face and says, Mommy, you’re my angel.

It’s something she’s heard me say to her.

As much as I love her, I need some space. I enjoy and prefer being a stay-at-home mom, but I’m always stressed and overwhelmed these days, which is not fair to her. It’s been a long four months; I want to come out of this depression—I’m a shell of the optimistic, warm, and cheerful person I used to be. I hope when I return I’ll be a better version of myself.

The sound of my ex-husband’s shoes echoes across the tile downstairs, keys clatter onto the kitchen table, and then there’s the click of the light switch in the bathroom. It’s the same routine he had when he lived here.

I slowly walk down the stairs, pass the closed bathroom door, and put on my heavy wool coat with my mittens, hat, and scarf stuffed into the pockets. My suitcase is already in my SUV. I wonder if David noticed the Yukon Denali we bought to be our family vehicle is sitting outside of the house rather than in the four-car-garage.

Hi, David, I say as he comes out of the bathroom. His sandy brown hair is disheveled.

Hey, Aniston. I have bad jet lag. Can I wait a couple of days before taking Tessa?

I stop buttoning my coat and stare at the man I was married to for twelve years, who now feels like a stranger. You agreed since you’ve been gone for a week you’d watch her until Wednesday.

David wipes his eyes with his fingers. Where is it you’re going? You haven’t bought plane tickets, made reservations, or scheduled a vacation with anyone else, right?

I really need this. Just a little breather. I planned to leave hours ago.

For five days? How about three? David’s brown eyes remind me of a dog that’s missed his day’s walk.

We talked about this several times. I’m sorry you have jet lag, but I’m not going to Hawaii for eight days like you just did—I’m not even leaving the state. I hook my last button. Please try not to wake up Tessa. I put her down an hour ago. I pick my purse back up and leave him sulking.

The door slams behind me once I’m outside. It’s brutally cold on this January evening. The Iowa wind whips at my face as I climb into my black Yukon. My hands shake as I put my key into the ignition and back out of my driveway.

It’s time to go to the place where I fell apart the other time and first found God . . . so maybe I can find Him again and put myself back together.

MADDIE

I FANTASIZE I LIVE WHERE it’s sunny all of the time. I can walk outside of my parents’ house and listen to the waves crash against the shore. I can swim in the ocean anytime I want, feel the sand between my toes as I take my collie for a walk, and never have to know a dreary place called Savanna Shores exists. The name is deceiving. It sounds as if it should be a beautiful town with a beach. There’s no ocean in western Iowa.

The town has around two-thousand residents. There’s no mall or movie theater. For entertainment, people go to football or basketball games on Friday nights and wrestling meets on Saturday.

I moved here from Nebraska last year. I was fourteen then. Optimistic about the future. Excited to be a cheerleader because I’d been dancing since I was three years old, imagining one day I’d be in front of a stadium of sports fans with a smile wide on my face and pom-poms raised high in the air.

Most residents are second, third, or even fourth generation, so I’m still labeled new. It didn’t take long for girls at my school to let me know I’m not welcome on the cheerleading squad—they’d had their group for years and didn’t want anyone intruding. Notes in my lockers threatened if I didn’t skip tryouts they’d break the windows of my house. (I went and, yes, a brick was thrown through our family room, our mailbox knocked down, and pumpkins thrown all over our garage on Halloween.) It’s become unbearable to have my classmates complain loudly when they’re required to be my partner in class and to have students get up from their chair when I take a seat next to them. Am I repulsive? I’ve always been told I look like actress Mila Kunis, so I can’t be ugly. But, I’m made fun of constantly on social media sites and walk around in a constant state of humiliation. The pressure got to me—I didn’t make the cheerleading squad.

Every person who has moved in after me is treated the same way, so I’ve offered them someone to hang out with after school or on the weekends. It’s a double-edged sword; to be my friend means they’re doomed to be the lowest on the social food chain. It’s a terrible burden to feel I’m responsible for other people getting picked on. Now I keep to myself and don’t have a single friend.

My twin brothers went to college before our move, so I’m alone with my parents. Maybe if Tony and Tommy were around, no one would mess with me.

I thought I’d be treated better after I didn’t make the squad, but right now my picture is being texted around with my face photo-shopped onto obscene images someone found on the Internet.

I’m actually envious of Dawson, a boy a year younger than me, who killed himself over winter break because he didn’t want to return to school. I plan to be next.

ANISTON

SNOW STARTED FALLING AS SOON as I left my Des Moines suburb, and now, two hours later, I can hardly make out the Savanna Shores welcome sign. The snow has created a white-out. I’m almost where I need to go, but am having trouble finding the yellow line on the highway. There’s no one else on the roads tonight. If only David’s plane had been on time, I would have left long before the blizzard. I didn’t want to give in to him by postponing my trip, but maybe I should have. I’m sliding, despite my four-wheel drive.

Come on, I mumble. My windshield wipers are on full speed, but it doesn’t help. The snow is so thick, I’m going to have to pull off the road.

Just as I slow down and veer to the right, my tires catch on a patch of ice. My lungs close when I realize I’ve lost control of my vehicle and it’s slipping off the road. The brake pedal has no effect—all I can do is grip the steering wheel until my fingers hurt. I stop in the ditch.

This can’t happen! I yell, my heart leaping into my throat.

But it has happened. I’m stuck.

I rev the engine over and over, but my SUV won’t move.

What should I do? No one can know I’m here!

I reach to the passenger side floor and grab my