Ever Near

By Laurel Garver

Four Advent candles, two teens, a Yule Ball, a grief anniversary, and a quest for the perfect gift.

Christmastime is here and for Dani Deane, the season only brings memories of spending last December in the ICU, watching her dad die. But trying to hide her holiday phobia from her boyfriend is making life a lot more complicated. To truly heal, she will have to face the pain and lean into her faith. Can she learn to trust God—and Theo—to stick by her as she seeks to find joy again?

In the bleak midwinter, Theo Wescott is watching his girlfriend Dani slip away again. The anniversary of her dad’s death has turned the holidays into a minefield. The race is on to find the perfect present that will bring her comfort and joy. But getting her best friend’s help with his elaborate plan threatens to derail his relationship with Dani. Will patiently waiting to reveal his ultimate surprise bring the cheer he hopes, or will it be a triggering epic failure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurel Garver
• Release date: Nov 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463003244

Laurel Garver

Laurel Garver holds degrees in English and journalism and earns a living as a magazine editor. She enjoys quirky independent films, word games, British television, and Celtic music. She lives in Philadelphia with her husband and daughter. 

Book preview

Ever Near

Dani Deane Series #2

Laurel Garver

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

Copyright © 2019 Laurel W. Garver

Smashwords edition

ISBN: 978-0463003244

All Rights Reserved. No portion of this book may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated, or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

Cover image by Alex Florin

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

Contents

Chapter 1: Dani

Chapter 2: Theo

Chapter 3: Dani

Chapter 4: Theo

Chapter 5: Dani

Chapter 6: Theo

Chapter 7: Theo

Chapter 8: Dani

Chapter 9: Dani

Chapter 10: Theo

Chapter 11: Dani

Chapter 12: Theo

Chapter 13: Dani

Chapter 14: Theo

Chapter 15: Dani

Chapter 16: Theo

Chapter 17: Dani

Chapter 18: Theo

Chapter 19: Dani

Chapter 20: Theo

Chapter 21: Dani

Chapter 22: Theo

References

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Laurel Garver

For the brokenhearted

and all who long for healing

1

Dani

If I’d known what was waiting for me in aisle five of CVS, I would’ve run, would’ve left even the half-price shampoo behind. It never occurred to me that checking for Halloween clearance on November first was dangerous business.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Famous last words.

Because I didn’t find oodles of bargain candy or price-slashed superhero capes and glow-in-the-dark fangs. The orange and black had been wiped away in the night, making space for the horror before me.

Red and green. Trees and lights. Snow and sleighs. Reindeer and elves. Candy Santa armies and jingle, jingle, jingle bells. My throat closed up. An inner roar rendered me deaf. Feeling cold and hot and dizzy and buried alive, I staggered away and collided with my boyfriend.

Dani? Theo put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. What’s the matter?

Why would anything be the matter? I wheezed. Then I stood on tiptoe and kissed him before he could ask any other pesky questions. Because what guy wants a girlfriend who gets a panic attack from seeing a chocolate Santa?

He pulled away, frowning at my demented attempt to smile. You’re shaking.

I’m fine. Let’s go.

What about the candy corn and peanut-butter pumpkins and licorice bats?

All the Halloween stuff is . . . gone. The final word squeezed out of my rebellious lungs like air from a leaking balloon.

Locking eyes with me, he took my trembling hand and laid it on his chest. Breathe in, and out, with me.

I obeyed, drawing strength from the resonance of his deep voice, trying to absorb his calmness through my palm. But the effort made my eyes water.

I don’t believe you’re such a die-hard bargain lover that missing a clearance sale would make you this traumatized. If there isn’t a zombie hoard in aisle five, what’s the problem? Come on, Dee, talk to me.

Dee. As pet names went, it was tolerable. And if I didn’t respond to it, something goofier would take its place.

They made space . . . for what comes after, I explained.

Turkeys and Pilgrims?

No. After after.

His eyes tracked from side to side, working out what I might mean. Then his features widened with horrified realization. Christmas already? But . . . it’s way too soon.

I nodded and pulled him toward the door. Once outside, where the traffic on Broadway grumbled past, I bent, panting, as if I’d sprinted a mile.

The season, and all the memories it dragged along in its wake, was coming whether I was ready or not.

2

Theo

November flapped in like a bad-omen crow, filling my girlfriend with dread. We’d spent Halloween at her friend Toshio’s place, a night of total artsy-fartsy weird awesomeness I would have laughed at a year ago. Tosh made entire suits of glowstick armor for us all and we danced in the dark to his Neo Shibuya-kei tunes from Japan. No booze or drugs necessary to have a pretty trippy time. Dani dancing reminded me of a tree in the breeze — strong and lithe. She laughed and laughed. A beautiful sound, like birdsong.

Next day, we’d swung past the CVS on 93rd, thinking we’d score some cheap treats post-Halloween to munch while painting theater sets at school. Instead, my girl discovered the merchandising gods had bypassed Thanksgiving entirely and gone straight to the holiday she dreads most: Christmas.

I’d known, in an abstract sort of way, that this would be a tough holiday for her. It’s the first without her dad, who died the day after Christmas last year. But no amount of reading books and websites about grief prepared me for how scary it would be to see her raw pain crack wide open again. The books’ warnings seemed so bland: Key milestones such as birthdays will be difficult for the bereaved. The first anniversary of a loved one’s passing will, for many, refresh and even deepen the sense of finality of loss.

Deepening difficulty. Talk about a euphemism. Welcome to Hell was more accurate.

Because this was also our first Christmas together. We’d been a couple since January and were still going strong. Or so I hoped. In other words, no pressure. None at all.

Ha. I was, of course, completely freaking out. I somehow had to make this an incredibly special holiday for her, but also leave space for the whole tragic mess to be remembered without sucking every ounce of happiness out of the season.

All I’d managed so far was to plant the idea with the student government subcommittee that it would be awesome to make our Winter Formal like the Yule Ball in the Harry Potter book. Azkaban? No, Goblet of Fire. Obviously, she’d never suspect it was my idea since I couldn’t keep deets like that straight, even though my girl was totally obsessed with the series. I had it on good authority she had a book crush on Neville Longbottom, the chubby klutz who turned into a heroic badass by senior year.

This didn’t bother me a bit. It gave me hope. Because she saw potential in guys other people overlooked. Dead-average guys like me. Ones stuck, forgettable, in the back row of every picture because of getting tall at thirteen. Ones hopeless at baseball and soccer and basketball but could row a scull pretty fast without tipping it over. Ones saddled with a nerdy name, after a great-grandfather. And grandfather. And father. All of them gravely disappointed with the crummy eye-hand coordination of their namesake who would never be so much as batboy for the Yankees.

So I couldn’t let her down with some lame boyfriend cliché of a present like a chunk of jewelry. No pair of earrings in the universe was worthy of a Christmas like this one. First with me, first without him.

If I’d ever met her dad, I might’ve had some clue how to bring her a little sliver of holiday joy without tripping emotional landmines. I had it on good authority her dad was a fun guy, a bit of a goofball, but generous and good-hearted. Even pretty devout, a pastor’s kid. Or did they call them priests in the Church of England?

Anyway, he was funny and British, so obviously a Monty Python DVD set would be right out. I’d heard the guy could recite every line of the dead parrot sketch, from pining for the fjords to off the twig. My best Ministry of Silly Walks impression would probably make my girl bawl her eyes out rather than laugh.

Anything to do with art museums was totally out, too. Trips to MoMA, the Metropolitan, or the Frick were the usual Saturday thing she did with her dad, my source said. So even if she had killer mad drawing skills, spent half our dates sketching me, I had to avoid arty stuff. No matter how much she was jonesing my mom’s Van Gogh sunflowers tote bag, that museum gift shop stuff was too risky.

It’s not like there was a website with Ten Perfect Gifts for the Grief-Stricken or How to Bring Holiday Cheer to the Depressive on Your List. Granted, she wasn’t depressed yet, but I could see her slipping away again, with a downer slump to her walk and the deflated way she sat. Around her dad’s birthday last spring, it was like someone slugged her into an invisible sixty-pound frame pack. Every step was effort. Looking out from behind her curtain of hair was effort. Saying words, any words, was effort.

I had it on good authority she was sleeping terribly again, an early sign of trouble.

Good authority. The one I had to milk for information. Her BFF who got to know what was really in her heart. All the things my girl wouldn’t tell me.

Ten months and there was still a wall.

So no, there was no pressure at all to make this Christmas special. Not one bit.

3

Dani

Last November I was blissfully unaware that my world was about to collapse. My biggest worries were juggling the half dozen major pre-Thanksgiving assignments and, with some trepidation, preparing for the Winter Formal.

Heather and I had been schlepping from store to store in search of dresses that wouldn’t wipe out our allowances for the next three years. She had found something fabulous in green that, with her red hair, made her look like an Irish goddess. Her date was Trevor from English with the big teeth and horsey gait who was so scared of girls, he perpetually stuttered and flattened himself against the lockers whenever the lacrosse chicks walked past. Okay, maybe they were pretty intimidating. Still, Heather could have done far better than Trev the Trembler. Someone with more personality than a quaking aspen.

I’d agreed to go with Mark Zane, the James Dean wannabe who flirted relentlessly with me through art and geometry and history and Spanish because . . . we had almost identical schedules? We both planned to do something with art as a career? Even after school, when I helped paint theatre sets, Mark was always there, leaning over my shoulder, asking why I’d added green to this shadow or turquoise to that highlight. He wore me down, I guess. So choosing a dress to go to the dance with Mr. Perpetual Pursuit seemed a tall order. Clearly I had to find something bland, or he’d think his bizarre attraction to me was somehow mutual. My eventual choice — pale gray, long sleeves — looked about as festive as a board meeting.

When I got the dress home and freed it from its plastic, Dad frowned in confusion. They doing job interviews at this dance?

I was going for ‘my date is merely tolerable and we’re keeping this strictly business.’

Oh, love, why ever did you agree to go if you dislike the lad?

He seemed so eager and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But to be honest, there’s something off about him. Half the time, he’s obsessed with me, but the other half . . . nothing.

Come now, you can tell me about the other half.

"I mean the other half is nothing. When he’s not coming on strong, he completely ignores me. Always hot or cold, never in between. I can’t figure out why."

Dad pondered this for a moment. It’s likely that one attitude is real, and the other is an act. Figure out who the audience is, and you’ll know which feelings are put-on.

Since Dad had insider knowledge of male minds, I took his advice. The Monday before the dance, from first period onward, I scanned the room whenever Mark abruptly turned on or off the charm. Who did he want to convince that he was interested in me — or wasn’t? He was both hot and cold in front of the class royalty, the teachers, and our friends Heather, Annelise, and Toshio. He was consistently cold in geometry, but only after grasping my elbow on the way in and whispering in my ear on the way out. The act wasn’t for anyone in our math class, then, but someone close by.

Across the hall, coming out of trig, she frowned at the sight of his lips near my ear: Amy Kroger, our tireless set-design crew leader who aspired to a backstage life on Broadway and a shelf of Tony awards for scenic design. The girl who could be on the cover of Ebony if her parents weren’t so freakishly protective. And it wasn’t just about the modeling they said no. It was no to lattes after school. No to PG-13 movies. No to outings without a parent along. And dating? Right. The girl was expected to live like a nun until the right boy from the right family made his appearance at some parent-approved venue.

As the puzzle came together, I felt for Amy. She could see past Mark’s irksome persona, the unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he struck Rebel without a Cause poses. He was too smart to really be that shallow, she once told me. When Mark was being opinionated, she always pushed back, hard. After one of their shouting matches, I remember him turning to me with eyes bright, like it was the highlight of his day to have Amy take him down a peg. But getting past the impenetrable shell her parents had built around her wouldn’t be easy. Poor Mark. He must really be smitten if he was stooping to jealousy games.

I was so relieved that Mark’s flirtation was staged to get Amy’s attention, I wanted to laugh aloud. In PE last period, I twirled my lacrosse stick more than played, eager to pass the time quickly. I couldn’t wait to tell Dad what a genius he was about boys and get his opinion on how to handle the situation.

But I never got the chance.

Halfway through class, the school counselor showed up. She pulled me aside to tell me that Dad hit black ice coming home from a photo shoot in Connecticut. His car crashed through a guardrail, soared off a steep hill, and bashed into a bank of oak trees in an acres-deep back yard. Luckily, the homeowner saw the smoke and pulled Dad from the burning wreck. Saved his life. For the time being, at least.

I stumbled away from class, still in my dorky Rexford sweat suit, too dazed to change or fix my wispy, lopsided ponytail. My mother met me at the school entrance in her impeccably tailored suit, not a hair out of place. For a moment we just stared at each other. The four tiles of distance between us could have been acres. Even at this moment of terror and uncertainty, she was stylish perfection and I was the hopeless slob.

Darling, let’s not keep your father waiting, she said, as if he were outside in the cab.

He wasn’t, of course. He was being Med-evac’ed to the trauma center at New York–Presbyterian on the East Side. As our cab sped along Center Drive toward the hospital, Mum told me all about Dad’s helicopter ride, saying he was coming home. But he wouldn’t come home. Not any closer than York Ave. at East 68th.

* * *

By Friday, Dad had weathered three surgeries and I was expected to keep my date with Mark. With no guidance from Dad, all I could do was go along with the whole charade in hopes that it would facilitate my friends’ romantic progress.

Some date. I was the insomniac zombie who could barely put one foot in front of the other. My skin stank of hospital and no amount of makeup could cover the deep purple circles under my eyes.

Heather did what she could to make my hair look nice, French braiding it diagonally across the back of my head and wrapping the end in gossamer silver ribbon. It reminded me of the accident site, of tire treads and ice, but I couldn’t tell her that. I couldn’t tell anyone much of anything. Endless afternoons and evenings in the ICU waiting room had largely made me mute.

Mark coped by keeping a hand on my arm, my shoulder, the small of my back. He pulled me onto the dance floor again and again, twining his fingers with mine and moving our arms as one. The dancing ventriloquist and his dummy.

I vaguely remember our group morphing with the crew and water polo contingent — basically the brainier jocks who get along with us art and theater geeks. Fletcher Reid from church kept popping up behind Mark like he was on a pogo stick, mouthing words I couldn’t make out. From his weird expressions, I guess he was trying to find out if I was okay.

I wasn’t.

During a slow song, I let Mark pull me tight and rock me, too tired to fight him. When I nestled into his shoulder and sighed, he stiffened, said my name in a warning tone.

It’s working, isn’t it? I murmured. Amy’s knifing me with her eyes, right?

He turned us in a semicircle, sucked in a breath, turned us back. Yup, he replied.

You got what you want. When this song is over, could you please take me home?

But—

Your jealousy bait is tired. I’ve had a long week.

He pulled back, stared at me like I’d slapped him out of a trance. How did you—? I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. You’re a great girl, Dani. I do . . . like you.

No, you don’t.

Sure I do, he drawled. Taking my hand, he led me to a corner of the room, under an archway from which hung an enormous ball of mistletoe. In one swift motion, he dipped me and pressed his mouth urgently against mine, like he needed my air or he’d die.

I didn’t know whether to fight him or play possum in hopes it would stop sooner. Fortunately, an astonished cry behind us made him snap to attention. He nearly dropped me on the floor in his pursuit of Amy, who fled the room sobbing in anguish.

As I stood there dazed beneath the mistletoe, one hand pressed to my kiss-scorched lips, Heather’s date Trevor shuffled up to me. Mistletoe, he said, pointing over my head, is renowned for m-m-making p-people insane. He gave me a chaste peck on the cheek, then with shaking hands pulled me to safety.

I kept dusting myself off, as if Mark’s touch had tainted me or Amy’s burning hurt had blown back ashes.

Zane’s a worthless poseur, Trevor spat, his anger pushing away the stutter.

Heather jogged up to join us. We should’ve rescued you sooner, honey. I’m so sorry.

I sighed. Well, at least now he knows Amy likes him back.

It was a despicable way to find out, Trevor growled.

Heather glanced nervously over her shoulder. "Guys, I hate to do this, but . . . I lost a bet to Fletch Reid in history yesterday. Now I owe him a dance. He’ll probably make me tango or foxtrot or something ridiculous. Do you mind, Trevor?"

He shook his head. Better get it over with while everyone’s still t-talking about Zane. If you n-need a rescue, just g-give me the sign.

This one? She grimaced like she’d seen a dead rat.

We all cracked up, then she went to face her fate.

You wanna dance, Trev? I asked.

Do you?

Not particularly.

He nodded and we continued threading our way through the crowd toward empty tables. You know, Amy wasn’t the only one upset about that kiss.

My guts pinched up. Oh, Trev . . . .

He held up his hands. N-no. Not me. I swear. B-but sss-Scotty looked ready to p-punch somebody.

Who?

Trevor swallowed hard. Scotty. Your, uh, lab p-partner in anatomy?

Theo Wescott? He saw that whole ridiculous scene? I could just picture him squinting askance at me the way he always did in anatomy, like I was an especially stupid mutant. Groaning, I scooped up my purse and pressed it to my burning face. Good Lord. As if he didn’t already think I’m the world’s biggest loser.

I’m pretty sure that isn’t what he thinks of you.

I haven’t actually touched the scalpel or made a single cut this entire semester. It scares the crap out of me. Tell me you’d want such a squeamish wimp for a lab partner.

I’d be so lucky, he blurted, then his cheeks flamed. I mean, um, I wish my partner could draw such amazing diagrams. You and Scotty seem to have a good system. He likes it. Likes you. I mean, from what I can t-t-tell. You know, from seeing you work together so well. I’d better shut up now because it’s none of my b-b-business, really.

I patted his arm. Trevor, Trevor, I appreciate the heroic effort to cheer me up. I don’t believe you for a minute, but your heart’s in the right place, so thank you. And good night.

* * *

I tromped to the subway in my dancing shoes, took the 2 train to Times Square and trundled through the maze of hallways and escalators to catch the Q to the East Side. The celebratory energy of the Friday night crowd heading to restaurants and bars and shows and parties made my loneliness all the deeper. Like I was Scrooge, forced by the Ghost of Christmas Present to watch merriment I couldn’t participate in.

The nurses on Dad’s unit already knew me by name, so I got a few concerned looks when I limped in at 10 p.m. in those terrible heels with a wilting orchid corsage strapped to my wrist. One of them steered me to a tray of rugelach to get my strength up. The cardboard menorah, hung above the tray, now sported another paper flame. I’d grown up with enough Jewish neighbors to know better than refuse a Hanukkah treat, even if my ability to taste had vanished days ago. I choked down the pastry, mumbling thanks and headed to Dad’s room.

Seeing his puffy purple face made my heart lurch. But I pulled the guest chair over to his good side, with the hand free of ports and tubes, and stroked his warm fingers with my own.

"Oh, Dad, what a night I’ve had. You wouldn’t believe the drama I got stuck in the middle of. It was all so stupid. I wish you could’ve told me how to avoid the whole mess. I would’ve rather been here reading you