Redemption: Path of Discovery Series - Book I

By C.G. Clark

Everyone will eventually find themselves questioning why life happens the way it does. It may be a single, significant event or a series of smaller situations that shake their foundation. While some are content with the idea that everything happens for a reason, others need more concrete proof. Facing unanswered questions can be like a steady dr

• Language: English
• Publisher: CGClark
• Release date: Oct 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988999515

C.G. Clark

C.G. Clark is an award-winning author of several novels, the mother of two, grandmother of nine, and wife of a retired military pilot. Her life and faith provide a wealth of raw material for her writing, but she also loves watching the world go by and waiting for the next flash of creativity. She hopes readers will connect with her characters, enjoy their journey, and perhaps draw inspiration from their stories.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: REFLECTIONS

It was one of those sunsets you might see on a postcard or in one of those fancy coffee-table books. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a vibrant mix of oranges, reds, and magentas. A stunning display of the same hues blanketed the rolling hillsides, creating a patchwork of autumn splendor. The clear air carried a hint of frost, a reminder of the chilly weeks ahead.

My name is Danica Harrington, and this used to be my favorite time of year. As summer faded away, fall ushered in shorter days and cooler temperatures, hinting that an incredible transformation was just around the corner. I used to love sitting on the porch, watching each sunset perform its magical color transition. Every evening offered the promise of a new color show, from dazzling to iridescent, slowly becoming subdued, then fading into muted shades of gray.

When I was young, I would wait for that one perfect moment when the landscape seemed lit from within, transformed by an electric palette of colors. Today was that day, but I didn’t see the beauty this time. It was as if something had sucked all the joy out of my life.

I lingered outside in the twilight, the cooling temperature a stark contrast to the vibrant colors that had filled the sky earlier. I wrapped my blanket tighter and listened to the gentle rustle of the trees, unwilling to disturb the stillness I had found in this secluded place.

My cell phone vibrated, and I wondered if silence was not in the cards for me. I stared at the screen, and a single word caught my eye … Jackson. I sighed—if I didn’t answer, he would call again, even though he didn’t need to.

He knew where I was because he had linked our phones with that stupid phone app that found other phones. He insisted it was a safety measure in case something happened, and I couldn’t reach him. So much for privacy and solitude.

I breathed deeply to calm a flash of angry frustration, then exhaled.

Hello.

You arrived safely?

It was a rhetorical question. I heard the edge in his voice, and I made a concerted effort to steady mine.

Yes. I’m sorry. I should have called.

Do you have everything you need?

He thought he was being helpful, but how was I supposed to function on my own if he didn’t give me the space to try? He was so fond of saying he was not the controlling type, but his actions said otherwise. Was it possible he didn’t realize it? Perhaps, and like always, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I took extra care not to give away my irritation.

I’m fine.

Silence. I counted … one … two … three. I heard him sigh.

Okay. Call if you need anything.

Thanks. I will. Bye.

Silence resumed, and I stared at the blank screen. It must have been hard for him to end the conversation without his usual closing, but the words hung in the air, unsaid but just as present—I love you. It was such a natural part of his vocabulary that it almost sounded like a reflex remark rather than something said with forethought.

I thought about how everyone seemed able to use that phrase with little effort … everyone except me. Did those words ever come from the heart, or was that only in bedtime stories? They were supposed to flow naturally, expressing the feeling, but did I ever understand the concept? I wasn’t sure I did—I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Wasn’t that why I was sitting alone on the porch of a rustic cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains?

I added one more unanswered question to my list and gazed into the darkness beyond the cabin. As the sky grew darker, the first trace of the rising moon appeared above the hilltops, and the stars appeared one by one in the ink-black sky that had been ablaze with color no less than an hour before.

The change had occurred almost before I was aware it happened. Like a snapshot of my life, I saw the transition from spectacular highs full of brilliance to an empty expanse with tiny points of light struggling to break through the darkness. The chilled night air crept under my woolen blanket. I shivered and retreated indoors.

It had been several hours since I lit the fire in the fireplace. Even though it had died down, there was still enough lingering heat for a little prodding to revive the flame. I added a few more logs, and the room was soon filled with a pleasant crackling and comforting warmth.

After a light supper, I curled up on the couch and thought about why I was alone … in the middle of nowhere … on purpose.

I stared at the tendrils of flame curling around the pieces of wood, and one reason kept shoving itself to the forefront of my mind. My life was a lie built on the foundation of a child’s fantasy.

All little girls imagine themselves as the princess in their favorite fairytales. No matter what, the prince always saved the princess, and they lived happily ever after. I was no different. I wanted that fairytale kind of love that withstood the test of time and defied all odds. I had always dreamed of finding my prince, having him whisk me away on his white horse, and living in a castle where love conquered all.

Sadly, that wasn’t real life, but I was a hopeless romantic who refused to accept it. I kept searching for approval, acceptance … and love. Over and over, I reached for the prize only to have it jerked away. Each time, I held on to my faith, sure I was meant for more, convinced that one day I would have my fairytale life. One day, I thought I had found him … my prince.

He treated me like the princess in my dreams, spoiling me with gifts and whispering words of love and acceptance. I was so happy when he proposed marriage—my heart couldn’t have been more full. I thought my dream had come true … but it was a mirage. No sooner had the echo of the I do faded than it became clear my dream was fiction. I was not a cherished wife, but a servant expected to cook, clean, and attend to his physical needs whenever he demanded.

One more time, love was just a word with an elusive meaning in a storybook on my shelf. When I learned I was pregnant, I thought a child would need and love me, would fill the void in my heart, but even that was an illusion.

My husband had a vice—alcohol—and it gave him the courage to move beyond being demanding to cruelty. One particular night was the turning point, and the chip became a crack that finally shattered my belief in the fairytale.

A tear spilled over, catching the firelight as it trickled down my cheek. I swiped it away, but my vision blurred as more tears followed. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. It had happened so long ago.

I had fed and bathed the baby, then settled the tiny bundle in her crib. When I retired for the night, I never imagined my next memory would be of his face in a rage.

It was past midnight when he returned home to find locked doors. Suddenly, he was there, in our bedroom. He had grabbed me by the hair, dragging me down the hallway to a broken front door and door frame. I remembered the pain, the panic, the slurred and broken phrases, shouted so close to my face that the alcohol on his breath burned my eyes.

The memory played out like a movie in slow motion, his words a hollow refrain as he stumbled toward the baby’s room, intent on taking his dog and child with him. I had moved to block the door and saw two barrels of a shotgun leveled at my face, his face at the other end, his finger on the trigger. I had felt so calm, but I was furious inside.

I looked at the fire again, the anger I’d felt so long ago had my heart racing and my face turning red. How dare he threaten my child? I had asked myself the same question then.

He had seemed surprised when I didn’t flinch, and he set down the shotgun, grabbed the dog by the collar, and left. My legs had turned to jelly as I heard his car roar down the street. I remembered the carpet between my fingers as I crawled to the phone to call my father and begged him to come for us.

Months later, the divorce was final, but I was not free of him. Every other weekend, I had to hand my precious child over to that monster, because some twisted part of the law sided with him, leaving me no choice.

Every two weeks, the clock’s second hand crawled past each of the sixty marks in its unending circle, taunting me until my baby was in my arms again, safe and sound. One weekend that didn’t happen, and the nick in my confidence cracked again, spreading in all directions.

When I arrived at his house, it was empty … no furniture, curtains, or signs of habitation. They were gone—all of them—including my precious baby.

The flames danced in the fireplace, and I recalled the panic, the sick void in my stomach, as I dialed his phone number. The memory still made my blood run cold—the tone of his voice when he said I would never see my baby again unless I signed over full custody to him. He had sounded so cruel, so heartless, but so pleased with himself as he inflicted pain on someone he was supposed to love.

I wiped away another tear and focused on relaxing my jaw. I remembered the feeling of helplessness. My parents had said I brought it on myself and would have to figure it out. The cracks reached my heart, and my faith had splintered into a million pieces.

A log crackled and broke, shedding sparks that sought escape through the flames. I watched the tiny embers fight to survive but lose their battle as the fire reclaimed some and others faded away. They reminded me of joy, bright yet fragile. One moment they were alive and brilliant, then gone the second a cool breeze snuffed them out.

A burst of air suddenly fed the flames. They erupted, reaching for the chimney, hypnotic in their movements as they sought more fuel and a path of escape. I wondered what it must be like to be free to float into the heavens and disappear. Again, I thought about how I arrived at this place, at this time in my life.

How could I have gotten so much so wrong?

Months later, alone and broken, I met someone unexpected—kind, self-assured, and determined to care for me. I let my guard down and shared my past with him. I suppose I thought he deserved to know what he was getting into.

To my surprise, he did not shy away. He even helped me get my daughter back. I was grateful, but I still couldn’t share my heart. I was unwilling to take the chance, but he persevered through my lack of trust and defensive sarcasm. It was two years before I dared to say yes to becoming Mrs. Jackson Harrington.

His love seemed unconditional. He never mentioned my shortcomings or held any part of my past against me—but there was a price. There’s always a price. I quickly learned I married Mrs. Harrington’s favorite son. She labeled me a gold digger, and the rest of the family shared her viewpoint. Once again, any hope of a family accepting me with love and support faded into the shadows.

I shifted on the sofa and pulled the blanket a little closer.

They were right. I didn’t like to be alone.

Everyone said I was incapable of caring for myself, and my past supported that notion. After all, I went from living at home to a failed marriage, then returned to my parent’s house because I could not financially support a small child. When I married Jackson, I did it again—I left my parent’s home to set up housekeeping with a new husband.

I wanted to be loved and to return that love, to have a marriage relationship other people shared, with passion and respect for each other. I wanted that caring partnership to continue long into our sunset years, but that was the same fairytale I believed in as a child. My first marriage failed, and my second never blossomed into what I imagined.

Perhaps I expected too much. Maybe such a relationship was never supposed to be more than one person pledging themselves to someone else til death do us part.

Still, shouldn’t a marriage include something more … something that tied two people together and brought joy and some measure of happiness for a lifetime?

Jackson had promised a better life where I would always be cared for and cherished.

Wasn’t that what I had been looking for? Was the rest just part of what we read to our children as bedtime stories? What Jackson offered was more than I got the first time. Couldn’t that be love?

I still wasn’t sure.

When I married him, I made another attempt to grasp that elusive concept I used to call faith. Once again, time proved my judgment flawed when it turned out to be nothing like what I’d hoped for or envisioned, and my fairytale faded into the shadows again.

But why? What happened?

I looked up at the wood planks forming the cabin’s vaulted ceiling. They fit so well together, following the angle of the roof to meet at the peak. I saw symmetry, each board relying on the others but holding onto its individual strength and beauty. Why couldn’t I be content doing the same, supporting my husband while maintaining my independence?

Because that’s not who you are. You’re supposed to be dependent. Remember?

I huffed at my own words and poked at the fire again. One of the fire tendrils broke away from the rest. It took on the shape of wings and reminded me of Jackson, confident, secure, and unafraid to take flight.

Jackson had been flying since he was fifteen. It had been his passion long before he met me. He once told me I