Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Read online

  Voice of Innocence

  Lindsay Detwiler

  Copyright © 2020 by Lindsay Detwiler

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2020

  For ordering questions, please direct your emails to [email protected] or visit www.lindsaydetwiler.com

  Other Books by the Author

  Standalones

  Still Us

  To Say Goodbye

  Without You

  The Trail to You

  Lines in the Sand Series

  Hidden Hearts

  Inked Hearts

  Wild Hearts

  Texan Hearts

  Promised Hearts

  Lone Hearts

  Then Comes Love Series

  Then Comes Love

  Where Love Went

  Where Love Went Holiday short

  Praise for Voice of Innocence

  “A MUST read for romantics and cynics, alike.”~ Tome Tender Book Blog

  “It is such a beautiful, heartbreaking and emotional coming of age story.” ~Goodreads review

  “Hang on tight and make sure you clear your schedule to read Voice of Innocence in one sitting because I know once I started, I didn't do much around my house but read!!” ~Goodreads review

  “I adored Lindsay's writing style. Her writing moved me. She'll suddenly throw a sentence heavy with poignance and truth that'll squeeze your heart and bring tears to your eyes.” ~Goodreads review

  “Voice of Innocence is a fantastic and tragic story. I would definitely recommend it. However, you should definitely keep tissues handy - I bawled my eyes out.” ~Goodreads review

  “Emma and Corbin have this crazy intense love that you think can stand the end of time!” ~Goodreads review

  “This book was beautiful. Innocence in the rawest form.” ~Goodreads review

  “Lindsay Detwiler certainly has a way of capturing the reader and pulling them into her world.” ~Goodreads review

  “I would recommend this book to anyone and rate it all the stars. Get online and buy this now, it deserves so much hype and fame!” ~Goodreads Review

  “This story is 100% gripping and keeps you wanting more.” ~Goodreads review

  “Voice of Innocence is exquisite. A must read!” ~Goodreads review

  To my husband, my first love

  Prologue

  Emma

  You never forget your first love.

  We’ve all heard that saying, probably more times than we care to. Whether he’s the jock on the football team, the lead singer in the town’s less-than-famous and less-than talented heavy metal band, or the artsy “life is what it is” guy, the girl who falls for him is granted the eternal memories of him. For some, however, perhaps the better terminology is doomed—doomed with the memories, the connections, and the life-changing relationship.

  Perhaps I seem bitter. Perhaps I am. I, Emma Ranstein, am the girl who lives in every small town. Maybe you even know a girl like me, at least to some extent. While debating between healthy and sugary cereals at the local food market, ladies in their World’s Best Grandma sweatshirts whisper a bit too loudly, “Oh, there’s that poor Emma. Sweet girl. I remember when she was going places. If only…,” or “Life has dealt her such a bad hand.” Perhaps, in many ways, they are right. However, I am not only that girl you know in town that everybody pities. The reasons behind my sorrow are probably not experienced by many, which is fortunate.

  At forty-seven-years-old, I suppose I haven’t done too badly for myself, at least from an external look. I’ve got the proverbial “American Dream”—sort of. Rosebushes swirl around a rustic picket fence, peeling and weathered, in front of my gleaming house. Its two stories and wraparound porch scream Americana. I’ve got a gorgeous husband named John, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. He’s a doctor by day, and a wonderful companion by night, when he’s not on an emergency call. Our life together is easy enough. We live comfortably, contentedly even. We don’t have any children, but our one-hundred-and-thirty-pound yellow lab Hank helps fill this void with his oversized paws and heart. Every summer, we plop ourselves into two lounge chairs on the sands of the Outer Banks for a week. I go to my exercise class twice a week after work to sweat out my frustrations and attempt to fit into my skinny jeans, and I have a few friends I go out with on Friday nights to throw back a few Long Island’s with. So, to an outsider, my life seems normal, maybe even good. Those who know me best, though, look at my life with a sense of loss, even though they won’t admit it to my face.

  You might be thinking that John, my husband, was my first love. Typical romance story, right? We met in college, perhaps an Ivy League. He swept me off my feet, we got married, he went to medical school, and here we are. A wipe-your-hands-off, neat and clean, predictable story, nothing exciting here to tell—might as well stop reading. Except this isn’t how it happened, not even close.

  First of all, we didn’t meet in college. I never went to college. I know that in today’s world where most high school graduates go on to higher education, you may be thinking I must have been a bad student. Maybe I was an aspiring actress or artist. Maybe my family was poor, or maybe I married right out of high school. I wish any of these alternatives were viable. They definitely beat the truth, at least in my eyes.

  I had dreams of college, dreams of becoming a teacher. In the great scheme of things, this does not seem like such a grand aspiration to most people. After all, we know that a teacher’s salary is not the six figures of a CEO or a famous singer. In a world where money rules all, why would one fantasize about such a career? I cannot answer this clearly or concisely. All I know is that in some deep part of me, I always felt that it was my purpose. School caressed me into my best self. Even with my less-than-supermodel-ish figure, my mousey-brown hair, the teasing glares of my popular peers and troubles at home, I didn’t feel inferior in that desk. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a total nerd. I had friends. I went to school dances and football games. Like every other teenage girl, I cried about the insurmountable inequities of the world, such as why I had to be a brunette when all of the guys wanted blondes. Still, my schoolwork kept me grounded in reality. Every A made me feel unstoppable, every answer made me crave more. Looking back, it seems like a no-brainer that I would choose a career in education. I never wanted to leave school. Moreover, I wanted to ignite the fire for education in others that was once sparked in me.

  Why, then, am I going to a tiny cubicle, day in and day out? Why have I been typing letters and alphabetizing files in a dingy office for several decades instead of influencing our country’s youngest minds? This is a story too complicated for the time being. It is my second biggest regret. I promise that I will get to the reason. Now is the time for other confessions and reflections. It is my first biggest regret that plagues my mind, and I cannot seem to get past the memory.

  So, John and I didn’t meet in college. The truth is, John and I met when I was forty-two. He crashed into my life when I had given up on everything, including love. He opened my eyes to new possibilities. I will always be grateful for that, no matter how my life�
��s story plays out. I will always have love for him in my heart. However, he wasn’t my first love or, if I’m being honest, my strongest love.

  As I said earlier, everyone knows what first love entails—secret kisses, hearts palpitating with new emotions, and the floating dreams of what lie ahead. We all think our first love will be the “one and only,” the person we grow old with.

  Such is rarely the case.

  Instead, we suffer the agonizing breakup. Our friends tell us, “You’ll find someone new,” or “He wasn’t right for you,” or, “Single is better.” We try to believe these truths and for some of us, they eventually do ring true. Time, the great eraser of emotion, passes. We feel passive about the situation. Maybe we find someone new, or maybe we play the field for a while. No matter what we do, no matter how much time passes, we never forget. Yes, we forgive. Yes, emotions may not be so intense. Maybe we even convince ourselves that he truly wasn’t the one, that we didn’t know ourselves enough then to know what love was. But we never forget those fleeting moments of innocence, promise, and, in short, pure love.

  Such is my curse.

  Like most girls, I thought my first love was my soul mate. He understood me in ways no one could. All through high school we were an exclusive couple. We talked of marriage, houses, kids, and dogs. We talked about hopes, fears, dreams, and desires. He made me a more exuberant person, and I seemed to keep him on the straight path. Not that he was a bad kid, maybe a little rebellious. Detention halls, a few senseless pranks, and a bit of an aversion to homework flooded his character. Nothing I couldn’t tame. Nonetheless, he came from an average family and had strong morals. He had a huge heart and would help anyone who asked, even if it meant giving his last bit of lunch money to a kid who came from a destitute family. Our love was strong, unwavering, and unbreakable…or so we thought.

  It’s been thirty-two years since I first laid eyes on him, the man who would change my life forever. He is also the man who plagues my life. For I cannot forget my first love. Even though our relationship has dissipated, the feelings live on. I know that our time has passed and that way too much has happened for any sort of rekindling. Today, however, on one of the most momentous days of his life, I cannot help but trace our past together. I cannot help but ponder what might have been if things had just been a little different, or if I had just believed. No, my first love is not like many others. It is an intricate, winding tale that doesn’t necessarily end with our final good-bye twenty-eight years ago. It is a story that most girls cannot lay claim to, nor would they want to.

  My first love was convicted of murder at the age of nineteen-years old, during the prime of our lives.

  My first love went to jail for twenty-eight-years.

  My first love told me he didn’t do it and begged me to believe him.

  And, most importantly, my first love didn’t do it.

  Chapter One: Miracles

  Emma

  With my baggy gray sweatpants and oversized T-shirt on, I slouch at the kitchen sink, peering out the window with glassy eyes. Hank pounces on his favorite tennis ball in the backyard, slobber flying as he shakes the ball to death. The neighbor’s dusky gray cat languidly trespasses outside the perimeter of our fence, and Hank loses it. He darts back and forth along the peeling fence, angered at the cage that he cannot escape from, in order to annihilate this tempting creature. I have an inexplicable urge to open that gate and let Hank run.

  A loose piece of hair traipses into my face, reminding me of how much of a mess I must appear. Blaring with a piercing tone, the timer on the oven startles me. John will be home any minute. I better pull it together if I don’t want him to suspect something is up.

  This morning I did something a bit ludicrous, at least for my rigid, square self. I called in sick at the office. I know my life must seem pretty dull. I get my kicks from calling in sick one day. Big deal, huh? For me, though, it is a step from the normal path. It’s been my first call-off in three years. It’s the first time ever that I called off sick when no physical ailment plagued me. After John left for work this morning, I just couldn’t bear to stuff myself into that rigid black suit and pointy-toed stilettos, symbolic of the true professional. I couldn’t bear the thought of mindlessly filing, typing, sorting, and answering phones—not on a day like today. So instead, I spent the day doing…well, nothing. I stayed in my frumpy sweatpants for the day, skipped the shower, and even took Hank for a walk. Even though today is perhaps one of the hardest days, it was sort of wonderful to have nothing to do and nowhere to go. It was even more comforting not having to be anyone for the day.

  I pull my domestic masterpiece, perfectly stacked lasagna accompanied by homemade bread, out of the oven. It actually screams edible, a unique feat for my handiwork. Considering my recent kitchen disasters, which include pancakes burnt beyond recognition and a blown-up microwave due to forgotten aluminum foil, John will be shocked. Now that I think about it, maybe the lasagna was too much. He will know something is up when he sees that I have been cooking all day. Without the familiar smell of Chinese or fried chicken from the local fast-food restaurant wafting through the kitchen, his body will probably slip into shock immediately. After he recovers, the questions will start.

  I am wrong, though. When John walks through the door five minutes later, he seems happy for my efforts. “Looks great, babe,” he says winking at me. He kisses me on the cheek, saying nothing about my less-than-gorgeous appearance. But that’s John for you, always the sensitive one.

  After he changes into some perfectly fitting jeans and an old, familiar T-shirt, he grabs his chair at the table. As I plop a piece of the lasagna onto his plate, he asks, “So, anything happen today?” He looks at me expectantly but hesitantly.

  “Nothing much,” I say, with a faked tone of indifference in my voice. He takes a careful, teeny-tiny bite, ponders over it, and nods in surprise.

  “It’s actually…delicious,” he remarks, with true shock in his tone.

  “It’s actually delicious? What did you expect?” I poke.

  “Well…this is the fire extinguisher queen we’re talking about here. Seriously, Emma, it’s great. Maybe you’ve missed your calling.”

  I smile with genuine happiness. It has always been this way with John and I; it’s easy, comfortable, and familiar. He always knows just what to say to lighten a mood. Even if I don’t want it to, a smile creeps onto my face when he is around. An inner warmth radiates from his every cell, tantalizing mine to do the same. I feel a glow in my cheeks and steadfastness in my bones with John, a feeling that usurped my body only one time before…

  As I think these thoughts, I must wear my inner turmoil on my expression, because John asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I manage to spit out.

  “Is there something you want to talk about, Emma? You know you can talk to me about anything,” he says. He has dropped his fork and reaches for my hand across the table, barely managing to avoid dragging his sleeve in the saucy mess on his plate.

  “It’s nothing, John. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day,” I stammer. I avoid his eyes with acute resistance. His eyes can always seek the truth in me, even if I don’t want him to.

  “Emma, you’re not fooling me. I know what’s going on. I know what today is. I’ve read the papers, you know,” he says. He speaks quietly and slowly, as if he is afraid his very words will break me into a million little pieces. Usually, I am thankful for his immense sensitivity and empathy. Today, it just frustrates me.

  “John, of course you know what today is,” I spew. “Every damn news channel in the country has been plastering his face all over the place like he’s some kind of miracle.” I rise from my seat and jolt to the window, my inadvertent safe spot. I glance out at Hank, who is still pacing back and forth while the neighbor cat taunts him.

  John saunters over to me and delicately pulls me into him. I feel his soft, warm breath on my neck and feel his need to make everything better. He holds me, silent a
nd still, giving me time to cool off. There is strength in his arms and warmth that goes beyond just the physical heat from his body. I can feel him silently willing me to breathe, to relax, and to just be. Tears well in my eyes, and I feel a sense of regret. This can’t be easy for him either.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t know why I’m so upset.”

  “It’s natural. He was important to you.”

  My head shakes side to side as my eyes squint shut, trying to stop the incessant flow of moisture. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t even matter now. He doesn’t even matter now.”

  “But yes, he does, Emma. He was your first. He was your only for a long time. You two went through some pretty intense things. Things you shouldn’t have had to go through.” He spins me around now and looks at me. Genuine concern glints in the depth of his eyes, cradling me with their concern. “You can talk to me about this. I know you love me. But I also know that you loved him for a long time. This can’t be easy on you. “

  “John, honestly,” I plea, breaking his grip on my arms. “I’m fine. It was so long ago. I’m sure he doesn’t even think about me anymore. I’m sure he’s moved on and forgotten all about me and what I did to him. I’m sure that he has much more important worries right now.”

  “Baby, trust me, no one could forget about you.” John smiles, taking a step back to give me my space.

  “John, listen to me. I love you. Yes, he was important to me at one time. But not anymore. You’re all that matters. And yes, what happened to him was tragic. And awful. It shouldn’t have happened, it wasn’t fair. And yes, I can’t help but wonder what it must be like for him, what he must be feeling today. But that’s it. It’s just…curiosity. No regrets,” I say.