Promise Me Forever (Debbie Macomber Classics) Read online

  I will admit this: love changed me. I was happier than I could ever remember being. And everyone noticed.

  At Thanksgiving a year ago, Paul flew back to Seattle on leave and asked me to be his wife. He even talked to my parents first. We were crazy in love. I’d waited a long time and when I gave him my heart, it was for forever.

  Right after our wedding in January, Paul got orders for Afghanistan. The helicopter went down on April 27, and my world imploded.

  I’d never experienced this kind of grief and I fear I handled it poorly. My parents and brother worried for me. It was my mother who suggested grief counseling. Because I was desperate to find a means to ease my pain, I agreed. In the end I was glad I attended the sessions. Doing so helped me understand my dreams, especially the one I had that first night at the inn.

  Contrary to what I’d been told about visitation dreams, Paul did nothing to reassure me he was at peace. Instead, he stood before me in full military gear. He was surrounded by a light that was so bright it was hard to look at him. Even so, I found it impossible to turn away.

  I wanted to run to him but was afraid that if I moved, he would disappear. I couldn’t bear to lose him again even if this was only an apparition.

  At first he didn’t speak. I didn’t either, unsure of what I could or should say. I remember that emotion filled my eyes with tears and I covered my mouth for fear I would cry out.

  He joined me then and took me in his arms, holding me close and running his hand down the back of my head, comforting me. I clung to him, unwilling to let him go. Over and over he whispered gentle words of love.

  When the lump in my throat eased, I looked up at him and our eyes met. It felt as though he was alive and we needed to catch up after a long absence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted him to explain. The fact that he’d had such a large life insurance policy had come as a shock. At first I’d felt guilty about accepting such a large amount of cash. Shouldn’t that money go to his family? But his mother was dead, and his father had remarried and lived in Australia. They had never been especially close. The lawyer told me Paul had been clear in his instructions.

  In my dream I wanted to tell Paul that I’d used the money to buy this bed-and-breakfast and that I’d named it after him. One of the first improvements I wanted to make was to plant a rose garden with a bench and an arbor. But in the dream, I said none of that because it seemed like he already knew.

  He brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me there ever so gently.

  “You’ve chosen well,” he whispered, his eyes warm with love. “In time you’ll know joy again.”

  Joy? I wanted to argue with him. It didn’t seem likely or even possible. One doesn’t heal from this kind of pain. I remembered how my family and friends had struggled to find the right words to comfort me. But there are no words … there simply are no words.

  And yet I didn’t argue with him. I wanted the dream to last and I feared that if I questioned him he would leave, and I wanted him to stay with me. A peaceful feeling had come to me, and my heart, which had carried this heavy burden, felt just a little lighter.

  “I don’t know that I can live without you,” I told him, and it was true.

  “You can and you will. In fact, you’ll have a long, full life,” Paul insisted. He sounded like the officer he’d been, giving out orders that were not to be questioned.

  “You will feel joy again,” he repeated, “and much of it will come from owning Rose Harbor Inn.”

  I frowned. I knew I was dreaming, but the dream was so vivid I wanted to believe it was real.

  “But …” My mind filled with questions.

  “This inn is my gift to you,” Paul continued. “Don’t doubt, my love. God will show you.” In the next instant he was gone.

  I cried out, begging him to come back, and my own sharp cry woke me. My tears were real, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and pillowcase.

  For a long time afterward I sat upright in the dark wanting to hold on to the feeling of my husband’s presence. Eventually it faded and almost against my will I fell back asleep.

  The next morning, I climbed out of bed and traipsed barefoot down the polished hardwood floor of the hallway to the small office off the kitchen. Turning on the desk lamp, I flipped through the pages of the reservation book the Frelingers had given me. I reviewed the names of the two guests due to arrive that week.

  Joshua Weaver had made his reservation just the week before I took ownership. The former owners had mentioned it at the time we signed the final papers.

  The second name on the list belonged to Abby Kincaid.

  Two guests.

  Paul had said this inn was his gift to me. I would do my best to make both guests comfortable; perhaps, in giving of myself, I would find the joy Paul had promised. And maybe, given time, it would be possible for me to find my way back to life.