Pictures Of Us

Pictures Of Us
Amy Garvey

The photographs lining the mantel of the Butterfield home tell their story. From shots of Michael and Tess as high school sweethearts to images of their daughter's wedding they look like the perfect family. But behind the pictures is a different tale that doesn't quite fit the love-at-first-sight, happily-ever-after version of Tess and Michael's marriage. And it's a tale that's revealed by a shocking phone call out of the blue.With that one call the fabric of their life together shifts, and everything they believe is challenged. Are they the perfect family? Or is that a facade as thin as the photos themselves?

“I have a twenty-year-old son named Drew,” Michael said

“And according to his mother, he wants to meet me.”

A son. The words didn’t make any sense at first. We had a daughter, Emma. Where had a son come from?

And then I did the math, feebly, my mind tripping back over the years, and figured it out.

“Tess?” Michael said.

I took Michael’s hand, holding it hard even though I couldn’t face him. My gaze was drawn to the line of framed photographs on my dresser—Michael and me, Michael and Emma, Emma alone. Each picture offered its own truth, a testament to love and laughter and family. Even if there were dozens of moments that hadn’t been captured, it didn’t make those happy faces a lie.

“Tomorrow, okay?” I whispered. “We can talk tomorrow.”

Because no matter what had happened twenty years ago, history had taught me that there would always be a tomorrow for us.

Dear Reader,

The idea of love at first sight, especially young love at first sight, has always fascinated me. Who we are at eighteen is not necessarily who we will be at thirty or forty, and real love is a big commitment to make when you’re still discovering who you are. We all know childhood sweethearts who have found happy endings, but I can’t believe the road is always perfectly smooth.

Tess and Michael Butterfield are one of those couples. Not even eighteen when they meet, they fall hard and fast for each other. They’re now married with a teenage daughter, and their life together is exactly what they’ve always dreamed about…until an unexpected phone call changes everything.

Or does it? As Michael and Tess learn together, love isn’t simply a gift—it’s a choice, one that has to be made over and over to keep it strong.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I did writing it. These are characters who first spoke to me long ago, and I’m thrilled at the chance to share them with you.

Best,

Amy Garvey

Pictures of Us

Amy Garvey

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amy Garvey has worked as a nanny, a video store clerk, a day camp counselor, a journalist, a Bloomingdale’s salesgirl and a romance editor, among other things, but her real love has always been writing. In her opinion, fictional people are usually more fun to spend time with than real people, even though she adores her husband and three kids. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, and when she’s not reading, she’s watching far too much TV, including Supernatural, her latest obsession, and reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Visit Amy’s Web site at www.amygarvey.com, or write to her at amy@amygarvey.com.

For April and Jess, whose story ended much too soon

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER ONE

MY WORLD CHANGED WITH ONE phone call on a Tuesday evening in May as my family and I were finishing a casual dinner of leftovers and bits and pieces from the fridge. My daughter, Emma, had dumped reheated sauce over a bowl of pasta, and my husband, Michael, had picked at the remains of a roast chicken, then washed it down with a beer. I was scraping the soggy end of a salad out of my bowl and into the garbage disposal when the phone rang and Emma bolted out of her chair to answer it. A fifteen-year-old girl’s response to a ringing telephone is alarming until you get used to it, and I remembered enough about being fifteen to smile at her crestfallen face when she handed the phone to her father. Her swing of dark blond hair fell across her cheek, and she looked bored.

“Dad, it’s for you.”

“Who is it?” Michael asked, squinting at the newspaper he’d spread on the table and frowning.

Emma rolled her eyes. If it wasn’t Jesse, the boy she was crushing on, she clearly didn’t care. “Some woman. She didn’t say.”

He glanced up then, wrinkling his brow, and took the phone into the living room. I heard his curious “Hello?” before he was out of earshot, and a minute later I heard the heavy thunk of something falling to the floor.

It wasn’t him, at least—I rushed in to find that he’d stumbled into the ottoman stationed in front of the huge old club chair that I intended to reupholster, knocking a stack of books onto the carpet. But his face was white, blank, his eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them, and as I watched, he sank onto the sofa wordlessly, the slim black portable phone still held to his ear.