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  Happily Ever After

  Copyright © 2003 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of books with coffee mug by Julie Chen © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of bookshelves © by Veer. All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Beth Sparkman and Heather Aldrin.

  Interior designed by Julie Chen

  Edited by Lorie Popp

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

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

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Warren, Susan, date.

  Happily ever after / Susan May Warren.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-8423-8117-1

  1. Women booksellers—Fiction. 2. Buildings—Repair and reconstruction—Fiction. 3. Minnesota—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A865 H37 2003

  813'.6—dc21 2002151822

  ISBN 978-1-4143-1383-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  13 12 11 10 09 08 07

  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my Lord

  and Savior, Jesus Christ,

  the giver of grace,

  the author of dreams.

  Thank You for reaching out

  of heaven to gather me into Your arms.

  To my husband, Andrew.

  You are my happily ever after.

  Content

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Writing Happily Ever After has shown me again God’s great provision for every dream. I am so thankful—and blessed—to be surrounded by a supportive cast of angels who have helped me in every stage of this story.

  My deepest gratitude and appreciation go to:

  Ellen Tarver, Sue Fuller, and Tanka, who devoted an entire Saturday to helping me plot a story about a woman who wanted to open a bookstore. Thank you for listening and for your steadfast enthusiasm.

  Christine Lynxwiler, who expertly critiqued each chapter. Your excellent comments made this story sing.

  Andrea Boeshaar, faithful friend who told me to keep dreaming. Your friendship has blessed me.

  Yvonne Howard, who read this story so many times she could recite it. What would I do without you?Thank you for the many hugs, for the kind and perfect words, and for serving the Lord with such devotion and sacrifice. We love you, Auntie Vonnie!

  Dee Henderson and Susan Downs, two authors I admire, kept my chin up and fueled my hopes. Thank you for your friendship and encouragement.

  Joyce Hart, my tireless agent who confirms that God knows our needs—and our hearts. Thank you for your wise words and your hard work.

  Anne Goldsmith, for your support and encouragement. Your suggestions not only strengthened this story but strengthened me as a writer. I will forever be in your debt.

  Lorie Popp—I’m so blessed to have you as my editor.

  What a joy to work with someone so talented. You put the polish on this story!

  Curt and Mary Ann Lund, who helped me fall in love with the North Shore. Thank you for every summer we spent there and for printing out this manuscript over and over again. God’s love for me started with you.

  Finally, thank you, Drewski, for reading a mushy book and giving me your male opinion. You’re living proof that God is a fulfiller of dreams. I would never have written one word if you hadn’t sent me to my room.

  O my people,

  trust in Him at all times.

  Pour out your heart

  to Him, for God is

  our refuge.

  PSALM 62:8

  Prologue

  He barely escaped with his shirt.

  “I am never signing another book as long as I live.”Reese Clark’s voice echoed like a gunshot through the five-story Mall of America parking garage. He swept off his black Stetson and dragged a hand through his unruly, shoulder-scraping brown hair. He grimaced at the layer of sweat that came off in his hand.

  The book signing had disintegrated into chaos, just as he’d expected. After two hours of orderly lines, with women breathing in his face and fawning over him as if he were a teenage movie idol, the peace had evaporated. Normal, law-abiding women began to push and argue.

  He’d climbed on his chair, waved to the back, and assured the crowd he would sign every copy of Siberian Runaway. Yet they still fought for space in the line that curved past Macy’s, snaked down West Market, and probably ended around the far corner of Nordstrom, another block farther. Despite ample bookstore security and two well-muscled mall uniforms barking orders, the crowd erupted. The noise and confusion resurrected enough ugly memories to send him looking for escape in the concrete parking labyrinth.

  “Reese, come back here!” Jacqueline Saint marched up behind him, her spike heels echoing in monstrous volumes against the cement floor. “If you want to sell books, you’ll wipe that pout off your face and march back inside.”

  He scowled at his publicist. “Back off, Jacqueline. You saw them in there.” He made a show of shuddering.“I’m done. I’m not doing this anymore. One more fanatic reader and I’m going over the edge.” Reese drew a deep breath. The smell of motor oil, cement, and dusty ceilings twisted his empty stomach. “I need some air.”

  Jacqueline dug her ruby red manicured fingernails into his arm. “You’ve got to loosen up, Reese. This isn’t Chicago. No one is lurking in the men’s room. I’ve made sure security is on you like glue. You’re fine.”

  He stiffened. “Maybe I just have a better memory than you do.”

  He heard her clucking, a habit that could shred his nerves to rags. “The price one pays for fame,” she said, not gently.

  He tried not to rise to that. She was the closest thing he had to a real friend right now, and that thought turned like a knife.

  “Listen, you’re almost done,” she soothed in false tones. “One more week on the morning-news circuit, then you can disappear and cultivate that ‘mystery man of the mountains’ image you love.” Her voice hardened.“Until then, baby, you sign books.”

  Reese jerked out of her grip. “Give me five minutes . . . at least.”

  Jacqueline raised a thin eyebrow and ran her cool gray eyes over him as if evaluating prey. Checking the time on her gold watch, she nodded crisply. “Five minutes. Clock starts now.”<
br />
  Reese tightened his jaw and stalked away. Jacqueline might be the best publicist his editor had to offer, but after three months of her nonstop company, he was ready to topple her off those lizard-skin spikes.

  He exhaled a hot, uneven breath. One week left. Then he would have nine peaceful months before the release of his next book. Soon he’d be off to the mountains—good riddance civilization. Not that he itched to shoulder a pack or climb inside his worn, polar sleeping bag again, but a multihued mountain sky, the threat of a storm, and even mosquitoes the size of his fist seemed a more welcoming atmosphere than a crowded mall bookstore. More welcoming—and safer. He’d take a face-to-face encounter with a grizzly over a lovesick fan any day, month, or year. He’d seen enough of crazed women up close and personal to make his blood turn cold.

  The book tour served its purpose, however—funds to explore the planet. His books sold millions. Why, he still didn’t understand. He wrote them because they called to be written, but women hungered after them, buying them in hardback, hot off the presses. Jacqueline reasoned it was because his hero never found the woman he sought, and his readers all fantasized they could be the one.

  Reese wandered between a Lexus and a grimy blue Chevette and leaned on the edge of the railing to peer down onto the highway, a spiraling mess of noise and exhaust. Beyond the concrete, the red-and-orange autumn foliage shimmered in the trees lining the Mississippi River. An errant breeze drifted toward him, carrying the tinge of drying leaves and the crisp anticipation of fall. They beckoned to him, and he never felt more trapped. Yes, he loved the writing, the traveling . . . it was the invasion of his privacy that pushed him to his last nerve. He was already plotting his escape. As traffic hummed below, Reese sunk his head in his arms.

  The car behind him coughed and sputtered. It wasn’t the Lexus. Reese whirled, intending to scuttle between the two vehicles. He made it as far as the front driver’s door. It swung open, crashed into his knees, and swiped dirt across his tailored suit pants. As the driver barreled out of the Chevette, he jumped back, frowning, and dusted off his knees. “Watch it!” he growled.

  He heard an offended gasp and immediately regretted his tone. Rudeness wasn’t his standard.

  “You watch it. My car can’t move; you can!” The spitfire comeback didn’t match the petite blonde steaming before him. Shoulder height and dressed in a black skirt and a white cashmere sweater, she didn’t look the type to drive such a clunker or to meet her problems head-on. He blinked at her.

  She clamped her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing.“What are you doing next to my car, anyway?”

  He raised his brows. “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to steal it.”

  Her mouth flew open a second before she harrumphed and shook her head. With one swift move she reached down beside the seat and popped the hood. When she stepped back and slammed the door, the sound clamored along the low-hanging ceiling.

  Silence passed between them as she stared at him.“Well, are you going to move, or are you paid to block traffic?”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled as he raised his hands in surrender. He scooted back to the railing.

  The woman brushed past him, widely avoiding the scum on her car. She slid two fingers under the hood and heaved it open. As she propped it up, she shot Reese a sidelong look. Her eyes seemed to soften. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m having a rotten day. First I lock myself out of the house, then I rip my skirt climbing through the window, then Macy’s computer eats my layaway. And now, old Noah here won’t start.”

  He bit his lip to stifle an unexpected grin. “Noah?”

  She tucked a chunk of golden hair behind her ear.“Don’t ask.”

  Still warring with a smirk, he stuck his hands into his pockets and leaned back against the cement wall, intrigued by a woman in fancy duds jiggling cables, adjusting the oil cap, and fingering the connections to her car battery. Remarkably, she had only a light coating of grease on her fingers when she turned back to him.

  She chewed her delicate lip for a moment. Her forlorn gaze shifted past him, as if the answer lay in the bronzed hills. Then abruptly, she pinned him with a tentative look. “Know anything about cars?”

  Reese rubbed his chin. He wasn’t interested in getting dirty. Especially since he had to return to a crowd of cheering women in the bookstore. . . . “Yep, I know a few things.” He stepped up to the car and leaned over the engine compartment.

  Beside him, she peered into the blackness. “What do you see?” Her hair fell over her face, and she flipped it back.

  Reese glanced at her and stifled another snigger. She had wiped a dash of oil across her cheek, like a football player. She was having a bad day.

  Pinching his lips together, Reese examined the black hole of her car. Rusty wires merged with fraying cables, and sticky muck layered the corroded battery. After a moment of perusal, during which the odor of oil seeped over him like a fog, he reached in and tweaked the spark-plug wires.“Give her a try,” he said, slapping his hands together.

  “Really? That’s all?” Her mouth opened in amazement when he nodded.

  “Loose spark-plug wires will stop you cold every time.”

  Her green eyes glowed with sudden delight, and for the first time he noticed they were the color of finely cut emeralds, with magical golden flecks. They reached out and held him until he blew out a breath and broke away.“Give her a try,” he repeated hoarsely and looked for a place to wipe his blackened fingers.

  “Righto!” She sprang toward the driver’s door.

  Reese fished around in his back pocket and found a handkerchief. So much for his starched appearance. He worked the grease off his fingers.

  The motor roared to life, and with it, inner snapshots of Reese’s high school days. The hum of a Chevy could never be forgotten, especially the sweet melody of his Corvette, shined and stored on blocks in a place he was trying to forget.

  With a sheepish grin, the blonde climbed out of her car. “It looks like you saved me.” Her face brightened into a genuine smile. “Thank you so much.” She reached over the open door. “Mona Reynolds.”

  Reese took her grip. “Clark.”

  Her eyes shone, and didn’t she have the most beautiful smattering of freckles dotting her high cheekbones when she grinned?

  “I suppose I should buy you a cup of coffee, huh?”

  He handed her the handkerchief. “Nah, I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” She frowned at the handkerchief, confused. He pointed to her face.“You’ve got a dab of war paint there.”

  She wrinkled her nose and ducked into the car, adjusting her rearview mirror.

  Reese snared the moment to gather his senses. Coffee suddenly sounded nice. An escape with a pretty, sincere woman who didn’t fawn over him might be just the breath of air he needed.

  She turned around, a line of red where the oil had been.“Thanks.” She handed the handkerchief back to him.

  “About coffee . . . ,” he began.

  “Oh, I would really love to treat you. Give me your card, and I’ll call you.”

  His hope deflated. “Uh, well, I don’t have one on me.”

  “Oh.” She appeared stymied, her lips puckering into an intriguing pout. “Well, maybe you could give me your number or your e-mail address?”

  Reese pulled off his hat and rubbed a hand along the brim. His vision of a quiet coffee date with him safely disguised as an out-of-town business executive named Clark disintegrated under the glare of reality.

  This was getting too complicated, especially with a crowd of fans waiting inside. It would only take running into the media and things would turn ugly. He shook his head. “Actually, I’m just passing through town.”

  She looked crestfallen, and he nearly changed his mind. After a silent moment, she sighed. “Well, thanks again. You were my hero today.”

  He smiled at that. Playing the part, he snuggled the Stetson back on his head and pulled the brim like a courteous cowboy.

&nb
sp; She shut the car door, waved once as she backed out, then disappeared in a fog of exhaust.

  Reese scowled against the acrid smell, and disappointment pinched his heart. For a second there, he thought Mona might have turned out to be more than just a fan. He’d never find a woman who would be able to see beneath the Reese Clark veneer. It was painfully clear he and women just weren’t meant to be.

  “Reese!”

  He and Jacqueline weren’t meant to be either. Reese trudged back to the skyway and his book tour.

  Applebee’s parking lot seemed fairly crowded for the predinner hour. Enormously late, Mona found a spot in the back and hustled to the entrance.

  Stopping at the hostess booth, she craned her neck and spotted Liza Beaumont waving crazily at a high table in the middle section. “Excuse me, my party ishere,” she said to the annoyed hostess and hurried toward Liza before her roommate made a scene and started hollering her name.

  “Well, look how she’s grown!”

  Mona skidded to a stop, cringing as Edith Draper rose from her seat at Liza’s table. The older woman headed toward Mona, her wide manicured hands reaching for Mona’s face. Her mother’s best friend thought she was still twelve years old.

  “Hello, Mrs. Draper,” Mona said weakly.

  “I just wish your mother was here to see you take this big step. Imagine, owning your own business. I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own child!” Edith’s eyes glistened.