Eva Marie Everson - Chasing Sunsets

2011 by Eva Marie Everson

Published by Revell

a division of Baker Publishing Group

P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

www.revellbooks.com

E-book edition created 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-3262-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Eva Marie Everson is represented by Wheelhouse Literary Group, www.Wheelhouse LiteraryGroup.com.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

To those who have loved, lost, and loved again.

Acknowledgments

Years ago, while looking for a place to get away and write, my author-friend Janice Elsheimer and I headed toward the west coast of Florida. Wed heard of a place called Cedar Key. A haven, we were told, for writers. I fell in love with it immediately. The stories of past glory and present beauty called out to me. And so I begin my thank you list with Janice. Thank you so much for daring to go the first time and for returning with me again and again.

Thank you, Kristy, for trusting me with pieces of your story and a glimpse into the world of a single mother. This isnt your storyits the story of so many. But you inspired me to write it.

Thank you, Ramona, for reading the first pages and telling me if it hooked or not. Thank you, Gayle and Rene, for your willingness to read as I wrote... and rewrote... and rewrote again. Thank you, Rene, for your honesty in saying, I dont like it, which forced me to start over, work harder, and make it happen for Kimberly and Steven... and the reader. Thank you to my wonderful novel group (Larry, Linda, Shelliewho read the entire manuscript!Loyd, Craig, and Edwina). Thank you to Christian Writers Guild Word Weavers Orlando. You be awesome! Thank you, Linda Morgan, for your medical expertise. Thank you to ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) for having all the answers when all I have is questions; to Nicole and Emanuel Rivera for the lovely song interpretation; and to the best freelance editorial voice I have, my daughter Jessica. And a special thanks goes to Patt Dunmire, who read when I couldnt read another word.

Thank you to the folks in Cedar Key who gave so much of their time so I could interview them. For anyone who is so inclined to now take a trip to paradise, there really is a Kona Joes, a Dilly Dally Gally, a Tonys with its World Champion Chowder, a Coconuts, a Cooks Caf, and Cedar Key Market. Some of the people are figments of my imagination, others are flesh and blood. So, thank you to Edie and Kona Joe, to Anne Graham Miller, extraordinary photographer, to Andy Bair (of the Island Hotel) who talked with me for such a long time about history and ghosts, to the good folks at Park Place who put up with me on my visits.

Of course, thank you to the team at Baker/Revell. Extraordinary editors Vicki Crumpton and Kristin Kornoelje rock!! And who could possibly rock more than my agent, Jonathan Clements? No one!

Thank you to my fans who continue to think I write good stories. I love you and appreciate you, every one!

Finally, to those who stand beside me and around me, supporting me always and in all ways: my sweet Saviormy first loveJesus, my honey-hubby Dennis, and all those who have come from that love, one way or another.

Prologue

Last night I dreamed of Cedar Key. In my dream, I returned to the vacation home of my childhood by way of State Road 24 and our familys dark blue 79 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham station wagon.

My father drove.

The year was 1982. I know, because in the dream, I was twelve.

My motherlooking remarkably like Princess Diana since shed had her hair cut and highlighted as the trend demandedsat on the passenger side of the front bench seat. From where I sat, I had a perfect side view of her. Her head lolled against the headrest; she kept her eyes closed behind large white-framed shades. After a moment, my eyes drifted from her face. I counted the odd-shaped freckles that danced across her tanned shoulders, exposed by a strapless floral sundress. Every so often she took in a deep breath and sighed; even in that, I thought her to be the most magnificent creature.

Mom was pregnant with my baby sister Ami, though no one knew it at the time. In my dream I knew it, in that ethereal way one has of knowing those kinds of things.

My sister Jayme-Leigh, whose nose was stuck so far into a book it was a wonder she didnt just fall right in, rode between our youngest sister, Heather, and me. At the backseat passengers window, Heathers face turned upward toward the afternoon sun to ward off car sickness. She held tight to her Cabbage Patch doll. Her lips were moving in perfect time to the lyrics of the Lionel Ritchie tune playing on the radio; anything to keep from throwing up. I tried to make out the song, but in my dream it was oddly distorted.

Such is the way of dreams.

Were nearly there, girls, Dad said, as he always did when we neared the road leading to our waterfront property.

Moms eyes opened on cue. She pulled her shades down to the tip of her pixie nose, turned toward the three of us, and said, All right, pets. Lets get our stuff together. No need scrambling when we get there. She shifted to face the front again, and when her eyes locked with mine, she winked. Did you bring your camera? she asked.

I nodded.

Soon enough the car rolled up to the house, which was elevated by cypress boards and veiled behind the dripping moss of a dozen ancient live oaks. Dad slid the gearshift to park. Four doors opened simultaneously, and we tumbled out. Within seconds I could taste sweat on my upper lip, could feel it beading in my armpits. Mom went to the back of the car, gently dictating orders of who was to carry what to the house, while Dad, keys rattling between his fingers, took heavy steps toward the front door.

Heather was the first to ask when we could go swimming. Mom, as she always did, reminded us that suitcases had to be unpacked and groceries put away. We hurriedmy sisters and meas fast as we could at twelve, eleven, and eight, our feet barely skimming the gleaming pine floors as we scampered for our shared bedroom. Suitcases were emptied, closets and drawers were filled, swimsuits were donned, and then, like horses being set free from the barn, we barreled down the narrow z-shaped outdoor staircase. I quickly spied Dad sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs on the cement platform near the waters edge and raced to reach him first. Hearing my arrival, he turned his handsome facecast in shades of bronze by the sun, which had begun to dip toward the marshy horizonand smiled. Theres nothing like this, Kimberly-Boo, he said, using the name by which hed called me my whole life. Not a place in the world like Cedar Key.

I squared my shoulders. How do I look, Dad? I asked. Do you like my new bathing suit? Mom bought it for me at Burdines.

Before he could answer, Jayme-Leigh and Heather were with us, both breathing hard. Why do you always have to do that? Jayme-Leigh asked me. You always have to get to Dad first. Like hes some race youre trying to win.