What She Wanted

by Julie Anne Lindsey

Overview

It seems Katy has been waiting for her eighteenth birthday all her life. Raised by a grandfather who never got over losing Katy’s mother to cancer at a young age, she’s dreamed of a life free of the burdens of her family’s tragedies. But just before her birthday, she learns tragedy isn’t finished telling its story . . .
 
Before she can begin her new life, Katy’s grandfather suffers a heart attack, a box of her mother’s keepsakes, including a journal written to Katy while she was in her mother’s womb, at his side. Believing the only thing her grandpa loves enough to live for is her mother’s memory, Katy reads to him from the journal every night at the hospital. Night after night, line after line, Katy begins to see herself as her mother saw her in her dreams. Buoyed by her mother’s undying love and conviction, Katy vows to make her mother’s sacrifice mean something and promises to fulfill all her mother’s requests. Even the hard ones. Especially those . . .

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781601834881
Publisher:	Kensington
Publication date:	07/19/2016
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
Pages:	350
Sales rank:	612,296
File size:	404 KB
Age Range:	14 Years

About the Author

Julie Anne Lindsey is a multi-genre author who writes the stories that keep her up at night. She’s a self-proclaimed nerd with a penchant for words and a proclivity for fun. Julie lives in rural Ohio with her husband and three small children. Visit her website at: Julieannelindsey.com, tweet her @JulieALindsey, and find her on Facebook.

Read an Excerpt

What She Wanted

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By Julie Anne Lindsey

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

Copyright © 2016 Julie Anne Lindsey
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60183-489-8

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CHAPTER 1

What did I have to offer?

I'd answered the question dozens of times over the past two years. Colleges around the country all wanted to know. What could I contribute to their campus? The accurate answer was nothing. My bumbling essay answers weren't much better. I needed what they had, not the other way around. Not that it mattered.

I swiveled in my desk chair, crossing too-long legs under a too-short desk. Sweat ran over my temples, despite the wildly spinning ceiling fan overhead. The brutal summer heat had dried up local creeks and forced Mark, my grandpa, to turn off the air conditioner while he was at work. He couldn't afford to keep the house livable at these temperatures. He hated the electric bills. Mark hated everything.

I fingered a stack of college applications and tossed them at my best friend, Heidi. "I thought this summer would be amazing. So far, it's just hot. And depressing."

She flopped back on my bed, scattering pillows and raising the applications overhead for inspection. "It's not too late to come with me to Kent State. You have the grades, and they have a great film school."

"Not this year." Mark had conveniently forgotten to sign my FAFSA or share any of the personal tax information I needed to finish the financial aid paperwork and leave town. "Maybe next."

Packing boxes lined the far wall, filled with winter clothes, tattered books, and keepsakes from my time at Monroe Central High School. "I'm not applying anywhere else until I'm eighteen. Once I'm on my own, I'll apply for unsubsidized loans and try to save some money. Maybe I can find a way to pay the tuition as I go."

Heidi set the letters aside and lifted onto her elbows. Concern lined her freckled face. "Your grandpa didn't sign the financial aid papers? He promised." Her dead tone and sad eyes stung my heart. She still had hope for Mark.

"To be fair, he never promised. He grunted and left the room."

Mark didn't make a habit of speaking to me. Despite the fact I was his only family, we shared the century-old farmhouse in deafening silence. Him wishing I hadn't been born and me in complete agreement.

I hoisted my camera from its bag and plugged it into my laptop.

Heidi rolled onto her tummy and crawled to my headboard, where I'd tacked and taped a few of my favorite photos. "Graduation." She touched a trio of recent shots. "Look at Mr. Rand. He's crying."

"He wasn't the only one. A few teachers were too. I guess they cared."

"Small towns," she whispered.

"Yep." I let the p pop on my lips. "It was a good day."

She pulled one photo loose and turned back to me. "I'm sorry your grandpa couldn't make it."

I wrinkled my nose. "Yeah. Well, Mom didn't get to graduate." Stubborn emotion clogged my throat. Everyone knew whose fault that was. Mine.

I turned stinging eyes to the computer screen and added a few new photos to my picture journal. "Did you see the butterfly garden opens this weekend?"

"I love that place. My mom's taken me every summer since I was in diapers. Hey, you want to come? We can go opening day and get ice cream after."

"Yes." I spun to face her. "But guess who gets paid to go this time? Three hundred dollars for enough shots to make a publicity brochure."

Heidi pounded her feet. "Shut. Up. That's almost enough for your security deposit."

"Yep." I disconnected my camera and stuffed it back into its worn leather bag. The desktop image snapped back in place. New York Film Academy. A place I'd dreamed of attending since I'd learned of its existence in fourth grade.

I grabbed the packing tape and bounced to my feet. "I already have enough in savings to pay the difference plus first month's rent. I just need to hurry up and turn eighteen so I can sign that lease agreement." I dragged a line of tape across the top of one unsealed box.

Heidi squealed. "We're going to have so much fun in your new apartment this summer. It'll be even better in the fall, when you go to Kent with me."

"There won't be room for another freshman in the dorms by the time I have my birthday and apply. Kent's too far to commute." I glanced at my laptop. The flags outside the New York Film Academy billowed in the wind. I'd researched every photography school in the world, looking for my dream escape, and that was it. NYFA had been created by Jerry Sherlock, a veteran producer and sheer genius. He'd designed the school to put students into their craft immediately. He believed in learning by doing. I'd be surrounded with students like me: film students, performing arts students, peers studying acting, cinematography, and my favorite, photography. That was the short list. My heart sank impossibly lower. "Next year, okay?"

She deflated. "At least try."

"As soon as I move out, I'll apply for student loans and look at job options near Kent, but there are no guarantees. I'm sure they're already full for fall semester, and I'm awful at essay writing."

"I'll help." She shoved the picture from my headboard at me. "Was this taken in town? I don't think I know this place."

"It's in Caldwell. I went there to sell some of my old comics."

"Oh." She tapped the photo of a young mother and child against her palm. "You want to get out of here?"

"Can't. I have to make dinner. Mark will be home soon, and he'll be cranky."

He worked as many hours as he could to make ends meet, though it wasn't clear where the money went. Most of my wardrobe was three years old, and I bought whatever I needed with money from the photography studio. As far as I could tell, he hadn't bought anything new in ten years. More likely, money was another excuse to avoid the replacement daughter he'd never wanted.

"I'll help. I mean, I can't cook, but I can entertain."

I swung the bedroom door open and cursed the stifling air. "Deal. Whatcha got?"

"How about some juicy gossip?"

Heidi followed me down the steps and through the house, rattling off details from the big bonfire last weekend. "And ..." — she paused for dramatic effect as I lined hamburger patties on aluminum foil — "guess who's home for the summer?"

I lifted a shoulder. "Everyone?"

She poked me then pointed a silent finger at my backyard.

"Oh." I stared through the kitchen window at a yellow cottage in the distance.

"Mm-hmm."

Butterflies assaulted my stomach like a horde of angry bees. "Great." I lifted the tray and moved toward the back door, hoping she'd take the hint and open it.

She did.

We filed onto the back porch.

"Well?" she asked.

I set the tray on our patio table and lit the gas grill. "Well, that's good. I'm sure his mother missed him while he was at school."

Heidi swung her chin left and right. "You've had a crush on Dean Wells since eighth grade. He's the literal boy next door, and you've never had a conversation with him. Don't you think this is finally the time for that? You're leaving town in a couple months."

I rolled my eyes. "You're the only one who thinks I still have a chance at starting college in the fall. Plus, he's leaving too. He doesn't live here anymore. He's only visiting."

"He might move back after graduation."

I went back inside and opened the fridge. "I want to be gone by then."

"Fair enough. Why not send your application to a real photography school? Why not apply to New York?" Heidi perched on the counter, swinging her bare feet. "Don't answer. Just think about it. Do you have any lemonade?"

My odds of being crowned Miss America were better than getting into NYFA. "I can make lemonade." I piled lemons on the American cheese I pulled from the fridge.

"I'll get the pitcher."

Heidi rounded the corner to the dining room, her satin baby- doll blouse flowing behind her. "The blue one or the yellow?"

I followed. "Doesn't matter." The china cabinet groaned with mismatched cups, plates, and serving things, remnants of another life. "Yellow."

She hefted one in each hand. "Yellow would make the lemonade look more lemony. Blue would create a nice punch of color."

I opened and closed one palm in the universal sign for "gimmee." "Art majors are the bane of my existence."

She cast her gaze from one pitcher to the other, deliberating several seconds, before handing me the yellow one. "We also make the world more beautiful."

"Uh-huh."

Heidi wandered into the living room, where my mom's senior photo hung over the mantel beside a picture of Mark and Grandma on their wedding day.

I turned for the kitchen. Heat rose up the back of my neck. "Don't say it."

"It's just that you look so much like her."

She always said it.

I kept moving.

Grandma died of breast cancer when I was eight. Mom died of leukemia when I was one. She was seventeen.

Looking like Mom probably added to the list of reasons Mark didn't look at me. I was a sad reminder of what he'd lost. What she'd sacrificed. I was already older than Mom ever had a chance to be. I got to graduate. If she'd agreed to treatment when they found out about her cancer, she might've lived. But, she'd watched her mom struggle through chemo and radiation when she was young, and though Grandma had beaten cancer the first time, Mom hadn't thought I'd survive her treatments. Stupidly, she'd bartered with Grandma and Mark until they'd given in. She'd agreed to any treatment they wanted after I was born. Mom had been Mark's world. Now he was stuck with me.

I cut lemons in half and dragged the sugar bowl to the sink.

"It's not your fault." Heidi filled the pitcher with water. "I know what you're thinking. What you're always thinking. No one knows what would've happened if she started treatment sooner. My mom says they didn't find the cancer until it was already bad."

The sleek blond hair in Mom's photo was a wig. Her sunken cheeks and haunted eyes had been doctored by the studio, but technology sucked then, and the efforts were obvious. "If she hadn't been hiding a pregnancy, she would've gone to the doctor and found out about the cancer in time to do something."

We'd had this conversation so many times I'd memorized the script. I let it play out because I needed to hear it again.

"Katy." Heidi placed the pitcher gently beside my lemons. Her voice softened to a reassuring whisper. "It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault. Your grandpa's not a bad guy. He's just stubborn like you. He's grieving losses I can't fathom and missing out on his chance to know an amazing, talented, hysterically funny you."

I ran the pad of my thumb along the bottom of both eyes. "I'm hilarious."

"Yep."

"His loss."

"Totally."

My tummy knotted. Totally."I think the grill's ready." I went outside and moved four hamburgers to the heated grill while she finished the lemonade. Heat rose from the lid like an apparition.

"There you are." Mark's gravelly voice scared the crap out of me. "Dinner ready?"

I pressed a palm to my chest. "Just a few minutes."

He stepped onto the porch and the screen door banged shut with a smack. Beside me, he drove a rag around his face and over sweat-slicked hair. The factory where he worked was hotter than any place in town. Guilt raced through me for whining about our lack of air-conditioning. I could walk outside and enjoy the breeze or make lemonade with my friend. He had to work over molten steel inside a building that reeked of crude oil and kerosene. His navy coveralls were lined in grease. The soles of his work boots were worn to the ground, smooth and flat where thick rubber used to be. He'd get them resoled again soon.

He caught me staring and lingered his gaze over me, as if he might say something more. My heart jumped into my throat. Maybe he was sorry he didn't sign the FAFSA papers or was thankful I made dinner.

"Mark?"

He batted bloodshot eyes and turned the corners of his mouth into a sour look. "I'm not hungry. I think I'll go out to my shed." He lumbered off the porch and across the lawn, rubbing his arm and occasionally the back of his neck.

Heidi opened the screen door and poked her head out. She scanned the yard where Mark was unlocking the padlock to his shed. "What do you think he does in there all the time?"

"Besides avoid me?" I flipped the burgers and dropped a slice of cheese on each. "I hope you're hungry. I suddenly have plenty."

She slipped black, cat-eye sunglasses over her nose and ferried two glasses of lemonade to the patio table.

I held my breath, praying she didn't have to leave. Something in Mark's eyes had unsettled me. Maybe because he'd seemed to see me for the first time.

Heidi dropped onto an empty seat and smiled, tucking tan legs beneath her. "Make mine a double."

CHAPTER 2

After dinner, Heidi had to babysit her little brother, so I cleaned up, wrote Mark a note, and secured my camera bag cross-body. I had a date with the sunset. If Mark managed to find his appetite before I got back, he'd also find two leftover burgers in the fridge. I suspected he'd be hungrier once I was gone.

I jogged down the front steps and instantly breathed easier. The balmy summer air smelled like freedom. I'd cherished my evening walks since I was old enough to circle the block alone. Now I was finally turning eighteen and moving out. Freedom would be real and permanent soon for both of us. It was the least I could do for him after he'd tolerated and housed me all these years.

I hooked a left at Main Street and basked in the pre-storm breeze. Judging by the clouds and gentle rumble of thunder, rain was imminent. With any luck, I'd get some fantastic shots of a country rainbow after the storm. I loved the rain, but I suspected the group of Little Leaguers gathered on our elementary school ballfield didn't share the sentiment tonight. A flash of lightning drew the ballers' attention. They raised leather mitts to their foreheads, searching the sky for what would end their fun. Moms sprang to life, flattening popup chairs and sprinting to their minivans, handbags and paperbacks at the ready for use as makeshift umbrellas.

I unpacked my camera and snapped a few shots of the scampering women in yoga pants and mom jeans. Tiny ballers framed the backdrop. Sometimes, the local paper paid for amateur shots. I'd made two hundred dollars last summer photographing historic Mail Pouch Tobacco barns after Heidi and I joined her mom on a mission to collect barn siding for her store. Apparently, reclaimed wood was all the rage for the over-thirty-with-money crowd. I'd eventually made enough cash to buy all my school supplies, plus a few new outfits from the thrift store.

Thunder rolled again, a little louder this time, and I picked up my pace.

Woodsfield was a stereotypical rural Ohio town, complete with clichéd street fairs and communal hayrides. At the moment, strawberries were blooming and preparations were underway for the annual festival and parade. I didn't hate it. It was the kind of place exhausted people dreamed of visiting and, in my opinion, the true inspiration for half of Stephen King's novels. Unlike the books, nothing monumental ever happened in Woodsfield. Definitely nothing sinister. We still had a fancy blue sign on the main drag claiming Home of Miss America 2008. Also known as the last newsworthy thing that had happened here.

I ignored the occasional raindrop, still too insignificant to deter my plan, and scouted for potential money shots. Aside from the fleeing moms, everything was the same, and the storm was more threat than action. Firemen played cards underneath the station's red awning. Families pitched horseshoes on oversized lawns. Couples held hands on front porch swings. I rested one shoulder against an ancient oak and caught an elderly couple in my camera lens as he pressed his lips to her forehead. The shutter blinked. I checked the little screen for quality and composition. I could do better.

"There you are!" Mrs. Baxter, my grandma's best friend and my surrogate family, speed-walked up the sidewalk in my direction, waving a handkerchief at the couple I'd photographed. Her teal blouse and white pedal pushers were the epitome of vintage chic.

"Hi, Mrs. B." I lowered my camera, unsure what she'd think of me taking what must've looked like surveillance photos. "I couldn't help myself. They look so happy."

"They are. They've been happy for nearly fifty years now." A sweet smile crinkled the skin around her eyes. "I'm sure they'd be honored to know you thought they were worth the time. Have you given any thought to the brochure for my butterfly garden?"

"Yes." I dug into my bag for a set of sketches I'd drawn up. "I made this. It's a mockup of the kinds of shots I want to look for. I'm not a very good artist, so Heidi helped. It's really rough. The gist, really."

She examined my wrinkled sketches as if they held the winning lottery numbers. "Don't be so coy. You've obviously given this a lot of time and thought. I appreciate that. Anyone would." Her sharp blue eyes widened and narrowed as she took in the numerous notes and doodles. She'd given the same look to every report card I'd brought home since Grandma died. The harder I'd tried to withdraw during those dark days in second grade, the tighter she'd held my hand. Mrs. B had lost her closest friend, and that had given us a bond. A broken-hearts bond. "This is very nice work. How'd you decide what sorts of images to include? I thought artists waited for their muse."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from What She Wanted by Julie Anne Lindsey. Copyright © 2016 Julie Anne Lindsey. Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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