Reflections of Love Page 12

  I hear a loud slap and a baby’s wails. I bend to the floor and kiss the floor in thanks.

  “You’s got a son,” Zhenga whispers.

  Henri helps me rise, and I stumble my way to Franny, my love. Her skin is pale and clammy; she looks weak. My eyes settle on the copious amount of blood on the couch, and memories of the blood stains on the fainting couch where Henri’s dead body had laid springs to mind. It wasn’t his blood; it was Franny’s.

  She tries to lift her hand to stroke my cheek, but she is too weak, and her arm drops limply by her side.

  I see it in her eyes; she is dying and I, with her. With every breath she takes, a piece of me disappears with her. But then I hear my son’s cries, and I turn. His grandmother holds him in her shawl. As if he feels his mother’s imminent death, he cries harder.

  “Can…can I hold him?” I cry.

  She nods and places him lovingly in my arms. Turning back to Franny, with our son in my arms, she smiles one last time and takes her final breath.

  Epilogue

  Present Day

  I look up as I finish my story to see Tisch walking over mine and Franny’s son, Evan Francis Taylor. He has his mother’s cornflower blue eyes, and her glowing smile. My heart fills with love for him as he walks onto the stage, the clapping of the audience members filling the room.

  Dori stands and gives Francis a hug, then he takes a seat next to me.

  “So, this is your son. How have we not known about him in all these years?”

  “Well, as you know, I dropped out of the spotlight, after publishing Reflections of Love. I wanted to concentrate on raising Francis, giving him all of the love and attention that he needs.”

  “Sometimes he smothers me,” Francis jokes, and again, I’m hit by how much he is like his mother.

  “Did your father ever tell you the story about your mother?”

  He nods. “Yes, many times. Their story is the love story of the ages.”

  “It is,” she readily agrees. “I love how you were able to channel your pain into a beautiful story of love; real and absolute true love.”

  “Thank you. It was my therapy as I coped with her loss.”

  “Well, others cope through booze and cigarettes. I guess your way is best.” Her audience laughs. “Francis, it must be hard for you growing up with only the memory of your mom.”

  My son turns and looks at me, then back to Dori. “No, not at all. My dad is great, and he helped fill the void of missing my mother. I know she is with us, and she is smiling now. I can feel it.”

  I reach over and squeeze his hand because I can feel it too. I know Franny is here; she never really left.

  “My goodness, you are a sweet young man.” She turns to her audience. “Isn’t he folks?” The audience ooh’s and ahh’s in agreement. “What are your plans for the future?” she asks Francis.

  “I’m in college. I hope to become a historian and writer one day,” he beams.

  “Uh-oh, daddy has some competition in the works.” She winks, and the audience laughs.

  “Not at all. I support my son in whatever he wants. I want him to be a success, and I’m very proud of him, just the way I believe his mother would be.”

  “Absolutely,” she agrees, along with the audience. “Now Evan, will there be a book two for Reflections of Love?” The audience chimes in their enthusiasm as they wait for my answer.

  “Not by me. My story is already told. I’m passing that torch to Francis.”

  Her mouth opens in shock. “Well Francis, how ’bout it? Will you write a book two?”

  “Perhaps, but it will be my story.”

  “And what shall it be called?” she presses.

  He pauses for a long pregnant moment before answering. “What if…”

  Bonus Scene

  Enid’s Journal

  July 27, 1861

  He doesn’t love me anymore, I know it. I will die without him. God, I wish I had died all those months ago. Why would God keep me alive to witness him falling in love with her? My husband’s bastard! I had to swallow the pill my husband forced on me by accepting her as a servant in our home. He felt his daughter shouldn’t be in the fields with the other niggers. Where else do they belong, but in the fields?

  Simon doesn’t love me because I’m childless, and I hate him because he has a nigger child. And now, she is going to steal my beloved Henri from me.

  Whispers. They are always whispering to each other. Maybe they are plotting to kill me. That would make sense. Simon is off to fight the war, and I am helpless in this house.

  What is that? Is that a woman’s scream?

  I quickly close my journal and reach for my cane.

  “Henri?” I call out, as I rise shakily. Another scream. “Henri? Who is here?” I walk to the door and place my ear to it, listening.

  My God, they are going to kill me tonight. Slowly, ever so slowly, I open the door and peek through. The hall is dark, and nothing seems out of place. But something terrible is about to happen, I know it.

  I walk toward my husband’s study, where he has a pistol. In his drawer, I find the ivory-handled pistol and place it in my dress pocket. The screaming has stopped, and I hear a baby’s cries.

  How? Whose baby is it? I listen at the door some more and this time, I hear weeping. I reach for my handkerchief in my bosom and wipe at the sweat above my lips.

  “Quickly, before she awakes.” I hear my beloved’s voice. “Send Buck and JoJo to take her.” His voice is a hushed whisper. I listen to the hastened footsteps heading down the back staircase.

  So that is how he sneaks her into his room?

  More footsteps, and the house feels eerily empty. I wait longer, unsure of what to do.

  “Be careful with her.”

  “Wut we goona do with her body?” a strong masculine voice asks.

  “The river. Weight her down with rocks and put her in the river. I’ll say she must’ve ran off,” Henri answers quickly.

  “What did she have?”

  “A boy. A beautiful baby boy. Now hurry, so I can clean this mess up,” Henri responds in sorrow.

  A stabbing pain goes through my heart. He had a baby with her. How could he do this to me? I’m barren, and she bore his child. A child that should have been mine, if there was a God. Why has God forsaken me so much? Why?

  I moan out my anguish and pain. But my pain turns into a flaming hot hatred for both of them. On wobbly legs, I stumble across the empty hallway, my vision blurred from tears. I stand in front of Henri’s door, my hand on the knob.

  How can he do this to me? He said he loved me. He said we were going to run away, to be together in France. He said so many things, and now I find out they were all lies. Carefully, I open the door and take in the scene before me. Henri is stripping his bed, and I eye the fainting couch, covered in blood from the birth of their child and ultimately her death, I imagine.

  I move, and Henri looks up, his face ashen.

  “Enid, you should be in bed.” He drops the sheets at his feet.

  I reach for the gun and pull it out, pointing it at him.

  “Enid, my beloved. What are you doing?” His eyes are wide with fear, while mine are steady with hate.

  I close my eyes as I fire.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to all of my readers who took the time to read my very first PNR book.

  I’m so happy that I was able to complete this book with an ounce of my sanity left; seriously, this was a difficult book for me to write. But with that being said, if it weren’t for the following people, I probably wouldn’t have finished.

  Thank you to my friend and P.A., Jennifer Reynolds, for helping me with suggestions for this book; Tracy Willoughby, for being such a great friend and support system, and Amy Lynn Lockhart, for reading the book and giving me some ideas and helpful notes.

  Honestly, if it wasn’t for my editor and proofreader, Jenn Wood from All about the Edits, I would not have turned this book in on time. I truly ow
e her everything with this book and so much more.

  Of course, I have to thank my street team, Autumn’s Twisted Sisters, and my fan group, Autumn’s Twisted Hearts! What an incredible group these ladies are. They are very supportive, and I love them to pieces.

  Thank you to Jade Royal and Ruby Rowe for checking in on me when I went “radio silent” for a bit; they know what I mean.

  I would like to give a special mention to three author friends, Kilby Blades, Sandra Rambin Neeley and Amanda Kimberly for their creative insight into the writing process for my first PNR. These three incredible authors gave me the artistic strength in giving this a try.

  These past few months have been a struggle, personally and creatively, and I am truly thankful for the wonderful support system I have around me.

  Thank you to everyone, especially my readers, for loving my words. I wouldn’t be able to do what I do without your support.

  About the Author

  Autumn Sand was born and raised in New York City. With her love of restaurants, her shoe fetish, and her hard-nosed heroines, Autumn is a New Yorker, through and through. Autumn has a shoe collection of 300, and the credit card statements to prove it. Other than shoe shopping, she has various interests, such as reading, writing, and traveling. Autumn has worked in the fashion industry for most of her adult life and recently decided to pursue her dream of writing sexy, thrilling, romantic suspense. She’s reluctant to call herself an author, but considers herself a person who writes words that people just so happen to like to read. Autumn has a sarcastic sense of humor and loves to make her friends laugh. She enjoys a good glass of wine, but her go-to drink of choice is a Jack and Coke with a twist of lime. None of those froufrou girlie drinks for her.

  Autumn loves to hear from and interact with her readers. Find her online!

  Facebook

  Twisted Hearts

  Instagram

  Twitter

  Goodreads

  Bookbub

  Website

  Amazon