Jack was there. But he wasn’t the vivid Jack of her waking memory. The Jack with the black hair and laughing eyes. Not the larger-than-life Jack who’d swept her off her feet when she’d been a naïve eighteen-year-old, the one she’d married, the one who’d been her whole world.
“We never agreed. You dictated and eventually I swallowed my own objections. I’ve been choking on them ever since. Joy is here now and she stays.” Marcy tugged Joy’s hand and Joy followed her to the kitchen feeling her father’s stare of disapproval like bullet holes in her back.
What I discovered is writing truly is a journey. The more I wrote (rewrote) the more involved I became with the story.
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s next? A strip search?”
He tamped down the mental image that question conjured. The woman was no stranger to working out. And there were some serious curves under those clothes. But he wasn’t a cretin. “Nice of you to offer. But you can keep your clothes on. For now.”