Jazzy Girl Page 6

  In the shortest moment, understanding gripped her and she connected all the dots she’d ignored. Her parents had met under tragic circumstances that led to a whirlwind romance. They’d decided not to spend years analyzing details of why things happened the way they did. Instead, they’d embraced their love and acted on it and because of that, they’d loved each other until the very end. The danger wasn’t over, but she could either face it alone in misery or with Canden by her side. Sherice locked eyes with Canden. In them, she saw family and a future.

  Canden leaned in and when their lips touched, Sherice let go. Abandoning all her fears, doubts, and self-imposed restrictions, she tangled her fingers in his hair and told him with her kisses all the things she didn’t know how to say.

  Sherice looked back at Canden as she walked out to the car. His dimples appeared and she couldn’t stop smiling as the driver called the contact. The change in plans displeased the program but Sherice didn’t care. She and Jazz returned home with Canden.

  Two weeks later she and Canden married. She’d never forget his proposal. A few days after she, Canden, and Jazz left the hospital, a colorful bouquet of desert wildflowers and a note waited next to her morning coffee. In the note, Canden explained his choice of flowers.

  Sherice,

  These flowers reminded me of you because they are beautiful and bloom in the desert. Plus they weren’t easy to get. I had to jump through all kinds of hoops . . . you know . . . like I did for you. But I would do it over and over again as long as you say yes.

  I’ll be back in a few. Went to get breakfast.

  Canden

  Tears sprung to Sherice’s eyes and she laughed. The goofy brother of a neighbor had stolen her heart in record time. Plus, she was pretty sure she’d just read a proposal in the middle of what had started as a sweet note and ended as a “be back soon” note. She touched the petals of one of the orange blooms as she sat down. When she lifted the coffee cup to her lips, a thin gold band lay on the table with another tiny note that simply said:

  Let’s go buy you one with a rock on it today.

  Her marriage license carried her new name. It didn’t matter. Her last name was Shaw now. At least the second half was real and it made her smile.

  The new vet listed Jazz as ‘Jazzy-Girl Shaw.’

  Prologue

  Wanting to keep her safe until the trial was over, the witness protection program whisked Sherice, Canden, and Jazz away on an extended honeymoon. One that would last until the trial. Tucked away in a small Japanese village, the newlyweds got to know each other while learning a new language, experiencing authentic Japanese food and playing with Jazz. Canden hired additional help at his company and managed his business via phone calls, Skype meetings, and e-mail.

  Six months later, Sherice took the stand and testified against Giovanni Bucano, who was found guilty. Sentenced to life on one count of first-degree murder and one count of second-degree murder, Vito’s organization began to crumble. Shortly after, a raid at the container yard turned up evidence that sent Vito Caracioni on the run. The media ran his photo nonstop and an anonymous tip came through only days later. Vito was apprehended in Florida.

  No longer needed, Sherice was removed from the program. Sherice knew that it would be a long time before Vito would forget her name. Hopefully, she wasn’t on high on his priority list. It didn’t matter, she’d be vigilant and aware while she lived her life.

  After only a few months of being home, Sherice and Canden both agreed they’d left part of their hearts in Japan. Canden sold his business, his house, and most of his belongings. Without a definite plan, they purchased a home near the small village they adored. Together, they started a new business. A dog training business that blossomed into an operation that serviced the police department, a special needs unit that ranged from PTSD patients to the physically and mentally disabled, as well as individual owners. Besides learning to train dogs alongside his wife, Canden ran a small handyman business. He loved being able to schedule appointments when it suited him.

  Jazz had a busy schedule these days. Being a role model for all the newbies in training kept her on her toes, but she loved working. Her three favorite things were her treats, baths in her pool, and her people.

  Eighteen months later, Sherice saw several stories on the net confirming the accidental death of Vito Caracioni. The media was suspicious. The following week, she received an unmarked package. Pouring the contents onto the kitchen counter, she saw a note from Terry and gasped.

  It read: One last new identification. Happy Birthday.

  The photo was the same one her current I.D. held and the name Sherice Shaw.

  To my beta readers:

  Your honest feedback and

  support is priceless!

  ♡ Misty Catt

  ♡ Deborah Dunson

  ♡ Ashley Harrison

  ♡ Kathleen Golden

  ♡ Special thanks to my aunt, Jannell Istre-Wells, for being a super proofreader.

  ♡ Thanks to Canden Shaw for permitting me to use his unique name!

  ♡ To all my family and friends, thanks for your love and support. ♡

  Thank you for reading Jazzy Girl! If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review on all the major sites for book retailers. Please check out my other short stories on Amazon. If you’re looking for something longer, look no further! I’ve got just the book for you. And it has a sequel on the way.

  Fourteen-year-old Krystal finds herself flailing when her parents separate. Withdrawing from her family and friends, she begins cutting. No one knows.

  At her new school, she makes one single friend, Em, who invites her to volunteer at the local homeless shelter. There, Krystal discovers fellow misfits, including Brandon, a boy from her school. How can Krystal start a new life when the scars of her old one will never fully heal?

  What readers are saying about Memoirs of a Girl Who Loves God

  “This is a heartwarming story that was written from the heart. It brought real meaning to me––of some things in life––that never made sense before. It made me smile, and also brought tears to my eyes. This is a must read. I wasn’t able to put it down once I started.”

  “A compelling story that will have readers touched and unable to put it down. I’ve read it more than once and each and every time it brings tears to my eyes.”

  “WOW! It is not an easy book to read, but it is a powerful book. Heartbreaking, heartwarming, challenging and uplifting.”

  As Krystal sat on the front porch steps, rapidly sketching her pain into the page, she cried. A wayward tear fell, smearing the charcoal pencil’s last streak. She stopped drawing, forced to acknowledge the pain from her most recent cut. It throbbed now. She rolled her sleeve back and looked at the raised red welt and dried blood. Evidence of everything going on inside her. She adjusted her sleeve, running it across her face, drying her tears before wiping her nose.

  She took a deep breath and then sighed. The ache in her chest remained.

  The sun was setting, stealing her light to shine elsewhere. Bummer. Picking up her sketchpad and pencils, she went inside. An unfinished, eyeless owl waited patiently for sight on the easel in her room.

  Krystal glanced into the living room as she passed through the kitchen. She could see her sister, Esme, on the floor with the baby. Esme had her back against the couch and her knees up. The baby was lying tummy down on her thighs, facing away from Esme. Superman style.

  Esme lightly tapped her feet, giving the baby a bit of a bounce. With each bounce she made the yellow banana rattle rumble. The baby’s feet pushed into Esme’s stomach as if she thought she caused the motion herself. Under different circumstances it would’ve been cute, but the sight only drove Krystal’s resentment deeper.

  Esme looked up and their eyes met.

  She’d been caught staring and turned to go.

  “Krystal,” Esme said her name softly.

  Krystal paused, eyebrows raised. She rarely exchan
ged words with anyone else in her family. It had been that way for months now.

  “Why do you hate her?” Esme asked.

  “I don’t.”

  “It seems like it.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Krystal said dismissively, sliding her hands into her back pockets.

  Esme’s back straightened against the couch.

  “I’m eleven, you know.”

  Krystal rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, I know how old you are.”

  “You’re only three years older than me. That’s not very much.”

  “And you’re only three years older than Rosie and Jaime,” Krystal said pointedly, referring to the twins. Esme’s posture slackened. She got the point.

  Krystal sighed. Everyone probably thought she hated the baby, but she didn’t. What she did hate was what the baby, Sofia, represented. She was a visible product of everything that had gone wrong. By merely existing, Sofia sealed Krystal’s fate.

  She turned away. The carpeted stairs carried her silently down to her bedroom door, her sanctuary and asylum all in one.

  C.L. Wells is a JANE-OF-ALL-TRADES, with a passion for writing and animals. She lives in Kansas with her family, which includes a fat doggie who is not named Toto and a cat who moonlights as an escape artist. Feel free to ask her about the ‘escape artist.’ She plans to write about it someday. She would love hearing from you.

  You can find her on social media:

  Author.CLWELLS

  @clwellsauthor