Borrowed Heart Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1. Starstruck

  2. Baby, It's Cold Outside

  3. A Guilty Conscience

  4. Road Trip

  5. Blindsided

  6. Head On

  7. Rude Awakening

  8. My Life Examined

  9. Hindsight is Twenty-Twenty

  10. Time Keeps Moving On

  11. You're a Shepherd—Not a Superhero

  12. One Big Happy Family ... and Cousin Eli

  13. The Rules

  14. My First Assignment

  15. A Case of Mistaken Identity?

  16. Immaculate Recuperation

  17. The Daily Grind

  18. I've Been Made

  19. Time to Meet the Parents

  20. Shell-Shocked

  21. The Big Reveal

  22. Reunited

  23. A Walk in the Park

  24. Our First Date

  25. Life With Quinn

  26. Homeward Bound

  27. Family Matters

  28. The Winds of Change

  29. Forget Me Not

  30. Breaking Up Sucks

  31. On the Rebound

  32. Redemption

  33. Hark! The Herald Council Calls

  Excerpt From Book Two: Peace of Mind

  Borrowed Heart

  Book One of the Evie Sanders Series

  A Novel by

  Linda Lamberson

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Lamberson

  Publish Green

  212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

  Minneapolis, MN 55401

  612.455.2293

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-937563-03-5

  To my husband—

  Thank you for making it possible for me to spend more time with our family and for keeping your grumblings to a minimum while I ventured down the path of writing fiction. You are the love of my life.

  And to my children—

  I’m the luckiest mom ever because I have the two best boys in the whole entire universe!

  I will always love you more—no backs!

  Acknowledgements:

  Kim “Kimmy” Perez, you’re an awesome sounding board! Thanks for willingly coming along with me on this ride and for loving the characters as much as I do.

  Maggie Vandermeer, thank you for taking on this editing project. You asked the important questions and helped me strengthen and polish part one of this story. I love the book more for it!

  Patrick Uranin, amazing cover! The website you designed is terrific too. Thanks for all your hard work—and the Twitter crash course!

  Prologue

  “Eve, how much of the accident do you remember?” Peter began.

  “Not much.” I strained to remember anything about it, but I couldn’t. The chain of events was all so hazy. I looked down at the floor as if it could provide me with the clarity I sought.

  “I was driving … there was another car—two cars, I think. One of the drivers was … drunk. But there was someone else … something else happened.” I was mumbling, trying to talk myself through the accident. And then a memory flashed through my mind; I saw two bright lights barreling towards me as I was standing in the middle of the highway. Instantly, the accident, or at least the very last part of it, became crystal clear.

  No one could have survived that, I told myself. I gasped and looked at Peter in terror.

  “How … how long have I been … dead?” My words were barely audible, choked back by the fear and anguish of my horrifying realization. Peter glanced down at his watch.

  “Nearly five days,” he said apologetically.

  Nearly five days. I repeated Peter’s words in my head, not really knowing how to process this information.

  “Am … am I in Heaven?” I asked in shock.

  “It’s a little complicated,” Peter answered.

  1. Starstruck

  “I’ve never seen an aura like this before,” she said in her thick Eastern-European accent, shifting her gaze from my hands to my eyes. “It’s so strange …”

  “I don’t understand. What’s so strange?” I asked. I had been there for all of two minutes and already thought this was some sort of a scam. I tried to pull my hands away from the woman sitting across the table from me, but she only tightened her grip. Her almond-shaped black eyes looked almost sinister with the thick layers of black eyeliner and mascara around them. She pulled me in closer.

  “It seems as though your fate is shifting—changing—right before my very eyes.” She looked down at my hands again and began mumbling to herself in her native language. Then she glanced back up at me in alarm.

  “Listen to me very carefully. What I’m about to say is important,” she warned gravely. “Bad things always happen in threes. You will have two near-death experiences, and then the third … I’m sorry …” Her voice trailed off.

  Wait a minute—did she really just tell me that I was going to die? I was beyond shocked. I was beyond offended. I was downright pissed off. This was supposed to be some fun, harmless psychic reading. Some “oh-you-have-a-boyfriend-who-loves-you-and-will-be-with-you-forever” type of crap—not some “I-hate-to-be-the-one-to-tell-you-but-you’re-on-death’s-door” cryptic voodoo message from beyond. Who was she anyway? A psychic? Yeah, right! More like a psycho—a twisted, sick fraud who got off dressing like a gypsy and preying on the fears of others.

  “Look,” I began, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are or what you think you’re doing, but if you think I believe one word of this psychic babble, you’re crazy.” I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. Her long fingers were still clutched around my wrists like a hawk’s talons around its next meal.

  “Psychic babble, hmm? Let’s see.” Still grasping both of my wrists, she closed her eyes and began spewing out various facts about me.

  “My dear, you traveled from Michigan to be here today. Your parents—they are lawyers. In fact, the two of them met in law school and are still together. And you—you’re very smart,” she opened her eyes and studied my face, “but skeptical. And you trust your own judgment above everyone else’s, even that of your parents.”

  Okay, so she was dead on, I thought. But I was still convinced the psychic was a fraud. Emma could’ve told her this stuff about me. It was my best friend’s idea to come here today, and she had met with the psychic first.

  “You could have pumped my friend for most of that information,” I said suspiciously. “And judging from my reaction to your reading, you easily could have guessed the rest.”

  “You have been through a lot in your young life,” the psychic continued, ignoring me. “When you were younger, someone close to you was very sick.” She suddenly looked at me like she knew my deepest, darkest secrets. “Your mother … she almost died.”

  “What? How … how did you know about that?” Now I genuinely was surprised. Very few people, of whom Emma was not one, had known about my mom’s battle with cancer. It was the main reason why my dad retired from practicing law at a large firm in downtown Chicago to do legal consulting. It was also why we moved to Sawyer, Michigan when I was nine to spend more time together as a family.

  “Trust me, dear,” the psychic responded, “I know more about you than I would like to. And I’m very sorry to tell you this, but you have been marked with the Curse of Three. I’ve only ever heard of the Curse. I have never before met anyone who was stricken with it.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “I’m so
rry, my dear … but you will not see your nineteenth birthday.”

  My mind, my soul, my entire body exploded with rage. I tore my hands away from the psychic’s grip only to lurch forward in my bed startled and confused. Beads of sweat formed on my brow as a wave of panic swept over me. I looked around and laughed nervously. I was in my dorm room. It was just a dream. It was only a bad dream.

  I took a deep breath and sighed in relief before groaning and falling back into bed. My face was buried under a blanket of my long brown hair, which helped block out some of the morning light beaming through my dorm windows. I knew I had to get up, but I was exhausted. My hand blindly wandered over to my bedside table, grabbed my alarm clock, and brought it inches from my face. Eight fifteen. Crap! It was later than I thought.

  A new type of panic washed over me; I was going to be late for my psychology class—again. I grabbed my glasses and flew out of bed. The winter chill hit me as soon as I stood up. I groaned once more. It was nearly a month into the second semester of my freshman year at Indiana University, and Bloomington was a pretty cold and miserable place to be in the dead of winter.

  My roommate, Lisa, was nowhere to be found. She was probably already eating breakfast. Shivering, I scanned the floor on my side of the room for anything that resembled clean clothes. I spotted my favorite grey IU sweatshirt, already worn through around the neck and sleeves from overuse, and quickly threw it over the T-shirt I had slept in the previous night. On the other side of my bed, I found a pair of jeans and my boots and pulled them on. Usually I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing my glasses out in public, but I was running so late I didn’t have time to mess with my contacts. I gathered my hair into a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck and hid the rest of it under an off-white knit hat. No make-up other than a little bit of clear lip gloss, but that was standard protocol for me. I only wore makeup when I went out at night. I popped a stick of gum in my mouth and threw on my winter coat. Then I grabbed my backpack, my mittens, and my roommate’s scarf, which I absolutely adored, and bolted out the door praying I could still catch the campus bus.

  Not a chance. I ran out of my dorm building just in time to watch the bus pull away from the stop. Great.

  I really hated Wednesdays. It was bad enough that I had four classes and my biology lab today, but on Wednesdays my psychology class started at eight thirty in the morning. Apparently, Professor Swain already had some prior commitment this weekday morning. And rather than reschedule the entire three-day-a-week class, he forced his students to show up an hour earlier than the regularly scheduled lecture once a week. Unfortunately, Swain’s seminar was a prerequisite for my major, so I sucked it up and registered for it anyway, knowing I would regret it someday.

  As luck would have it, today would be the day of several regrets, including this class. Out of breath, I ran into the lecture hall later than usual. Swain stopped mid-sentence and glared at me. The room fell completely silent; I could feel every pair of eyes on me. Blood started rushing to my face, and I was thankful that my cheeks were already flushed from the brisk walk to class in below freezing temperatures.

  “I’m glad you decided to grace us with your presence this morning,” Swain said condescendingly while he peered at me over the top rims of his bifocals.

  “Um, sorry … rough morning.” Mortified, I slinked into the first open chair I spotted and removed my jacket and mittens as quickly and inconspicuously as possible.

  Swain’s lecture was on Erikson’s developmental stages of the human psyche, but I couldn’t pay attention to a word he was saying. I was still rattled by my nightmare. It had been a while since I had even thought about the psychic. So why now? As I sat there in class, I mentally rehashed the day I met Madame Sasha.

  It was nearly two years ago during my junior year of high school that Emma had overheard one of her mom’s friends talking about a “truly gifted” psychic in Chicago that everyone should see at least once in their lives. Emma loved that sort of stuff. The next thing I knew, we were ditching school and driving the hour-and-a-half to Chicago so we could pay this woman to tell us about our futures.

  I remembered standing outside the small wood-sided house built next to the El tracks, which loomed above. The two-story structure was painted a pale, buttercup yellow with white trim. A rusted-chain link fence surrounded the house, separating it from its grim surroundings. It was a charming little home in a not-so-charming urban neighborhood. Emma and I giggled anxiously as we slowly made our way up the stairs of the house to the small front porch. Before we even had a chance to ring the bell, however, a middle-aged woman opened the door.

  “Good afternoon,” she said in her thick accent. “I am Madame Sasha.”

  Emma and I giggled again like little kids. Emma was excited to be there. I, on the other hand, felt downright foolish. I didn’t believe in any of this nonsense, but Emma swore up and down that this woman was the real deal. And as Emma’s best friend, it was my duty to be her partner in crime that day to go see this so-called real deal. Besides, it had been a beautiful spring day in April, and I didn’t feel like wasting it away sitting in class.

  I remembered cringing at the thought of how my boyfriend Ryan would react if he knew I had ditched school to go see a psychic. He would have been disappointed to say the least. It was the one time I was glad we had gone to separate schools. For the most part, I was a good student. I certainly hadn’t made a habit of skipping class. But Ryan had taken high school much more seriously than I had. He had graduated near the top of his class and never ditched, especially for something this asinine. No, I wouldn’t ever tell him about this little adventure. In fact, if I had my say, this trip would be one of life’s little moments I wouldn’t recount to anyone.

  “Come in, come in.” Madame Sasha smiled as she waved us into her home. Her long dark hair was pulled severely away from her face and tied back with a multi-colored silk sash. She had dark, olive-toned skin, which I suspected would have looked more youthful and attractive if she hadn’t used so much makeup. She wore a garnet-colored button-down silk blouse tucked into a billowy, black skirt that ended just above her ankles. She was barefoot; her toenails were painted a dark plum color, the same color as on her long, manicured fingernails. Large, gold hoops hung from her ears, and several gold bangles were stacked on each wrist. Her fingers were adorned with gold rings inset with oversized, semi-precious stones of every color—amethysts, yellow and blue topazes, garnets, and a huge black onyx. Around her neck, however, she wore an understated, small, silver charm on a thin, silver chain; it looked out of place compared to the rest of her ornate jewelry.

  I remembered the smell of Madame Sasha’s strong, musky perfume as Emma and I followed the psychic into her living room. The room’s décor seemed to be at odds with the exotic-looking woman standing in the middle of it. The overwhelming scent of sweet floral incense and Pine-Sol soon filled my nose. The room itself was surprisingly pink—the carpet, the drapes—even the armchairs were all a dusty rose color. Only the sofa differed in motif; it was covered in white, satin polyester that was ambushed by an explosion of bold pink and green floral patterns. What was even more remarkable was that all of the upholstered furniture was protected underneath thick, translucent plastic sheaths. Plastic runners also covered large sections of the carpet. The room could only be described as tacky-retro-granny-chic run amuck.

  “Okay, I see that Erikson’s infant and toddler stages are not moving us this morning,” Professor Swain barked loudly and abruptly. His voice jolted me back into reality. Was he singling me out again? Anxiety began creeping up the back of my throat, making it difficult for me to breathe. I peered up at Swain out of the corner of my eye and then quickly scanned the lecture hall. Thankfully, I was far from the only person whose head seemed to be in the clouds this morning. Relieved, I looked down at my notebook and tried not to call any additional attention to myself.

  “Let’s end class early today,” Swain announced in frustration. “We’ll pick up on Friday whe
re we left off today. And everyone, please bring a little more enthusiasm with you to the next class. This information could appear on your midterm exam.” He gathered his lecture notes and walked swiftly out the door.

  Thank you, Professor Swain, I said to myself. Now I didn’t have to race across campus to make my bio lab. Still somewhat preoccupied with my dream, I absentmindedly began packing up my stuff.

  “Hey, would you mind giving me your notes from last Friday’s class?”

  Startled, I looked up to see who was asking. My jaw dropped open. It was him.

  “That is if you were here last Friday,” he added.

  Painfully aware of how ridiculous I must have looked, I snapped my mouth shut, stood up, and put on my jacket. I had noticed him the first day of class. In fact, I was pretty sure that every girl in the class had noticed him. He was stunning. Standing next to me, he towered over my five-foot-seven-inch frame. His thick, black, wavy hair ended just below his ears. He had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen; they looked like dark blue sapphires against his golden skin. His black parka was unzipped, and I could see traces of his chest and stomach muscles beneath his white T-shirt.

  I must have been standing there for a while, utterly starstruck, because he leaned down towards me and picked up my backpack. As he did, his right shoulder brushed up against my arm and my skin tingled at the point of contact. I gasped.

  Get a grip, I told myself. I took a deep breath to calm myself and was hit by the smell of mint, citrus, and a hint of something else—what was it? Chlorine? Whatever the combination, he smelled amazing. I felt a wave of heat begin to creep up my face. Knowing full well that my cheeks were turning red, I turned my head away from him slightly.

  My reaction to him surprised me. Yes, he was hot as hell; but it wasn’t like he was the only attractive guy I had met at IU. So why was I acting like a complete idiot around him? It was probably because I was still flustered from the unwanted attention I’d received when I walked into class so late. The fact that I looked like something the cat had dragged in from the back woods certainly didn’t help matters any. Of all the days this guy had to ask me for my notes, why this one? I suddenly was annoyed with myself for not even putting in my contacts that morning.