Dry as Rain Read online

  Praise for Gina Holmes’s debut novel, Crossing Oceans

  “[A] haunting tale that packs an emotional wallop. Keep tissues near.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Holmes’s characters are so real they pop from the pages. . . . [A] dramatic, emotional, faith-based novel.”

  Booklist

  “Debut novelist Holmes pulls heartstrings in this sweet testimony about love and family.”

  Romantic Times

  “Poignant and unforgettable, this book will break your heart—and then put the pieces back together again. An uplifting and inspiring tale that reminds us to live every day as if it’s our last.”

  Tess Gerritsen, New York Times–bestselling author

  “Gina Holmes has crafted a poignant, emotional story that explores family dynamics and the power of love. When the last page is turned, you’ll wish there were more. Set your tissue box close by, readers. This one will grab you hard.”

  Crosswalk.com

  “A stunning debut. . . . Rarely does a book grab me and turn my emotions upside down. Crossing Oceans is one that did just that.”

  Minneapolis Examiner

  “This novel is absolutely amazing. The characters are quirky, relatable, and incredibly realistic. Everything—from characters to plot twists—is original and unique, demonstrating Holmes’s refreshingly strong and distinct voice.”

  ChristianBookPreviews.com

  “Crossing Oceans gripped me from the get-go. If you’re a reader who shuns a tearjerker, this isn’t for you. But for everyone else, you’ll cherish it. It overflows with themes such as hope, restoration, and beating the odds.”

  Titletrakk.com

  “Gina Holmes pens a brilliant story of love and sacrifice.”

  ChristianPulse.com

  “I was unable to put this book down.”

  Hope for Women magazine

  Visit Tyndale online at www.tyndale.com.

  To learn more about Gina Holmes, visit www.ginaholmes.com or her blog,

  www.noveljourney.blogspot.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Dry as Rain

  Copyright © 2011 by Gina Holmes. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph copyright © by Dennis Cohadon/Trevillion Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover line artwork copyright © by Shambhala Publications. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Beth Sparkman

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary, 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Holmes, Gina.

  Dry as rain / Gina Holmes.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3306-9 (pbk.)

  1. Marriage—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.O494354D79 2011

  813´.6—dc23 2011020884

  For Adam, my oasis.

  He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west.

  Psalm 103:12

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I am so very grateful to my children—from oldest to youngest: Catherine, Jessie, Jacob, Becky, and Levi—for their undying support, encouragement, and understanding when I’m stuck to the computer or having a bad day.

  I thank Dr. Frank Shelp for advising me on some psychiatric issues early in the process, as well as Charles Martin, who shared a little of his overflowing genius. The good folks at ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) were so kind to answer my many questions. I am grateful for their support not only of me, but of all of us who write with the Kingdom of Heaven on our hearts.

  A very special thanks to Karen Watson, Chip MacGregor, and my amazing editor, Kathryn Olson, who stuck with me through multiple rewrites. Thanks for not letting me take the path of least resistance and for holding my hand through the birth of a particularly stubborn baby. You all went above and beyond on this one. You’re the best. And of course, Ane Mulligan, who read every word no matter how busy. Ane, I’m always in your debt!

  I can’t thank the marketing team at Tyndale House enough—especially Babette Rea—for their support. I know how hard you all work and how much you pour into what you do. Thanks to Ron Beers, whose kind words will stay with me whenever I doubt myself as a writer, and sweet, capable Stephanie Broene, who always makes me feel like the only author she has to attend to. The hardworking sales reps and the rest of the Tyndale team have been incredibly flexible, supportive, and all-around fantastic. Meeting you really opened my eyes to how much heart you pour into your work and just what a ministry it is to you. I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful group to represent my work.

  As always, thank you to the Novel Journey crew, who aren’t just blogging teammates but friends and talented writers as well. In no particular order: Ane Mulligan, Jessica Dotta, Kelly Klepfer, Mike Duran, Noel DeVries, Yvonne Anderson, Michael Ehret, Marcia Laycock, Anita Mellot, Ronie Kendig, Athol Dickson, Mary DeMuth, and Chip MacGregor. I pray you all are being blessed as much as you’re blessing others.

  I couldn’t successfully wear all the hats I do if I didn’t have such a supportive husband, and I have the best of the best. Adam, you are my hero, the best friend I’ve ever had, and the absolute love of my life. Baby, thank you for being my biggest fan, listening to every idea, plot summary, etc., and reading aloud to me every last word that makes up one of my stories no matter how tired you are. Someday soon it will be your turn with all of those amazing songs you write, and I’ll get to return the favor.

  Above all, thank You to my Father in heaven. Please take my words and make them more.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  One

  When I first became a Christian, I read what Adam and Eve had done in the Garden of Eden and it really ticked me off. Until that fateful moment, humanity had it made. If Eve hadn’t allowed emotion to overwhelm logic, and Adam hadn’t been so whipped, everyone would be living in Paradise right now.

  If God Himself directly tells you not to do something, do
you really think you’ll get away with doing it anyway? Did they honestly think they could hide from the Creator of the universe? I mean, come on.

  I don’t know why the Garden of Eden should pop into my mind again on that January evening except that my toes were freezing inside my dress shoes as I trudged along the slushy sidewalk, and if sin had never entered the world, then probably neither would have bitter cold. If Adam had been there with me, I’d have shown him what I thought about his shortcomings with a snowball to the head.

  Maybe blind dates were also the product of sin. It made a certain amount of sense. The trepidation I felt about my upcoming one certainly felt like punishment. Maybe I was the one who needed a good snowball pelting. What was I thinking agreeing to spend an evening with a woman I’d never so much as exchanged a smile with? I’d always said blind dates smacked of desperation, but here I was on my way to meet my coworker’s sister.

  Bobby showed me a photograph of her earlier in the week. Long hair, long legs . . . long shot. If the picture wasn’t old or doctored, she was an easy ten. The way I figured it, I was an eight—nine at best. Now, as I hurried under the light of the streetlamp on my way to Sophia’s to meet her, I’d have given anything to turn back the clock and undo the mismatched arrangement.

  Digging my hands deep into the pockets of my wool coat, I hurried from the parking lot toward the restaurant. The brittle night air burned my lungs as plumes of white rose from my chattering teeth. More to stall than to warm myself, I cupped my hands over my mouth, puffed onto my palms, and glanced at the canopy arched over the restaurant entrance. It looked like a big, red eyebrow raised in my direction. On it was stenciled the restaurant’s name in gold calligraphy. Ivy, browned from winter, crawled up bricks on both sides of the entryway.

  I’d been warned that the place was every bit as pricey as it looked. The fact that my date had chosen it should have been my first clue of what kind of woman she was—or at least what kind of man she was looking for. With a sigh, I grabbed the cold brass door handle and pulled.

  When I stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was the immediate warmth; the second, the darkness. Other than strings of white lights winding around strategically placed artificial trees, the only illumination came from globe candles centered on each table.

  The jewel-toned lighting seemed almost magical in the way it made everyone and everything look rich and attractive. I could only hope it had the same effect on me. The instant I laid eyes on Bobby’s sister standing by the podium, I knew it was going to be a long night. She was just as hot as her picture, but one glance down her perfectly sculpted nose at me set my high-maintenance chick detector squalling like a siren.

  Everything from her diamond earrings to the designer purse she carried was too fat for my wallet. I had always been the Mary Ann type, but this one was definitely a Ginger. I could tell by the twisted pucker of her heart-shaped mouth that I wasn’t exactly her dream date either. I wondered if her brother bothered to inform her I was half-Japanese.

  When the hostess told us there was a wait, I moved Bobby’s sister over to the bar. I figured this girl was going to be a lobster and champagne type, so I ordered the cheapest draft they had so maybe she’d get the idea early that I wasn’t Mr. Howell. Not taking my hint, she ordered a top-shelf martini.

  I glanced at the wall of mirrors hanging behind the penguin-dressed bartender. That’s when I first noticed the baby grand behind me . . . and the redhead making it sing. I listened to her play against the backdrop of laughter, clanking wineglasses, and couples stealing kisses over ravioli.

  Her hair was the color of spun sunshine, her skin as creamy and flawless as a porcelain doll, and her beautiful fingers flew over those ivory keys with such grace I couldn’t help but be infatuated.

  I’ve never been one to believe in love at first sight, but I just knew in the smoky reflection of that bar mirror that we were going to have one heck of a romance. Well, maybe I just hoped we would. She played “Fly Me to the Moon” as a waiter passed by with an oval tray perched atop his fingertips. The air filled with steam and the scent of beef and marsala cooking wine.

  Something told me if I didn’t make a move then, I might never get another chance. Having my date and her brother mad at me was something I could live with. Not finding out if the piano player was my soul mate was not. I turned to Bobby’s sister to apologize for what I was about to do, but she’d already started flirting with the man on the other side of her.

  I made my way from one end of the bar to the other and leaned between a middle-aged couple toasting something or other. After a few rounds of lighthearted negotiations, I’d purchased the rosebud the man had been wearing on his lapel.

  When I walked over to my date holding the flower, I’m sure she thought it was hers. Instead of smiling, she looked embarrassed. I told her I had met the woman I was going to marry. She was so relieved to find out it wasn’t her that she laughed, threw a look over her shoulder at Kyra, and grabbed her purse.

  Feeling suddenly emboldened, rose in hand, I turned around on my stool and made no secret of studying her. Sophia’s was warm with so many bodies confined to such a small area, but with my gaze fixed on the pianist, I felt like I was baking in a thermonuclear reactor. When she stood to take a break, some mafia type stuck a fifty in her jar and told her when she got back, he’d appreciate it if she’d play anything but Frank Sinatra.

  She walked to the far end of the bar where the waiters picked up their patrons’ drinks and the bartender gave her a bottle of water. I strolled right up to her and handed her that rose.

  “Thanks,” she said, holding the stem, which had been clipped short. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  I felt my throat close in until she laughed. It was the most beautiful laugh I’d ever heard. We had dinner the next night—and every night leading up to our wedding reception.

  If you had told me that twenty years later she’d be divorcing me, I wouldn’t believe it. I loved her so much. I still do. But one person in love does not a marriage make.

  Two

  I woke up in bed with a woman who was not my wife. The candlelight that had cast the room in shades of gold earlier had long since died, taking with it the flickering illusion that all was rosy and right. Beside the bed, a merlot bottle sat empty next to two glasses stained with crimson.

  How beautiful and exciting my coworker seemed just hours ago. Light from the adjacent bathroom fell on her face, still full from youth. I wondered what exactly I’d found so remarkable about this ordinary girl, barely a woman.

  She wasn’t half the beauty Kyra had been in her twenties, or even now. Her curves could not compete with my wife’s willowy grace. She didn’t have Kyra’s intelligence, talent, or my promise on her finger. But what she did have had intoxicated me completely. She’d looked at me with wide, innocent eyes as though I was some sort of hero. As though I wasn’t the disappointment I’d become to Kyra. As though I was the man I used to be.

  Danielle’s eyelids twitched from dreams, her fine lashes fluttering against her skin. The heat of her breath puffed against my neck. Careful not to disturb her, I rubbed a lock of her flaxen hair between my thumb and finger. It had seemed so much more wild and beautiful as we’d made love.

  Love—I almost choked on the word.

  When I closed my eyes, it was no longer Danielle’s blonde hair I touched, but Kyra’s red. I remembered a time not so long ago that I lay with her in this very position. The light of dawn traced the outline of her face and her long, lean body like a golden aura. How I’d wanted to ravish her at that moment with a desire that was so much more than mere lust. So much more than what I’d shared with this girl.

  When I opened my eyes, it was Danielle once again lying next to me. This was what I had fantasized about for weeks, but now that my belly was full of it, I barely remembered what the hunger had felt like. She hadn’t changed, but somehow I felt no residue of my earlier lust.

  As I watched her sleep, I knew it wasn’t the
shape of her young body, the curve of her hips or legs I was really looking at, but the death of my marriage. The finality of my actions struck me with unexpected force. Kyra and I were never supposed to come to this.

  I shouldn’t have done what I’d done—two wrongs would never make a right—but after being accused of it for so long, at least now the punishment would fit the crime.

  And anyway, wasn’t it Kyra, not me, who had insisted on the separation? Those almost always lead to divorce, I’d rightly argued, but she wouldn’t be reasoned with. She’d seen a suggestive e-mail that had her convinced I’d been having an affair. I wanted to work things out. Begged her to attend counseling with me, but she’d had one foot so far out the door, it was a shorter walk out than in.

  A small smile pulled at the corners of Danielle’s lips. She stirred in her sleep and laid her arm across my stomach. I waited for her to settle before gently removing it.

  Careful not to wake her, I pushed myself up, cringing as the bed creaked. She sighed, curled into the fetal position, and tugged the blanket up to her neck. Before my foot hit the floor, my cell beeped. I had to lean over her to get it. My arm brushed her chest and she awoke.

  I faked a smile. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  Her eyes lit up as she covered her mouth. “Hey, there.”

  I put the phone to my ear. “Eric Yoshida.”

  “Hi, Eric. It’s Al.”

  I shook my head at Danielle to indicate my regret in answering. “You got a new number, I see.”

  “Yeah, it’s a TracFone. You know your mother and bills.”

  I cleared my throat. I didn’t have it in me to worry about my stepfather’s constant drizzle while I was dealing with my own tsunami. “What can I do you for?”

  “Are you sitting?”

  Looking down at myself perched on the edge of the bed, I felt the dread of the coming news. “Is it Mom? Is she—?”

  “Your mom’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”

  I exhaled as Danielle watched me intently. Without her makeup, she seemed even younger. At forty-five, I probably looked like an old man to her in the stark light of day with my sparse, gray body hair and the not-so-subtle pull of gravity. With my free hand, I picked my pants off the floor. I was relieved that she had the decency to look away as I slid them on.