Heart Echoes
Authors: Sally John
Tags: #FICTION / Christian / General, #FICTION / General
Heart Echoes
Sally John
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Carol Stream, Illinois
Praise for the Side Roads series
“A thoughtful and engaging novel.”
Publishers Weekly
“John has penned an exciting, faith-based story.”
Booklist
“This inspirational [story] reminds readers that it's never too late for second chances. And when our hope is in God, nothing is impossible.”
Romantic Times
“Sally John has penned another moving tale.
Ransomed Dreams
asks hard questions about faith and forgiveness . . . but it also offers hope. It's worth reading to discover the answer.”
“John's story is surprisingly refreshing and completely upholds biblical truths of faithfulness in marriage.”
“
Ransomed Dreams
is another wonderful weave of compelling characters, poignant pacing, and the twin truths that forgiveness is costly but love can meet the expense head-on. Sally John is an insightful, inspiring storyteller.”
Susan Meissner
Author of
Lady in Waiting
“A thought-provoking story about real life.
Desert Gift
offers three-dimensional characters, an entertaining plot, and some nice twists along the way.”
“An emotionally insightful novel about the detours that happen in our lives and marriages. . . .
Desert Gift
powerfully demonstrates that true success comes only in realizing our own sinfulness and brokenness and bringing it to the altar.”
“A fascinating novel exploring the desert times in life and marriage.”
Romantic Times
“Sally John has penned another masterpiece.
Desert Gift
is truly a gift of inspirationâit will touch your heart.”
Freshfiction.com
“John's keen insight into the complexities of marriage and personal identity make
Desert Gift
one of her finest works.”
Visit Tyndale online at
www.tyndale.com
.
Visit Sally John's website at
www.sally-john.com
.
TYNDALE
and Tyndale's quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Heart Echoes
Copyright © 2012 by Sally John. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of beach copyright © Bruce Heinemann/Photodisc/Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman copyright © David De Lossy/Photodisc/Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of rocks copyright © Paul Paladin/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
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
John, Sally, date.
Heart echoes / Sally John.
p. cm. â (Side roads)
ISBN 978-1-4143-2787-7 (softcover)
I. Title.
PS3560.O323H43 2012
813'.54âdc23 2011034980
For my sister
Cindi Cox
and my sisters-in-law
Sandy Carlson, Patti John, and Patty John
He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds.
PSALM
147:3
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
My heart echoes with gratitude for those who came alongside to help create this book.
Thanks to Christopher John, Tracy John, Elizabeth Johnson, Troy Johnson, Anna Younce, Tom Carlson, and Kelly Farmer for providing a myriad of details about trees, the Oregon coast, teenage vernacular and culture, and the military.
Thanks to Anna Rehder for the crash course in law and for so patiently and thoroughly answering my nonstop legal questions. Mistakes are mine.
Thanks to the Johnston, Iowa, high school students for the timely YouTube display of teenage enthusiasm and energy.
Thanks to Karlie Garcia for the blogging tutorial.
Thanks to Margaret Becker, Nicole Sponberg, and Rivertribe for the music support.
Thanks to my readers. You are a constant source of encouragement.
Thanks to my dream team: editors Karen Watson, Stephanie Broene, and Kathy Olson, along with everyone at Tyndale House who markets, sells, designs, and makes sure the books get into readers' hands.
As always, many thanks to my agent, Lee Hough, who has made all the difference in my work. Thanks also to the whole group at Alive Communications.
And thanks to Tim for thirty-eight years of being there.
Chapter 1
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
At precisely twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds past ten o'clock in the morning, Pacific Daylight Time, Teal Morgan-Adams's world ceased to exist.
She knew the exact time because the NPR radio announcer Dave Somebody said it after his traffic update, which started with, “Slow going westbound on the 10, folks.”
Teal snorted. “âSlow going.' Ha. It's a regular parking lot out here, Dave.”
She sat in the thick of it, second lane from the right, windows shut, air on high against the August heat, comfy in her white leather seat. She read e-mails on her smartphone and, in her imagination, dared a CHP officer to zoom up on his motorcycle and ticket her.
“As if moving four miles per hour on the freeway could technically be referred to as driving and thereby breaking the law.”
She laughed out loud. If her husband were there, he'd roll his eyes and question once again his sanity for marrying a lawyer. River swore Teal's favorite pastime was looking for a fight. After three and a half years, though, his rolling eyes still sparkled whenever he said it.
The radio announcer wrapped up his report. “The time is now twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds past ten o'clock.”
And then the shaking began.
As always, the unexpected movement registered about half a point on Teal's scale of awareness. One eye on her phone, one eye on the Iowa license plate on the minivan in front of her, she inched forward and braked. Her body trembled, as if she were on a train.
“What . . . ?”
And then her coffee mug jiggled and rattled in its holder. Static hissed from the radio.
“Nooo.” The mug bounced onto the floor.
Yes.
“Oh, God!” It was all the prayer she could form at the moment.
Adrenaline surged through her. What to do? What to do?
Duck, cover, and hold on to a sturdy piece of furniture.
In the car? She was in the car!
Teal dropped the phone to her lap, shifted into Park, and grasped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. It shook. Her body quivered. The car vibrated. Her seat belt constricted. The glove box popped open. The world rumbled, a hurtling train on rickety tracks to nowhere.
Her pulse throbbed in her throat. Her thoughts raced in circles. What to do? What to do?
If you are driving, stop.
Okay. Okay.
Move out of traffic.
Out of traffic? Not a chance.
She caught sight of the driver to her right. He clutched his steering wheel, his sunglasses askew, his face scrunched up. Waiting. Holding his breath.
Teal had learned to deal with earthquakes. She and her daughter had lived in Southern California for fifteen years. Tremors came. Teal panicked. Maiya grinned. Tremors went. She walked off the adrenaline rush. Maiya laughed. They talked about what they should have done. Life got back to normal.
These tremors should have
went
by now.
People should be exhaling by now.
She should be out of the car by now,
whew
ing with those Iowa tourists in front of her, exchanging nervous chuckles, talking about Disneyland.
Do not get out of the car.
Do not stop under an overpass.
“Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!”
She stared at the overpass. According to the huge green sign to her right, the next exits at the overpass lay a quarter of a mile ahead. Hers was one of them.
Cars and vans and pickups and semis and SUVs and RVs moved where there was no space for movement. Drivers jockeyed to get out from under the bridge. Horns blared. Metal crunched against metal.
And then the tremors went. The shaking stopped. It was over.
Or not.
In horror Teal watched the chain reactions of vehicles slamming and shoving and sliding into each other not far ahead of her. Straight lanes of traffic were now a massive logjam of cars facing every direction.
And then the unthinkable.
The overpass shifted. It happened in agonizingly slow motion.
The right-side concrete abutment twisted, a giant robot turning, losing his footing, falling, falling, falling. It splayed out over the freeway below. The bridge it had been holding aloft toppled across five lanes of logjam.
The air exploded with shrapnel. Crashing noises reverberated.
Teal burst into tears, released the seat belt, turned off the engine, and ducked. She squeezed herself under the dashboard, covered her head with her arms, and began shaking all over again.
The first aftershock hadn't even hit yet.