Mirror of My Soul Joey Hill (best books to read for women txt) 📖

to show in sensual detail what a beautiful mortal man David would have been. Making her heart hurt, wishing he had lived to enjoy the love of a woman, to give some woman the gift of himself.

“I thought about it a long time, not sure of my own mind on it,” Tyler continued.

“Then, the night you went sleepwalking in my house, when you got up on the balcony, I saw him again. He woke me up, saved your life. That time I got just a quick glimpse of his face. He has a hell of an arm. Just about knocked me out of the bed.” Tyler smiled, though his eyes remained serious. “And I haven’t seen him since. I guess he knew his work was done.”

She nodded mutely, sinking down on his knee. Tyler put an arm around her waist, steadying her with a palm on her hip as they looked at the statue together.

“All those years in the field, remembering every detail of a person based on just a flash impression, paid off. I described him to Josh. Komal had pictures of your brother, so between that and my recollection he came up with his face, the body type and stance.

I hope we did well.”

“It’s him.” The words came out thickly. Tears began to fall, her expression torn between grief and joy. “Oh, God, Tyler. You…” She shook her head and he pressed his face to her throat, wrapping both arms around her.

“No, angel, I didn’t want you to cry.”

“Yes, you did. In a good way. And this is a good way, I promise. You just…you

understand so much about me, more every day. And this…if you keep giving me gifts like this, I’ll be the first person whose heart broke out of too much happiness.”

“I’ll be here to put it back together, angel. Every time. I promise.”

* * * * *

Robert slipped into the garden as they strolled back up the path, smiling a little at their absorption in each other, remembering his and Sarah’s days as newlyweds. He turned at a shadow, a rush of wings as if a heron had taken flight close by. Seeing nothing but the delicate pointed leaves of the Japanese maple quivering, he shrugged, bent to retrieve his garden tools and went to the statue to clip back some of the weeds trying to poke their heads out among the ferns at the base.

He discovered a feather there. Large enough to be a heron’s, only herons didn’t have feathers like this. Long and white with gilding on the tips like the touch of gold and silver mixed. Holding it in his hand, Robert felt a warmth sweep through him, a 230

Mirror of My Soul

sense of peace, of the type of spiritual tranquility he often felt in his garden. He felt thanks sweep him. For the day, for Sarah. For Mr. and Mrs. Winterman. For the beauty of green things and flowers. For life.

Leaving his weeding tools for the moment, he went to find Sarah. He wanted to

give her the feather, sensing that it was the perfect gift for the woman who’d agreed to be his for the rest of their lives.

The End

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About the Author

I’ve always had an aversion to reading, watching or hearing interviews of favorite actors, authors, or musicians because so often you find that the real person does not measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. You find their politics or religion distasteful, or you find they’re shallow and self-absorbed, or a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. And from then on, though you still may appreciate their craft or art, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, whenever I’m asked to provide personal information about myself for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think,

“Okay, the next couple of paragraphs can change forever the way someone views my stories.” Why on earth does a reader want to know about me? It’s the story that’s important.

So here it is. I’ve been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I’m a Type A, borderline obsessive-compulsive paranoiac who worries that I will never live up to expectations. I’ve got more phobias than anyone (including myself) has patience to read about. I can’t stand talking on the phone, I dread social commitments, and the idea of living in monastic solitude with my husband, a few animals, books and writing is as close an idea to paradise as I can imagine. I love chocolate, but with that deeply ingrained, irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I manage to keep it down to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I’m told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never ending “to do” list to snatch a few minutes to write.

This is because, despite all these mediocre and typical qualities, for some

miraculous reason, these wonderful characters well up out of my soul with stories to tell. When I manage to find enough time to write, sufficient enough that the precious

“stillness” required rises up and calms all the competing voices in my head, I can step into their lives, hear what these characters are saying, what they’re feeling, and put it down on paper. It’s a magic beyond description, akin to truly believing that my husband loves me, winning the trust of an animal who has known only fear or apathy, making a true connection with someone else, or knowing for certain that I’ve given a reader a moment of magic through those written words. It’s a magic that reassures me that there is Someone, far wiser than myself, who knows the permanent path to that garden of stillness, where there is only love, acceptance and a pen waiting for hours and hours of uninterrupted, blissful use.

If only I could finish that darned “to do” list.

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