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Rated: E · Novel · Inspirational · #1670727
This is the opening to what I want to turn into a novel. Let me know what you think.
Snow flurries are blowing around in the crisp January air, the smell of three day old grease permeating the breeze and the look of hurried waitresses appearing through fogged up windows.  Inside, the sound of a bell ringing and the voice of the short order cook yelling out table numbers are not enough to blot out the memories that are playing out in Mark’s head tonight. 

Mark holds his hand over the escaping heat of his fourth cup of coffee.  Usually, he would be asking Jackie his waitress for creamer, the only thing that happens to be missing from his table, but since the accident he only drinks his coffee black and by the gallons.  The last conversation he had with Grace keeps running on repeat in his head.

“Please be careful out there tonight sweetheart, it is suppose to be raining pretty hard” Mark said as Grace is packing up Julie’s clothes for a trip to her grandmother’s house.  Wishing Grace would tell him to forget about his last minute financial review and she will blow off her office Christmas party, but not tonight.  He knows he has to finish and she needs to make an appearance at the party. 

Grace responds hurriedly, “I will be honey, I won’t be gone long.  I just have to drop off Julie at my mother’s and then stay for an hour or so at the party.  I will call you when I get there so you won’t worry.” 

“Okay” Marks says as Grace gives him one of her pecks on the cheek.  “One for you too little miss”, as he stoops to plant a kiss on the top of Julie’s head.  She is already busy playing with a new book that someone bought her. 

Now standing at the door waving and blowing kisses to his daughter as they back out of the garage, Mark feels a pain on his leg. 

“Are you gunna’ need more napkins” Jackie says in the tone of voice uniquely her. It sounds somewhere between high school dropout and cheerleading captain. 

Mark realizes that he has started pouring out his coffee on his slacks.  Thankful that he is able to feel something, anything, he looks up smiling. 

“I sure am, thank you for asking”.  Half embarrassed, half mad that she broke him from his daze.

Mark feeling that he has had his fill of coffee and distant laughter, pays his bill, waves at Jackie and steps out side.  The cold breeze blowing down hard on his body, he shrugs it off and starts his trek toward the place he calls home.  At least since the accident it has been home.  He is not sure that he will ever be able to stay in the house that him and his girls called home.  The pictures on the wall, oh how Grace loved to take pictures, just remind him of how bad it hurts now that they are gone.  He thinks about selling the house but then it stings to think that the only thing  he has left of them is that house.  What a mess he feels his life is in. 

He just wants to be able to go back to that night and stop everything.  Make it so it did not happen.  Why, how, could God let this happen to him.  After all he gives his all to the God’s kingdom.  Are there not people out there that desearve this happening to them?  He silences the thoughts in his head.  He knows God has been good to him.  God was good to the his girls.  He remembers  a time before he found faith and it almost hurts him as much to think about what he missed out on. 

Mark swings open the glass door to the Grand Hotel and Spa, the home he has created for himself.  All the staff know him by name and rarely speak a word to him.  They know what has happened and they do not want to upset him.  After all he is their guest. 

His leather soles click on the marble floor of the main lobby.  Mark wanders over to the coffee stand by the counter for his nightcap.  He is not sure why he bothers, he knows he is just going to lay awake until he cannot hold his eyes open then fall into a dream about Grace.  Except these dreams seem to find a darker ending then the ones he had when he was younger, when he and Grace were first falling in love. 
© Copyright 2010 Christopher Clayton Depew (chrisdepew at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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