Rear Jacket Copy

September 11, 2000

Rachel Marin, a Texas-born beauty, Boston College grad, had always dreamed of being a writer. Even when she served the President as Deputy, White House Press Secretary; later, as a noted journalist covering world leaders and the world famous, she never surrendered her dream.

At thirty-eight, she was just divorced and clawing her way up from the basement of her life. Her heart was broken; her dreams shattered. On a cool September morning, she packed her life away into every corner of her vintage Õ65 Mustang, and left California.

Along the way to an uncertain destination, a detour through a small, north-central, Texas town; a 50 year old wedding dress in a quaint dress shop; and a chance telling of a five decades-old love story, opens a magical door. The result is a fateful marriage of past and future. The legendary love story of David Joe Fallon, Jr. and Jessie Marie Taylor inspires a new love storyÑone Rachel could never have dreamed. She finds herself helping to write a final chapter no one could have imagined.

———

Just as Miss Lucy was speaking, Rachel turned to see a man enter from the curtained doorway behind the counter. In an instant, and without the slightest effort, he stole the oxygen from the room. Rachel was struck by RichardÕs trim, but manly, six foot-plus frame; his clean, crisp appearance; the way his lightly creased jeans concealed, yet revealed him. There was the Izod shirt, the Ostrich cowboy boots. His dark blond hair fell barely to his ears. A shock stole away a short distance down his forehead. Rachel watched as he approached with an effortless gait and easy manner that arrested her attention. She forced herself to look away; to focus on what Miss Lucy was saying; to breathe again.

Ñ from Half Moon, Full Heart

One             

Rachel
Monday Morning, September 11, 2000

Real love dies hard, if at all.
It struggles against reason; ignores all logic; resists, with every fibre of its being, the dark and painful descent to its demise.
     Rachel Marin had always believed this to be infallible truth. It was now her reality. She had greeted the new millennium, still clawing her way up from the basement of her life. Nine months later, jagged steps remained.
     Sporting faded jeans, a white, Boston University sweat shirt—her Alma Mater—and white ankle socks, Rachel sat alone on the barren, white-carpeted, living room floor.
      With delicate fingers interlaced around knees drawn to her chest, she leaned lightly against the wall behind her. She stared blankly at the Italian-marble fireplace across the room. However, her gaze took her far beyond it—back into her past, and yet forward toward an uncertain future.
     Tear tracks lined her unmade face. Her hair, finally auburn again, not blonde as David had always insisted, sought its own contrary course.

—

     Rachel glanced toward the partially open front door; past two Coach suitcases; a clothes bag; a computer bag; two camera bags—one still, one video—and two, nearly identical, tan briefcases. All were lined neatly, side by side.
      Everything had been packed, just so. The Apple G4 laptop was in it's reinforced bag, as were rewritable CDs, DVDs, zip disks, USB cable. A smaller canvas bag held a high-resolution digital camera; a Palm, and assorted web devices, including a satellite internet uplink.
      A third briefcase, this one black and timeworn, held copies of manuscripts and publishers' rejection letters. Rachel kept every one. And there were dozens. "Fuel for my inner fire,Ó she told herself. She knew that writers who dream of being published often struggle to persevere in the face of rejection and self-doubt.
     The Sony Hi-8 video camera was secure in its case, along with extra tapes and battery packs. The still camera—a Canon EOS Rebel she purchased on her birthday in '95—had standard and telephoto lenses.
     Rachel packed away 48 rolls of color Kodak film—half 200, half 400 speed; 6 rolls of Ilford black and white film; 4 packages of lens paper, and a large can of compressed air.
      There was the large, weathered, tan leather case containing almost two hundred still photographs; a sheaf of torn movie tickets; a bundle of old love letters.
      And there was more. Dozens of amusement park ticket stubs; numerous luggage tags from memorable trips; a ream of faded notes scribbled on coffee-stained restaurant napkins; scores of Christmas, birthday and even business cards. This was Rachel's life in bits and pieces. Few things were more valuable.
      Packing 'her life' away had not been easy. In doing so, Rachel fought past an onslaught of persistent memories she thought she had banished.

—

     There were memories of losing her father; her life with David; long-denied loneliness she often felt being an only child. When the packing was done, she knew it would be a long while before she reopened the old case.
      The two large suitcases held only clothing she really needed, plus a few pieces she simply could not live without. All other clothing, accumulated over many years, was donated to the Purple Heart organization in Altadena.
      Finally, a vintage, pea-green, US Army Surplus duffel bag was crammed with rolled jeans, folded T-shirts and causal items requiring little or no special care.

      Rachel's quaint, three bedroom, white clapboard and brick, South Pasadena house was on Mission Street, only blocks from Fair Oaks Boulevard. It had been her home for nearly ten years. Selling it was traumatic. Leaving it was beyond difficult.
      Except for the luggage and the memories, the place was now empty. She once shared the home, on rare occasion, with her husband, David, a Paramount Pictures executive—the man with whom she had expected to spend the rest of her life.
      Their larger, more glitzy, Pacific Palisades home never really suited her simple, country-girl tastes. David was gone now, as were the reams of paper maché dreams Rachel once embraced.
      She sat stone still, drew several deep breaths, then started to stand. The time had come. The hour; the moment; the second ordained for her departure.      
      The knowing was unmistakable. A nearly audible voice. A force that nearly yanked her from her place. She rose, lifted a large wicker basket brimming with fresh rose petals, and made her way to the farthermost room.

      Outside, a brilliant southern California sun. Inside, a shower of red rose petals floated down onto a sea of arctic-white carpet. Rachel's eyes misted, as she drifted from room to room. She moved slowly, sowing fragrant symbols she prayed would yield a harvest of love for newlywed owners of her home. This was once her home, once a sanctuary for boundless dreams and fanciful imaginings. But no more.
      For months, Rachel had walked a knife's edge between suicide and rebirth. Her Faustian choice rested between the near certainty of death, and the desperate quest for new life. And she was alone, as alone as she had ever been in her 38 years.
      Rachel had not arrived easily at her decision to leave California. The inner struggle leading to the decision had been epic and exhausting. Yet, she knew answers lay far beyond the Golden State's borders. But, where?