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  A DRESS THE COLOR OF THE SKY

  By Jennifer Irwin

  The people, places, and events described in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2017 Jennifer Irwin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Glass Spider Publishing

  www.glassspiderpublishing.com

  Cover design by Annette Stevens

  Edited by Vince Font

  Franklin’s Tower

  Words by Robert Hunter

  Music by Jerry Garcia and Bill Kreutzmann

  Copyright (c) 1975 ICE NINE PUBLISHING CO., INC.

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Administered by UNIVERSAL MUSIC CORP.

  All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  DEDICATION

  For my mother, Ellie, my guardian angel. And to all the women who are chasing a dream.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could never have written this book without the help of so many amazing people. To Charlie, my partner in crime, for the many times you felt as though you’d lost me to the pages of a book. Thank you for reading, editing, coaching, encouraging, and cheering me on. For picking up the slack at home when I had to keep working through dinner and dishes.

  To Chase Irwin, Campbell Irwin, Bailey Irwin, and Mason Hargraves, who tirelessly listened to me talk about the book, read excerpts, and put up with my need for everyone to be quiet. Thank you for continually encouraging me and for telling all your friends and their moms about the book (regardless of the embarrassing subject matter!). When each of you said you were proud of me, it inspired me to keep going. To Chase, who took my teary phone call in the middle of the night and talked me off of the cliff. To Campbell, for advising me on the appropriate language and phrases used by people in recovery. To Bailey, for your unfailing belief in my ability to write this book and the magical way you always knew when I needed a pep talk.

  To Edward Young, who helped me build a foundation to work from. Thanks for the brilliant protagonist name, the perfect title, and for all your coaching with storytelling.

  To Christine Brown, who stepped up early on to help me with grammar and editing.

  To Annette Stevens, who read an early version of my manuscript and asked to purchase the film rights. Thank you for your input, critiques, comments, edits, and constant support. You never stopped rooting for me and the success of the book. Your faith in me, my writing, and the story kept me going through even the darkest of days.

  To my amazing friends who read early versions of my manuscript and took the time to provide a critique and/or write a review: Jan Hargraves, Alie Keese, Chris Drum, Erika Couture, Lisa Matricardi, Becky Irwin, Cami Evans, Annette Stevens, Connie Smith, Sarah Adler, Dario Ghio, Andrea Kahrs, Mark West, Breezey Snyder, Melissa Riede, Emma Wells, Tina Dellis, Erika Garcia, Stacy Heim, Karen Stuckman, Rachel Larkin, Carolyn Kavanagh, Ann Hall, Kara Davis, Jen Sanders, Lauren Roman, Jane Pratt, Stephanie Kuehn, Don Edwards, Andrea Truslow, Bella Cosetta, Patricia Fairweather Romero, Madison Stevens, Susan Whitman, and Peggy Fuller. Your reviews provided a foundation for me to begin marketing the book. Every review encouraged me keep going and believe I was writing something special.

  To the friends who tirelessly liked my social media posts, gave me positive comments, and encouragement throughout the writing process: Jan Hargraves, Alie Keese, Anita Lugliani, Andrea Kahrs, Chris Drum, Katrina Goldberg, Tracy Chrystall, Kara Herbrandson, Cami Evans, Annette Stevens, Madison Stevens, Andrea Truslow, and Nancy Sullivan.

  To my brother, Jay Kuhn, an absolute angel. Thank you for your love and support and for caring for Dad in his dying days.

  To my writing coach, Angie Fenimore, who helped me “untangle the necklace.”

  To Something or Other Publishing, for teaching me the importance of marketing and how to build a solid social media platform.

  To Anita Lugliani, for taking over my book marketing when I needed to focus on writing.

  To my agent, Karen Gantz, who encouraged me to publish small press.

  To my attorney, Charlie Hargraves, who negotiated all of my contracts and fought for my rights at every turn. Lord only knows where’d I’d be without your guidance and scrutinizing eye.

  To Pia Mellody, founder of The Meadows and author of Eight Emotions, the feelings chart I referred to in the book. Pia’s theories on the effects of childhood trauma have become the foundation for the Meadows’ programs, and are a major reason for their success. I used The Meadows formula as a reference for outlining the therapeutic treatments in my book.

  To my editor, Vince Font, you are simply a pleasure to work with. You polished my manuscript with detail and a keen eye for smoothing out the rough edges. Thank you for putting my book at the top of your priority list and working tirelessly to meet the tight deadline we set for publication.

  To my publisher, Glass Spider Publishing, you said “yes” to all of my requests, even when I asked for something you hadn’t done before. I felt you wanted the success of my book as much as I did, which gave me an incredible sense of peace.

  And finally, to Prudence Aldrich, my alter ego; thank you for being my voice to tell this story.

  PROLOGUE

  Dr. Sheryl O’Brien, PhD, was one of those women whose sexual orientation you couldn’t guess. No telling if she leaned bi, gay, or if she was into men. Sex consumed me—I pictured people doing it. To imagine Sheryl’s face contorting in orgasm proved impossible, and that bothered me.

  No other option than to slump on the shrink sofa, wedge a throw pillow behind my back, and hunker down. The hem of my jeans hiked up. I tugged them and wished for one brand in size twenty-six, long enough for my legs while pretending too short was très chic. One more thing I was pretending.

  “How are things going with Nick?” A dramatic press back in her chair. “Last time we spoke, you were considering a trial separation.”

  “He moved to a swanky apartment. No idea where he’s coming up with the money.” A ringlet dangled over my eye. I studied its vibrant copper tone. “Not sure where I fall in the lineup between me and the other woman. I obsess over everything about them.” The neutral shade of my pedicure brought me momentary pleasure. I rubbed my earlobe and pondered
the unfamiliar calm deep inside me since he left.

  “Elaborate.”

  “How she orgasms, moves, her preferred positions, the list never ends. He might be happier without me.” I yanked a tissue from the box and wound it around my fingers. “I want him back and need to get my shit together.”

  “Do you think he needs to work on himself?”

  “No, I deserve this.” The Kleenex hit the decorative wastebasket on the first throw. “In a strange way, he’s more communicative now.”

  “Nick may appear as though he is trying to change, and he willa shade here, a shade there. The old behavior will return in times of stress. The concern is to find the source of what drives your compulsions.”

  A pry into my soul like a storm about to rip through the landscape.

  My shrink pulled a book from the shelf. “Read this. The similarities between a sociopath and your husband may upset you.”

  “Do you think?” The eerie, hollow-eyed face on the cover creeped me out. A combination of Freddy Krueger and the Phantom of the Opera.

  “He exhibits sociopathic characteristics.”

  “Well, I am the one who failed at the most important commitment of my life.” The inner demon flogged. Slut. Whore. “My financial struggles and the marriage beat me down.” A plethora of self-loathing doused the velour cushions. “I don’t deserve blessings. I’m quite adept at sabotaging.”

  “This goes back to your life before age eighteen.” She dropped the bomb without pause. “Consider an inpatient program.”

  “The problem is, I have a son and no time or money.” The velocity of my voice increased with the level of anxiety. “Which is why I bang the architect. He pays me.” Parched, I grabbed my water and took a swig.

  Quiet, easygoing Sheryl. “This will not be resolved until you face the demons, your past. It’s time to immerse yourself in recovery and stop denying these self-destructive patterns. Your current survival mechanism doesn’t serve you now.”

  Most women associated intimacy with love. Why couldn’t I be like other women? Careful. Dignified. Normal.

  “Talk to Nick. Something tells me he will come up with the funds.”

  “Fine.”

  The mere thought of that conversation scared the bejesus out of me.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A moment of awkward silence dangled between us. Mr. 17A and I wedged between the vanity and stainless-steel toilet. My legs knocked against the edge of the sink. All eye contact avoided. The familiar ding directed us back to our seats.

  “Must be about to land.” My too-snug J Brands proved a struggle in the small space. I jabbed his ribs while inching them up. He planted an awkward peck on my cheek and took in my reflection. His dark hair matched the whiskers peeking through a morning shave.

  “Beautiful.” He smiled with a downtrodden vibe. “Best if I go out first. Wait a minute before you follow.”

  Am I his first mile-high experience?

  He winked, pushed open the bathroom door, and left. I re-latched and cupped my hands to my face.

  Obsession and Head & Shoulders. Put-together exterior, yet hiding flaws and secrets.

  A lingering handwash. With damp fingers, I loosened my curls.

  I counted the seats in my head. The attendant blocked me, and I squeezed through. My new friend shifted to the window.

  “You’re back.” Relieved and surprised, he lifted the armrest, breaking all remaining barriers.

  “Drinks?” The impatient flight attendant clutched the airline-branded napkins. I wondered if she suspected, or if she had ever banged a guy mid-flight.

  “Chardonnay.” The order couldn’t come fast enough.

  “Vodka tonic.” I watched him struggle to liberate his briefcase from underneath the seat in front of him.

  “My treat.” The unpleasant idea of trading intercourse for a five-dollar drink was enough motivation.

  There were multiple credit cards in my wallet, but I wanted to avoid any with Nick’s name. With the other woman in his bed, he had no business knowing about me buying cocktails for two. I removed the card without disturbing the platinum band resting inside.

  “Prudence,” she said. “Uncommon name.”

  Approved. Phew.

  A lime skewered, unscrewed bottle, wine emptied.

  “Are you traveling for work?” I asked. “Perhaps you wear business casual for shits and giggles.”

  An analysis of his everything.

  “In sales, travel a ton. Most flights aren’t this exciting.” A dried-up citrus wedge floated on top. “Cheers.” Two strangers clinked plastic. “How about you?”

  “On an extended trip.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask any more questions. The Cartier Tank adorned my wrist. It made me connect to my mother as if her energy radiated through the timepiece. Most of what she left me fell in the category of statement pieces. My taste tended toward delicate and didn’t scream, “I’m wearing jewelry!”

  “So, you’re on vacation?”

  “Well, no, I used to be married to an alcoholic.” A half-truth. Nick was a bad drinker, but we were still wedded. “My son is fourteen.”

  Tell the mouth to stop moving.

  “I’m on a much-needed holiday to engage in some soul-searching.”

  Not sure what kind of soul-searching goes on in a drug treatment facility.

  “I live in LA,” I blathered on. “Never been to Arizona.”

  Way too much about me for the hot guy in the window seat.

  “What do you do?” he asked. Green eyes glowed over the cocktail rim.

  “Interior designer.” Fabric samples by the thousands, measurements, over-demanding clients, hammering nails; I feigned the assumed glamour.

  “Not surprised, you come across as rather stylish.”

  Stylish and sad. I downed the last drop of chardonnay. Desperate for more, I pressed the instant call button. The same annoyed woman sauntered over.

  “Yes?” Her breast grazed my hair as she turned off the light.

  “Two more, please.” I waited for a safe distance between us.

  “These are on me.” An American Express Black Card passed my face. No luck deciphering the name.

  “The way I pounded down the booze, one might consider me a drunk.”

  “Not at all.” He sipped. The knob in his throat lowered. “Believe me, life can be stressful.” A bad-boy grin flashed at me. “I’d love your number so we can hang out while you’re healing.”

  I was high on his attention, my drug of choice.

  He placed a napkin and pen on the middle tray. “Old school,” he said. “No one writes down their digits anymore.”

  Out of habit, I wrote the first three of my number and the last four of Christian’s. I’d learned the hard way to bang them and leave.

  Rubber-gloved hands collected our trasha grim reminder of my failure to insist he use a condom. “Place your seat in the upright position for landing.”

  I was thankful Mr. 17A brought a carry-on so I could avoid awkward post-coital baggage claim conversation. The illuminated overhead light went black, and I undid my seatbelt. Regret hit, and the cabin temperature elevated.

  My heart pounded as I walked into the airport in search of the driver or a Serenity Hills sign. The outer world disappeared. A sense of isolation and self-hatred overcame me. Naked and vulnerable, I needed protection.

  Wait, this is anonymous. How will I find him?

  A tall Native American man with chiseled features surveyed people in arrivals. My eyes pulled off his ponytail tie and loosened the long, dark locks.

  “Ms. Aldrich?”

  “Yes.”

  “The name’s Jimmy, your driver. Got any luggage?”

  “Yes, checked one.”

  I spotted my suitcase on the carousel and breathed easier knowing I was reunited with my beloved possessions. The way he swept up my bag, one would never guess the massive number of items inside: piles of clothes, Spring-edition fashion magazines, and enough sandals to last a lifet
ime. Outside the exit, a wall of blazing heat and blinding sunlight slammed into me. A full sunglass scramble.

  “Beautiful day.” Sweat invaded his face as he heaved my bag into the back. A “heavy” bag tag was strapped to the handle, screaming “over packer!” A badge of honor for a clothes horse like me. The packing for rehab I’d chalked off as more than challenging.

  Out of instinct, I reached for the front passenger door. Jimmy scurried around and opened the back door for me. Perhaps some addicts tried to jump him for money or grab the wheel to careen into a liquor store. Once in the car, I clasped my hands together like a good girl.

  “First time visiting Arizona?” Bloodshot eyes, his life story, passed to me without words.

  “Yeah.” The seat held the agonies of those who had ventured before me. “You must have some epic tales.”

  “Got a few.” I caught a whiff of his musky manhood, a long, deodorant-free day.

  “Ever been propositioned by one of your rides to bed down and ask for nothing in return?” My shrink advised me to hesitate before I moved my mouth and landed in hot water or a stranger’s bed. “All the built-up stress would lighten if we hooked up before you delivered me. Swing by your place?”

  “Believe me, I am flattered, but I can’t. I’d lose my job.”

  “Got to give a girl credit for trying.” It took me five minutes to find the hand cream in my purse.

  He scanned the radio stations, fiddling, dissatisfied with the choices. “Those are saguaro.” The stagnant air filled with his voice as he pointed ahead. “A sacred plant. Kill one, you risk going to jail. The oldest ones have the most arms.”

  Towering cacti dotted the parched desert. Men reached out to me, bristling with thorns. A sudden urge to examine them and touch their spines. On the radio, Marcy Playground belted out “Sex and Candy.” After one verse, he flipped the channel.