Remember the Stars Read online

  Carraine Oldham & Marisa Oldham

  This edition published by Carraine Oldham and Marisa Oldham via Amazon KDP

  Text © 2020 Carraine and Marisa Oldham

  ASIN # B084X51TT7

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover Art by: Amanda Walker PA and Design Services

  Edited and Formatted by: By the Hand Editing

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all innocent lives that are tragically stolen from this world. You will never be forgotten. We will always remember the stars.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Ferrin

  Chapter 2 - Estherly

  Chapter 3 - Ferrin

  Chapter 4 - Estherly

  Chapter 5 - Ferrin

  Chapter 6 - Estherly

  Chapter 7 - Ferrin

  Chapter 8 – Estherly

  Chapter 9 – Ferrin

  Chapter 10 – Estherly

  Chapter 11 – Ferrin

  Chapter 12 – Estherly

  Chapter 13 - Ferrin

  Chapter 14 – Estherly

  Chapter 15 – Ferrin

  Chapter 16 – Estherly

  Chapter 17 – Ferrin

  Chapter 18 – Estherly

  Chapter 19 – Ferrin

  Chapter 20 – Estherly

  Chapter 21 – Ferrin

  Chapter 22 – Estherly

  Chapter 23 – Ferrin

  Chapter 24 – Estherly

  Chapter 25 – Ferrin

  Chapter 26 – Estherly

  Chapter 27 - Ferrin

  Chapter 28 – Lennon Meir

  Acknowledgement

  About the Authors

  One Last Thing…

  Chapter 1 – Ferrin

  Thick tears, resembling the droplets streaming down the windshield in front of me, slide down my cheeks. Glowing red taillights blur as my eyes ping-pong with the windshield wipers. What another craptastic day, of another craptastic month, in yet another craptastic year of my shitty life.

  At a dead stop, I wipe the wetness from my face. Roger’s irate shouting rings in my head. I’ve never had a boss make me feel as worthless as he does. I can’t believe I spend each Monday through Friday boxed into the three walls of my office cubicle, in a toxic working relationship with Roger, the world’s worst supervisor.

  When I was a little girl, I never imagined that I’d spend my evenings in bumper-to-bumper traffic, crying over the latest insults from Roger, or any person for that matter. Yet, here I am at 6:47 PM on a Wednesday, staring at a bumper sticker for the Seattle Seahawks while dabbing at thick tears and shoving Cheetos into my mouth on the over one-hour-long commute home.

  I never thought I’d live such a meaningless, uninspiring life. I dreamed of being a veterinarian or a journalist when I was a little girl, not a customer service representative for a local telephone company.

  When did life turn into this? At what point in my thirty-three years on this planet did I become a woman who cries on her way home from work?

  As my thoughts take control, running over the past four years of my life and trying to figure out where I took that wrong turn, my foot unintentionally slips from the brake causing my compact Honda to roll forward. Startled, I slam the pedal back down, jolting the car.

  When did my dreams cease to matter? There has to be more to life than punching in and out for a job I despise and going home to my cat and an empty bed. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Traffic around me crawls. When was the last time I had an evening out with friends? What friends? They’re all happily married with a kid or two, living the dream. I’m stuck in an endless whirlwind of nothingness, going nowhere… like a mouse spinning on a giant wheel.

  I brush off the depression from my day as I take the off-ramp, heading for my quaint but dull neighborhood. If there’s anything I have going for me, it’s that I own my home. At least I have something to show for the years of abuse I’ve suffered at the hands of TelCom Digital Systems.

  Relief washes over me when my historic home comes into view and I pull into the puddled driveway. Thankfully, the rain has let up; dashing through it from my car to the house is never much fun. Glancing at the house on my right, warmth heats my chest. There’s one other thing I have going for me (well, in a way): my neighbor, Sam Landry. He fills my nights with fantasies and lust. Unfortunately for me, Sam has no idea we’re in a romantic relationship.

  I grab my insulated lunchbox, my purse, and the Cheetos before stepping out of the car. Keeping my eyes on Sam’s front door, I head toward mine, hoping to catch a glimpse of him before I go inside.

  While unlocking my door, the smell of fresh, rain-soaked pavement surrounds me. Otis’s raspy meow welcomes me home, but I don’t go inside before I sneak a last look at the front of Sam’s house, begging for a chance to see his gorgeousness. No such luck.

  Shutting the door behind me, I fall back against it, letting my purse and lunch bag hit the floor, but holding on tight to the Cheetos. I’ll need these for backup when I start bawling again. I slide down the door till my bottom hits the floor. Diving my hand into the bag of cheesy goodness, the sobs come.

  “When did my life turn into hell?”

  Otis stares at me before zigzagging under my legs and around my ankles. Though mostly black, his patches of white fur somehow leave behind strands on my pants. He looks up at me, his perfect half-pink, half-white nose warming my heart and his large, green eyes filling me with love, all while reminding me of how alone I am.

  My salty tears mix with the orange, greasy heaven I shovel into my mouth. “Are you hungry, boy?” I whimper between bites and sobs.

  Looking down at my gooey fingers, I reach into my purse and pull out a tissue, thinking Otis probably isn’t the best option for a napkin. I pry myself off the floor with a sigh before stripping off my jacket and tossing it aside. Flicking the lights on in each room as I make my way to my kitchen, I keep wishing I’d seen Sam. At least a peek at him would’ve brightened up my night a tad.

  The gray sky darkens my kitchen through the open lace curtains as I make my way to the sink, where I wash the remainder of the cheesy dust from my fingers. Otis’s head rubs my calf as I grab a can of food from the cupboard, remaining lost in a daze of gloominess. I stick the can into the automatic can opener, but the smell churns my stomach, and any idea I had of making a decent meal for dinner falls away, replaced by the sheer tiredness washing over my body. The pop of the lid on Otis’s food pulls me from the trance. As I fork half the can of soft food into his bowl, I notice my actions mimic that of a zombie’s. Staring down at his loveable green eyes, watching his pink tongue flick across his black lips, I give him the best smile I can muster up.

  “Rough day, kid,” I explain, before setting his food down next to his water. I wrap the rest of the food and put it in the fridge.

  Grabbing his water bowl, I turn for the sink… and there it is! The moment I was hoping for. There he is. Sam. I lean against my sink, squinting my eyes for a better look at his tall, toned, an
d handsome frame through the panes of my kitchen window, as he steps onto his back porch. My tongue whisks across my lower lip. As far as neighbors go, Sam would be on any woman’s top ten list. Thick, sandy-blond, highlighted curls tumble around his rugged face to the nape of his neck. A tendril lingers near one of his bright, almond-shaped, emerald eyes, accentuated by dark brows and lashes. His muscles flex under his tight, baby blue t-shirt as he lowers a box onto the ground. My hand rushes to my tangled, auburn hair, and I brush it behind my ear, not wanting any distractions from the scene I’m witnessing.

  When Sam bends to pick up a couple more boxes from his back porch, his butt is framed perfectly in tight blue jeans. I let out a little peep as giddiness rushes over me. How sad is it that this is the highlight of my day, or that watching a hot guy through my kitchen window while holding my cat’s water dish is probably the most exciting thing that will happen to me this year?

  Sam disappears inside his home, and the weight of my dreadful day, once again, demolishes what’s left of my sanity. Remembering Otis, I wash out his bowl, fill it with fresh water, and place it back on the floor.

  As if blinded to it before, a waft of terrible smell nearly knocks me over. I raise my eyes to my overflowing trashcan and wrinkle my nose as I put two and two together. I swear toxic, green fumes rise from the compost currently wasting away in my kitchen.

  “Ick.”

  Otis glances up and, in my mind, speaks with a distinct English accent. “Mum, not only are you falling apart, but you’re taking me and the house with you. Get your act together.”

  I pet his cute head. “I know, Otie. I know. I can’t let work turn me into a hoarder.”

  Standing, I brace myself for garbage detail and pull the bag from the can. After tying it, I lean it against the wall and walk upstairs to change out of my nice work clothes. Even though I probably already stained my slacks, I still feel the need not to get trash slime on them. Plus, my sweats and bulky sweatshirt are calling my name.

  After tying my hair in a ponytail and cleaning up my running makeup, I slip into what my mother refers to as “low-maintenance pjs” and head back down the stairs with the full intention of doing chores.

  Before stepping outside with my bag of waste, I check that my neighbors, especially Sam, are not out front. I don’t want anyone seeing me this way. It was bad enough I had to look in the mirror when I put my hair up. Insults from earlier today, about Roger saying how I’m “over my talk time” and I “use the bathroom too much” flood my thoughts as I walk to the curb where my garbage can sits. I give the bag a good shove inside, then let the lid fall. Turning to head back, surprise sends me backpedaling until my butt hits the can.

  “Hey, Ferrin. Nice night, huh?”

  I find myself speechless as I stare into Sam’s eyes. My mouth falls open and some sort of squeaky gibberish that I can’t even interpret falls from my lips like rocks landing on glass.

  Finally able to form a single word, I greet him. “Hi.”

  He lifts the lid on his can and shoves a box of books and photos into it.

  A photo falling on the damp grass catches my attention, and I call out, “Hey! What’s all this? Why are you tossing these?” I bend and pick up the picture.

  Sam shrugs and even that motion makes my insides quiver.

  Staring at the photo, I applaud what great shape it’s in despite looking over seventy years old. Unabashed by my actions, I dig into the box and pull out books.

  “You can’t throw this out. It’s history.”

  His lips curl into a sly smile as he watches me with an entertained expression. “You can have this stuff if you want it. I’m clearing out my attic.”

  With a huff, and amazed at his lack of nostalgia, I lift the box from inside his trashcan.

  “There’s a couple more on my back porch if you want those, too.” He smiles.

  “Can I come get them tomorrow?” I look up at the darkening sky. “I think it’s about to start raining again.” Internally I congratulate myself on coming up with a plan that allows me to interact with him.

  “Not a problem. If I’d known you’d be interested in this old junk I wouldn’t have tried throwing it away.”

  “I’m shocked at your lack of appreciation for history, Samuel,” I mock, scolding him and trying my best at flirting. Shaking my head, raindrops pelt the top of it as I hustle toward my front door.

  His infectious laughter from behind me gives me a boost of confidence. I almost turn and invite him in to go through the box, but self-doubt squashes any hopes of having this marvelous man join me. With a glance behind me, I nod and smile before going inside.

  Placing the heavy box down by the front door and rejuvenated by my interaction with Sam, I listen to the rumbles in my gut and go to the kitchen to make dinner while kicking myself for not having the nerve to ask Sam over.

  Setting my freshly washed dinner dishes in the drying rack, I go through my normal routine of packing lunch, showering, and getting ready for bed. Before stepping upstairs, my eyes land on the box I rescued from Sam’s garbage can. Stooping, I rummage through pictures and old newspapers, some of which crumble with my touch, before my hands land on a book. Picking it up, I open it.

  To my intrigue, a phrase handwritten in German is the first thing I see. I think of how lucky I am to have studied the language in high school and college. Tucking the journal under my arm, I head upstairs. In my room, I place the book on my nightstand and turn down my bed, glancing regularly at the diary. My excitement grows, wondering about the contents waiting inside. My love for history and reading spikes my heartrate as I think of the adventures that may lie inside the pages of this antique book.

  “Otis!” I call.

  The faint tapping of his paws coming up the stairs brings on a smile. When he struts into the room, his tail waves high.

  “Time for bed,” I say, patting my comforter.

  With a leap, he jumps onto the bed before circling his blanket several times, finally resting in one spot. Climbing in, the first thing I do once I’m under my covers is grab my glasses and the dusty diary. I blow across the cover and watch dust particles fly off the book. It smells like the old stacks at libraries. A tickle causes me to wiggle my nose, and I laugh a little.

  Otis lets out several sneezes, then gives me a nasty cat glance. “What are we reading tonight, Mum?” he asks in my mind.

  I lean over and pet his head. “A diary Sam gave us. Promises to be good.”

  “For all that dust, it best be.” He closes his eyes and purrs.

  Taking care, I open the book to the first page.

  2 October 1941

  I have heard love described many different ways throughout my seventeen years of life: butterflies, walking on clouds, a star exploding in the sky… With all I’ve been told, I never anticipated how love would actually feel. I’M IN LOVE. I’m in love and I can barely breathe. Joy overwhelms my heart to the point that it may burst from my chest. I am in love…

  Chapter 2 – Estherly

  2 October 1941

  “Estherly?” Mae asks, as she shakes me.

  I finally look up from daydreaming and watching two young boys run across the schoolyard to see what she wants. Mae and I have been friends since we were eight years old. She’s dear to me. I’ve never met someone as kind-hearted and genuine as her. Since we started school, Mae and I have eaten lunch together each day on the lawn. Sometimes my ten-year-old sister, Anika, joins us, but today she’s home ill.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “He’s staring at you again. He can’t keep his eyes off you. Nazi pig!” she says under her breath, barely loud enough for me to hear.

  I roll my eyes and let out a groan. “No, he’s not… he’s watching everyone. That’s his job. Finish your lunch before we have to get back to class.”

  Satisfied with my lack of interest in the soldier, she flips her long brown hair to one side and continues eating.

  I pop a piece of cold boiled potato into my m
outh. I run my hand over the soft, cool grass as the fall sunshine kisses my face and soaks into my skin. For one moment, in the warmth of the striking sun, my life is normal.

  Catching my breath, I think of simpler times. I long for the days of my childhood, running barefoot during summertime, playing with my sisters, and being teased by my brother. I can still smell the sweet fragrance of wildflowers floating in the warm breeze that speckled the grounds around our two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of Berlin. We enjoyed being outside together until it was time for dinner.

  I remember nights when my mother would call us to the table; the aroma of what she prepared filled the air. I would inhale, taking in the scent, as the six of us sat down to enjoy the meal that greeted us.

  Gathered together for dinner, we told stories of our days, shared dreams for our future, and reminisced about times gone by. Sometimes, after dinner, my father would get out his guitar and sing to us. His perfect pitch soothed me.

  I close my eyes and think about what he sang to me. The memory warms my heart.

  As he would strum, my brother Gavi would chime in with his harmonica, creating an ambient melody. Sometimes the music would stir in my soul, causing me to take to my feet and flutter around the room, my family in awe of the dance I performed. At times my sisters and I sang along, searching for the right harmony, taking turns singing the lead. My mother, not the best singer, clapped along with impeccable rhythm, the love she had for each of us shining in her eyes. Our house was filled with joy. Our house was filled with hope.

  Often at night, my sisters and I would go out and lay on the grass. The night was always alive with chirping crickets, an owl in the distance and even the occasional bark from the neighbor’s dog. The sky was lit with thousands of stars, twinkling as if competing with the brilliance of the moon.

  “Look right there. It’s a heart,” I said on one of those nights, pointing towards the sky.