Angel Falls (Angel Falls Series, #1), Babette Jongh [books for 6 year olds to read themselves .TXT] 📗

Melody and Ben, taking the very best of each parent and combining them into a stunningly beautiful young woman.

Amy leaned against me. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I hugged her, then returned my attention to the photo album. I turned the page.

“Oh.” Amy lifted the album just enough to take the chandelier’s glare off the page. “I didn’t know there was more.”

I pointed to the first photo. “Your mom’s parents on their wedding day.” I slid my finger across to the opposite page. “And your dad’s parents on theirs. I had a hard time getting copies of these, I don’t mind telling you.”

“I can’t believe you did all this, Aunt Casey.”

“There’s more.” I turned to a photo of Ben and his wife of fifteen years.

“Look at me in that picture,” Amy said with a touch of self-loathing in her voice. “I was so horrible to her in the beginning. I don’t know why it took me so long accept her.”

I kissed the tip of my finger and placed it on the image of Amy’s scowling young face. “Because she wasn’t your mother. Not yet, anyway.”

Amy giggled, then stifled the sound. “I shouldn’t laugh, but...”

“What?”

“Remember the Christmas I decorated the big evergreen outside our house with her underwear?”

I laughed. “Your father had a fit.”

“And we had a big argument, and I came to live with you and Uncle Ian for months.”

“Weeks, maybe.”

Just then, my teenage whirlwind, Sara, burst through the front door, leaving clumps of mud on the carpet. She rushed through wearing her riding clothes and boots. “I left my riding crop on the table,” she said breathlessly. On her way back out, she spared us an airy wave. “Daddy’s waiting. I get to ride Tempest today. Hi, Amy.”

When the door slammed after Sara, Amy and I shared a moment of silence, then our gazes drifted down to the album once again. “This is the last photo,” I said, turning the page. “I couldn’t decide whether to put it in, because we’re not really family...”

“Bite your tongue. If you and Uncle Ian aren’t family, I don’t know what family is.”

“Look at us.” I admired Ian’s handsome image and remembered how it felt to be sparkling with happiness. Actually, I still felt that way quite a lot of the time, so it wasn’t such a stretch. “We thought we were so old, but we were just babies, really.”

“You were so beautiful,” Amy said, then sat up a little straighter when she realized she’d called me beautiful in past tense. “You still are.”

I smiled serenely. “I guess we’re always beautiful to those who love us.”

“This is me, isn’t it?” Amy pointed to a little imp wearing a hot-pink ballerina costume, her blonde curls decorated with pink silk flowers.

“Yes, honey. My very best flower girl at the head of the line.”

Amy laughed. “I can’t believe you had two hundred flower girls.”

“Why not?” I pretended to take offense. “They all had perfectly good recital costumes to wear to the wedding.”

“People still talk about the parade y’all had around the town square.”

“Hey,” I huffed, “what’s an outdoor wedding without a parade? We couldn’t fit the wedding party into any of the churches, so our only option was to get married in the park. The streets were blocked off anyway, so of course we had to have a parade.”

“I swear, Aunt Casey,” Amy leaned forward to study the picture. “It looks like you had everything at your wedding but elephants and dancing poodles.”

I pointed to my old dog Lizzie, wearing her Aussie grin and a sequined tutu. “The poodles couldn’t make it, but we did have the world’s best Australian Shepherd leading the parade.”

Acknowledgments:

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to...

My wonderful husband, Hans, my own personal hero, who never, not even once, complained about burned (or forgotten) dinners when I got too immersed in my writing world to remember the existence of that other world in which people were hoping to eat dinner sometime soon. Even though he did sometimes remind me of what his mother always said: “Where in the recipe did it say to walk away from the stove?”

My children, who have brought such joy into our lives—and on the occasions they didn’t bring joy, at least they gave me something to write about. Christopher, Tessa, Natalie, I love y’all unconditionally.

My Executive Officer of Operations, Mistianne Langston, who keeps my life running smoothly so I have more time to write.

Amanda Lee Borgstrom, for keeping us straight back in the day.

Sue Hadley, who took such good care of my parents—and the rest of us—when my parents were here.

My parents, who aren’t in physical form anymore but still hang around sometimes. Daddy, I know you love to make the little dog bark, and that’s okay. Mama, I hope the Church Ladies in heaven don’t give you too much grief about the sex scenes. I couldn’t bring myself to take your advice and “leave the s-e-x at the bedroom door.”

Rita Gallagher, a founding member of Romance Writers of America, who tutored me in her by-invitation-only critique class. I know she’s looking down from heaven, saying, “It’s about time.”

Haywood Smith, NYT bestselling author who took the time to guide and encourage an unknown writer like me. All her books are on my keeper shelf. http://haywoodsmith.net/

Geri Krotow, writing goddess and good friend, who was happy to read a chapter when I needed a fresh perspective. http://gerikrotow.com/

Margie Lawson, who teaches fantastic writing classes that I highly recommend. http://www.margielawson.com/

The talented team at The Killion Group, for creating a gorgeous cover and doing all the jobs I can’t, like formatting, uploading, marketing... Kim, Dana, Jennifer, Shelly... So glad I didn’t have to do all that stuff. http://thekilliongroupinc.com/

My daughter Tessa, who drew the logo for my publishing imprint, Tranquil Dragonfly Press.

My critique partners and writing support team, The Plotting Wenches:

Jessica Trapp, whom I met at my very first RWA meeting in Houston. It was her first meeting too, and we gravitated toward each other because we were