The Soul of the Sun (The Argos Dynasty)

  The Soul of the Sun

  Book One of the Argos Dynasty

  Genevieve Crownson

  Copyright © 2013 by Genevieve Crownson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Genevieve Crownson

  www.genevievecrownson.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Art by Emily Lam at Freestyle25

  The Soul of the Sun/ Genevieve Crownson. -- 1st ed.

  To Mom, my best friend, who always believed my dreams would come true.

  To the Provenzano’s for their unfailing love and support.

  And to my dear friend Virginia, who saw the writer in me first.

  I love you all.

  Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

  ― MARIANNE WILLIAMSON

  PART 1

  MARGARET POTTER

  PROLOGUE

  Margaret, 2005

  My mother said the day I was born, I came out kicking and screaming. She said I never wanted to begin another life on this earth, or leave the place I had just come from. I must have known how quickly the fear came and took away all memory of that peace, the stillness.

  I sat on the front porch of my beloved beach house; the old wood floor creaking as I rocked back and forth in what had once been my Granddaddy’s rocking chair. As I looked out at the horizon I thought back to what my life would have been like without the worry. I wondered if the path I had chosen was based on love or trepidation. At the age of eighty-five, I knew that there were many possible paths in life, and that my journey was near its end. I hoped and prayed that I had done what I’d set out to do, that my life had not been lived in vain. At the same time, I could only wish that any future lives would somehow be easier, more clearly marked.

  As the sun began to set, a svelte young woman appeared over the sand dunes. The ocean breeze teased and released strands of her blonde ponytail. I recognized her and waved. Emma Diamond, my only grandchild. She was a vision; her cheeks were rosy and her skin held a healthy golden tan. I watched as she tucked the loose strands of hair behind her ear. She smiled at me and waved back. As she came closer, she summed me up with her beautiful jade-colored eyes, checking on me as she always did.

  Today her basic aura was violet. Her hue changed as it often did, responding to all the external forces around her. Lately, I’d noticed the violet color was getting stronger. It was the color of a clairvoyant and healer. It was fitting. Emma had dreamed of being a doctor ever since the terrible car accident that had taken the lives of my beloved daughter Astrid and son-in-law, Charles Diamond. Emma herself had been thrown from the car, and found without a scratch on her. She was barely three years old when she was entrusted to my care. She had been a comfort to me, closer than ever now, since my beloved husband passed of a heart attack a few years ago.

  Emma climbed the stairs to the porch. I imagined how I must have looked from her viewpoint. Aged skin covered in liver spots and the bare old arms that rested on the chair like a pair of old army boots. My squinty brown eyes stood out in contrast to my snow-colored hair. My lips were no longer full, but still painted bright red as always. I wore my lucky red blouse that did nothing to hide my sagging bosom, and some beige Capri pants Emma had given me. I believe she’d said they were the latest fashion, but I’m pretty sure I ruined the look with my cheap white sneakers.

  “Hi Granna, are you sure you’re not cold out here?” Emma asked.

  “No. No I’m fine,” I replied. “Come sit with me Emma, it’s such a pleasant evening. This has always been my favorite time of day.”

  She smiled, and with a grace that could only come with being twenty, Emma slipped onto the rocker beside me, her pink cotton dress billowing around her slim, toned body.

  “It sure is beautiful tonight,” Emma said, leaning back against the cushion.

  She reached over, took my outstretched hand and squeezed it. We stayed that way awhile, looking contently out over our little piece of horizon. I had been thinking about Diamond, my pet name for Emma, all day.

  She was a part of my secret.

  It’s funny the way people just appear when you’ve been thinking about them.

  I knew all too well that I could not hold Emma here forever; she needed to choose her path and leave her own mark on the world.

  She released my hand and pushed her rocker closer to mine, resting her head against my shoulder. She smelled like the red roses that climbed over the porch and tangled with the slats of the faded white trellis.

  “Am I doing the right thing, Granna? Not marrying Jonathan? What if I am making a big mistake? I know I love him, but I caught him kissing another girl and when I confronted him he was so hostile, he told me I was crazy. I don’t believe I can live a life filled with his lies and anger; it has to be over between us. I broke up with him, Granna.”

  Her voice trailed off wistfully, wanting what she somehow knew could never be hers.

  I saw in her a longing for what wasn’t meant to be, something I had seen in myself so long ago. I wished I could take away that youthful impatience and replace it with the understanding that only comes with time. If she’d had that time she might draw wisdom from this moment. She could even embrace it. If only she knew what was to come.

  “Emma, love…” I paused, searching for the right words. The moment had finally arrived. She needed to know what held her back. Why her world was slowly spinning out of control. “Emma, plans change; sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. All you can do is find your inner strength. Perhaps even find the magic in the mess.”

  Emma sighed. “Granna, you don’t understand. I thought he was the love of my life.”

  “I understand more than you think.” I knew that she could not see the world through me. I had seen war, love, and heartbreak and so much more. But despite all those things, I still managed to rise to every challenge. And it was imperative that Diamond do the same, because she was about to face more than I ever had.

  “I’m not the same woman I was as a girl, Diamond. But I do understand what young love feels like. I also know that love is about more than just a boy. Love is all around us; it’s the heartbeat of this universe. It is what is most sought after in this world. You can be strong, Diamond; don’t let misfortune bring you down. You must not let the future frighten you.”

  Emma rose abruptly, as if my words had set her on fire. “Never mind, Granna, I’m just rambling out loud,” she said sharply. “I’m going inside. Are you coming?” her face softened as she looked at me.

  Her hands trembled as she reached for the door; she couldn’t understand it now, but she was ready for her life to change. I prayed it wouldn’t break her.

  I gave her a comforting smile. “Are you sure you’re all right, darling?” I asked. She gave a dismissive nod. “All right then, if you’re sure. You go ahead. I still have some thinking left to do.”

  Then, she was gone with the bang of the porch door on its rusty hinges. The wind swep
t up over the dunes. I felt the light touch of sand sprinkle my skin.

  I closed my eyes and drank in the smell of the briny deep, allowing myself to slip back into the past. I slowly drifted into a soft sleep.

  I was young once more.

  1

  Margaret, Folly Beach 1939

  To the outside world, I suppose we were like any other family. We had our secrets of course, Daddy was a drunk, and my long suffering mother spent most of her life trying to keep up appearances. She was so good at it I had no idea what our secrets really were until I was well into my twenties. And Abby, dear Abigail, my beloved sister…but I get ahead of myself…

  I grew up on Folly Beach and by the time I had hit twenty-four, there was nothing I wanted more than to leave my protective shell and see the world. I was desperate to release the burden I carried inside me. The one where I felt I had to be the perfect daughter, the child who could be counted on to do the right thing. Margaret Potter, the sensible one—plain, tall and gangly with stringy, dirty blonde hair. Mama said she didn’t see that plain girl, that I was more Greek than I knew with my high cheekbones and exotic looks. To her, I was the wild one who wore the racy red lipstick and had untamed hair. I think we had different mirrors. My baby sister Abigail was the darling with the hourglass figure and a halo of strawberry blonde curls. Abby was getting married, leaving these walls and traveling to New York City to live and breathe a new life. Everyone said she was born with wings.

  What nobody knew was that deep down, I had wings too.

  My mother’s voice pierced through my reverie, it seemed to echo off the vast sky. “Margaret, please stop daydreaming and come help me with this dress, it’s not every day that your baby gets married, and I want it to be perfect.”

  I reluctantly turned away from the ocean. I could see Mama’s silhouette in the doorway of our house, her hands resting on slim hips. She was petite but powerful, her fiery red hair lit up like a candle in the sun.

  I didn’t bother to reply but instead gave in to her demands and headed home. My sandal-clad feet burned as I made my way back through the hot sand. I picked up my pace. Satisfied I was coming, Mama went back inside.

  As I came in the front door, the low drone of my Aunt Bette’s voice grated in my ears.

  “Oh Christina, I think that this fabric will look so elegant against that pale skin of Abigail’s, and with that hat, well there will just be no comparison. She’ll be the prettiest bride in South Carolina!” Aunt Bette held up the elegant lace veil to show Mama. Her ample bosom almost popped right out of her flowing purple tunic as she leaned in.

  I glanced over at Abby, who was rolling her eyes. I suppressed a giggle and headed into the dining-room, now transformed into a dressmaker’s shop ever since my sister had announced her engagement to Wilfred.

  Wilfred.

  Even the name repulsed me. But he was what Abby wanted and I loved her too much to tell her what I really thought of him. If I had known what was coming, I would have spoken my mind; I would have shaken her till all that red hair of hers fell out of her head and was replaced with good sense. I would have kept on shaking till Wilfred J. Moody was gone forever.

  “Oh good Margaret, you’re finally here.” Aunt Bette raised her bushy eyebrows to look at me. “It took you long enough, girl. Hand me that spool of thread, will you? If you spent more time with real people instead of lounging about with all those nonsense stories in your head, you could have a Wilfred all your own.”

  Here we go again, I thought.

  My aunt had the very unattractive habit of speaking her mind. Those painful words somehow dripped off her tongue like honey. It was classic Aunt Bette to pick on my chosen dream of becoming a writer.

  “I just haven’t found the right guy, Aunt Bette. Besides I have my own plans.” Aunt Bette’s melon sized breasts humped disapprovingly under her moderately low V neckline.

  “Well”, she replied staunchly, “You’ll have a long wait. No one is perfect, that’s for sure; best to settle down now while you’re still young and attractive.” She eyed me up and down speculatively. Not getting a response, she turned to Mama.

  Aunt Bette’s fingers never left her task, nimbly gliding over the bodice of the wedding dress, painstakingly sewing beads, one by one.

  “What do you think, Christina?” she puffed. “Don’t you think this daughter of yours needs a husband?”

  Mother gave me the once over, and I knew what she was going to say before the words even spilled from her lips.

  “She will always have a home here, Bette. She’s happy, leave her be.”

  Ah yes, there it was…I was happy. If I was so happy, then why did I feel like something was missing inside? I placed the spool of white thread on the table next to my Aunt. I felt like the loose thread that unraveled from the spool and trailed over the side. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say my piece.

  “Aunt Bette, I’m not Abby. I don’t need a Wilfred J. Moody on my arm. I will be somebody with or without a man and I don’t care if I’m different. And Mama, maybe I’m not happy. Maybe I have bigger dreams than you can ever imagine; dreams of being an author that I am determined will come true.”

  “Margaret Potter, don’t talk to your Aunt and I that way! What has gotten into you, young lady? Have you taken leave of all your senses? You’ve embarrassed me in front of Aunt Bette!” Mama hissed through her teeth, her body rigid.

  I was tongue-tied. I wasn’t sorry, and I couldn’t take it back.

  Abby’s voice chimed in cheerily from the back room. “Mama, I’d like Margaret to help me pick out the flowers I want for my bouquet. May we be excused to go out to the back garden?”

  I sent Abby a grateful glance and looked at mother hopefully, but I knew that chances were slim I would get out of this one.

  Mama’s cheeks were flushed crimson.

  “Please Mama, you know Margaret didn’t mean it, she’s just tired from this wedding planning and all. It’s hard for her to see me move away. Please?” Abby pleaded.

  “All right, but don’t be long, weddings don’t happen all by themselves,” Mama answered curtly.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Abby grabbed my hand and raced me to the back door before I could retort. We passed the hall mirror and I noticed how pale I was. I’d forgotten my red lipstick. It made everything better, especially when my dirty blonde hair hung limp, like noodles, just as it was doing now. I probably should have at least washed it last night. Abby pulled me out toward the garden, bringing to a halt any misgivings I was having in front of the mirror.

  One thing that South Carolina always did well was spring. As if in perfect rhythm with each other, the azaleas bloomed all at once. Pink, white and purple flowers sprinkled across the landscape as far as the eye could see. We stepped off the porch and onto the lawn. The faint smell of them tickled my senses; but it was the wisteria, blooming over the trellis, its thick vines smothering the smooth white latticework that overtook the pure air with its thick, sweet perfume.

  Abby spun herself around in sheer delight. “Can you believe I’m getting married, Margaret?” she said excitedly. “It seems so unreal. Me in New York City, can you imagine?” She clasped her hands to her chest like a nun saying the Lord’s Prayer. “Oh, I do wish you could come with us! You could become a published author and I would be so proud.” Abigail’s emerald eyes danced. I watched as her happiness bubbled up and burst forth like a fountain. In that moment it hit me how much I would miss my sister.

  I steadied my voice and held my chin up high in determination. I would not cry. “I can become a published author anywhere Abby, you know that.” My fingers touched the petals of one of the roses, hanging like a jewel over the back porch. I pretended to examine it intently. I didn’t want to look up and see the tears I knew had pooled in Abby’s eyes. I had taken away the one excuse that she could use to keep me with her.

  When she didn’t answer I looked up and saw her forlorn face. I had put my foot in my mouth again. I wa
lked under the trellis to where she stood, the exact spot where she would say her vows in three days’ time. I put a comforting arm around her slight frame.

  “Mama needs me Abigail, you know what Daddy’s like. She’d be lonely without me here. She needs one of us around, and you will be so far away.” I gave her a nudge and a smile. “No fretting Abby, I can write here. I have the sea and my pen and paper.”

  “But what about your plans Margaret?” she protested. “I thought you wanted to see the world and write about every place your feet touched ground. Don’t you want to get married and have babies all your own?” Her eyes searched mine. I stepped back to avoid their intensity.

  I let my gaze roam out past the white picket fence, beyond to where the sea oats stretched out their long fingers and waved in the breeze.

  “I don’t want to get married and have children Abby,” I replied. “There’s already enough strings to tie me down. Maybe someday, somewhere, I’ll change my mind, but not now. I’ll see the world one day, so no more worrying about me.” My fingers smoothed my red dress down by the pleats; I didn’t know what else to say. I turned to Abby. Her ivory skin was flushed.

  I grasped my sister’s trembling hand. She was about to become Mrs. Wilfred Moody, and lose everything she had ever known. Of course she was afraid of her changing world. I tightened my grip. “It’s okay Abby; I will always be here when you need me.”

  Abby began to sob. “But it won’t be the same! How can I be completely happy knowing I left you and Mama behind with Daddy?”

  “Mama always said we can’t let Daddy hold us back. Or take away the belief we have in ourselves. Yes, he is nasty and verbally abusive, but Daddy will still be a mean drunk no matter where you plant your feet.”

  Abby turned my face so that my eyes met hers.