Forever Ashley Read Free Page B

To your
left, you will find an original gown worn by Betsy Grisom Ross. There are
records indicating that Betsy was employed making ships’ colors, et cetera, but
there is no real evidence to support the story that Betsy Ross made the first
American flag. The legend was started in 1870 by her grandson, William Canby,
in a speech to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania...”
    Ashley hurried toward the entrance, pausing long enough to
grab her large catchall bag—the bag Sue called Ashley’s “trunk” because she
carried everything she owned in it and never went anywhere without—and rummaged
for her keys. If she was lucky, she could pull the car closer to the entrance
and avoid another drenching when she got off at nine.
    The buckled slippers weren’t going to allow her a graceful
retreat, Ashley realized, as she made her way to the front door. Heads turned
and eyes narrowed with disapproval as the heels clattered against the wooden
floor.
    The curator of the museum stepped out of his office, his
brows knitting together at the sound of all the ruckus. His forefinger shot to
his lips as he scowled at her.
    Nodding apologetically, Ashley slowed her steps, tip-toeing
the rest of the way across the room.
    Pushing through the swinging doors into the foyer, she
spotted an umbrella and quickly commandeered it. Rain was falling in a deluge
as she pushed through the front glass doors. Though it was only four, rush-hour
traffic was already backing up.
    Watery pellets stung her face as she popped the umbrella
open, then started down the long flight of stairs to the street.
    Concentrating on holding the hem of her dress out of the
water, balancing her bag and the umbrella, she made her way down the row of
stairs, mentally cursing the blasted buckle slippers. Belatedly it occurred to
her that she should have changed into her street shoes, but it was foolish to
go back now.
    Hallway down, she felt her foot slip on the wet concrete.
Pausing, she steadied herself. All she needed was a broken leg.
    Continuing more slowly, she caught her breath as the
umbrella suddenly turned inside out, propelling a wall of rain back in her
face.
    She jerked the umbrella upright, which caused her to lose
her balance again. Her foot gave way, pitching her forward in a clatter of
buckle shoes, flying bag, and flyaway umbrella.
    She found herself tumbling end over end, praying she
wouldn’t break every bone in her body. Panic seized her as unsympathetic
concrete rose up to slam painfully against her ribs.
    Joel’s image flashed before her as she tumbled out of control,
her head smacking against the step. Dear Lord, she was about to die. Didn’t a
person’s life flash before her when she was about to die?
    She grabbed for a railing and missed. The wig flew off,
flowers going one way, birds and feathers the other. The buckled shoes went
next, soaring through the air like a kite on a windy March day.
    Dying in a broken heap in a rainstorm was her punishment for
breaking up with Joel, she realized too late. She shouldn’t have left him a
note the way she did—she should have invited him to some nice little Italian
restaurant, and—no, he wouldn’t have shown up! Someone with an infected
gallbladder would have taken priority, and she would have been left to finish
off the basket of breadsticks all alone.
    She tumbled over and over, the agony of her sins haunting
her. Maybe she should have given the relationship a little more time—been more
patient with him. The doctor’s lounge wasn’t so bad. She’d met a lot of weird
but interesting people there.
    Maybe Joel hadn’t found the note yet. Hope sprang anew in
her. Yes, he would still be in surgery! It would be hours before he discovered
what she’d done. If she lived, she would still have time to remedy her mistake.
    Please God, don’t let there be anyone watching. Her skirt
went over her head as her bottom up-ended again.
Thirty-five—thirty-six—thirty-seven—thirty-eight...
    Spilling onto