Suppliant Read online

Suppliant

  Copyright © 2014 by Laura Tree

  Suppliant is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, or noted at the time.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, October 2014

  ISBN 9781310615993

  Edited by Teri L. Sullivan

  Cover designed by Stephen J. Catizone

  [email protected]

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of

  the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial

  purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own

  copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Dedication

  To Adam and Tashina, my two best friends and my tied number--one fans.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank all of the people that helped make this dream a reality.

  Thank you, hubby for listening to me go on and on forever and giving me the space and time needed to get the job done.

  Thank you, Tashina, for your immediate support of my career change, and all of our shared dreams that helped me write this book.

  I would also like to thank the most amazing professional team that an author could have: my editor, Teri L. Sullivan, and my cover designer, Steven J. Catizone.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  “That book that you ordered should be in on Monday, Mr. Garrison,” I say with a bright smile on my face.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I knew you would be able to get it for me,” Mr. Garrison says. “So, Layla, are you excited about graduation?” He sends me the same wink I have received since I started working part--time at the library two years ago.

  I grew up down the street from Hank Garrison. His wife, Betty, makes us Christmas cookies every year. I’ve always thought of them as family. Jacob Garrison, their grandson, went to Grant High with me, but graduated a few years ago. I’ve always liked Mr. Garrison, especially when he gave us Klondike bars for Halloween.

  “I can’t wait. I’m ready to go to college in the fall, but I have to take it one step at a time and graduate first.” Leaning over I give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Tell Betty that I said hi and that I hope that she gets to feeling better soon so that she can come and see me herself.”

  “I sure will. See you next week!”

  ...

  “Layla!” Sandy calls as she peeps her head out of her office, pulling me out of my recent train of thought.

  I walk to her door while placing the returned books on the tray to be re--shelved. I don’t mind Sandy at times, but lately she has been in a mood. I’m not sure what’s going on with her, but I think it’s something personal. Sandy has only been here for three months, so I haven’t really gotten to know her that well.

  I look around Sandy’s office upon entering. The office is neat and organized with a chair for conferences in front of her oversized oak desk. It’s decorated with antique furnishings—a bit dreary-looking for my taste—with walls painted in dark hues. She should get a plant or two to brighten the place up.

  “Layla, please close the door and take a seat. I have something to discuss with you.” I look up after sitting down to see Sandy smiling with tight lips.

  “What can I do for you?” I have absolutely no idea why she has called me in here today. I’m a good employee, and I know that I haven’t done anything wrong. Sandy and I don’t see eye to eye.

  I get the feeling that she has had it in for me since she started here. Our manager, Sam, adores me, and Sandy has a thing for Sam. It’s obvious to everyone except him.

  “I need to know your availability for the rest of the summer so I can make out the schedule. You are the last one to turn in your availability.” Her tone is snarky. If she needed to know when I could work, why didn’t she just ask politely like a normal person? I thought that Sam was going to do the schedule any way.

  “I am available every day until August 16th, starting on Sunday. I can work any hours that you need me to.” I struggle to sound pleasant, though I can’t stand her. My mom raised me not to disrespect my elders.

  “I need you to work this Saturday, and why can’t you work until August 21st? I know that your particular college doesn’t start until the 22nd,” she says, grating on my nerves. I literally have to bite my tongue to stop my smart response.

  “I am sorry; I have my graduation ceremony on Saturday and will be unavailable. My last day will be August 16th. I cannot work past that date. I have already had it approved by Sam.” I try to be as nice as possible, but I’m afraid that some anger slipped out at the end.

  “Well I need you to cover this Saturday, so I will place a call to your mother. I am sure that we can work something out with your schedule. I can’t have you being unreliable.”

  That does it; now I’m angry. Why can’t she be a normal manager and find other arrangements? Not to mention that I’m eighteen and my mother has nothing to do with my decisions!

  “Look, Sandy, I already told you that I am graduating this Saturday, but if you feel the need to call my mother, go ahead. Seeing as I am eighteen, you can’t disclose any information to her without my permission, which you don’t have. I will not miss my graduation ceremony, and my last day is final. And I don’t appreciate being called unreliable. I have shown up to work every single day that I have been scheduled since I started here two years ago.” My anger is flaring. I can tell by the feel of my face that it’s bright red. I quite possibly could have steam rolling out of my ears at his very moment.

  Without another word, I turn to leave. As I round the corner, a college student impatiently waiting at the counter bombards me. “I am looking for The Art of Literature. The catalog says that you have it in stock, but it’s not in its assigned spot.” He gives me a smirk with his hand on his hip and his foot tapping. Great, I have had to deal with two overbearing
people in the last ten minutes.

  “Just one moment, please” I say, my fingers pounding louder than necessary on the keyboard.

  “Right this way,” I say, after checking the catalog, and then hastily walk to the back of the library, stewing over my conversation with Sandy.

  I hate coming back here. It’s my least favorite part of the library. It’s so dark, damp, and dreary. At least the college student is following me and not treating me like his waitress at a restaurant. I would hate to come back here by myself.

  We reach the shelf, and I immediately search up and down for the book; just as he stated, it is not on the shelf.

  “You’re wasting your time. I already looked through the whole shelf, as I told you, and it’s not in its assigned spot,” he says matter--of--factly.

  Just then I feel drawn to a book. I touch it, and a picture races to the front of my mind. I can’t breathe as I watch a scene play out in my mind. I’m helpless to move or say anything. I see the book on the shelf, right next to the book that I was touching. I see a woman pick it up, and then I see Sandy shelve the book again, right next to Dreary Lane.

  That doesn’t make sense. Dreary Lane is in the children’s section, not the designated section for this book. Soon the picture evaporates, and my hand is still gripping the spine of the book I’m touching. The young man standing next to me looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “I already told you that you’re wasting your time. It’s not here.” His foot begins tapping again and his arms cross.

  “If you could follow me, I would like to check another section,” I say, leading him to the children’s section where I find the book right away, just where it was in my vision. He murmurs his thanks with a bowed head as he follows me back to the register to check out.

  When he leaves, I grab the cart of books to re--shelve. I push the cart slowly, wondering if that was a dream or my subconscious helping out.

  ...

  “Is that you, sweetheart?” This is mom’s typical greeting when I get home from school or work.

  “Yes, Mom, it’s me. Who else has a key?” Mom always says that sarcasm is unbecoming, but right now I couldn’t care less after the day that I’ve had.

  “Do you have a minute, honey? Your father and I want to talk to you. We’re at the dining room table.” Great, I rack my brain feverishly to find a reason that they would want to talk to me.

  I’m really a good kid, and never get into trouble, so Mom must want to talk about graduation or college, or maybe Sandy did call my mom after all. I’m going to have to talk to Sam about her.

  I nearly run back out the door when I see the look on my parents’ faces. Their lips are turned down and shoulders slumped. This could not be good news, and I don’t really need any more problems today.

  “Have a seat, honey. There’s something that we have been meaning to tell you for a long time now, but we just couldn’t. I hope that you will forgive us.” Mom pauses and sips her water.

  “You see, when you were born . . .”—after a long pause Dad begins again—“well the thing is. . . we aren’t your birth parents. We adopted you at birth,” Dad mumbles, looking at the table.

  I just stare at them. What are you supposed to say when your parents tell you that you are adopted? Should I jump and shout and tell them that I knew it? I didn’t have a clue.

  “But it doesn’t mean we love you any less, honey. You are our daughter and always will be. We chose you.” I can’t believe this. I sit in stunned silence, just listening.

  How can this be? Maybe they’re playing a prank on me. That doesn’t sound like my serious parents. They would never joke about this. How can I have been adopted? How can I not have known? Where did they get me from?

  I have gone my whole life thinking that they are my parents, and now they tell me that they aren’t. What am I supposed to say?

  “I know it’s a lot to process, honey; is there anything that you want to know? I read online that you might have some questions. Of course we will answer anything that you want to know. You just need to ask. We figured it was time you knew since you are going off to college in the fall,” Mom says hurriedly. Dad pats Mom’s hand to slow her down. She has a tendency to ramble when she gets nervous.

  I just sit there looking at them for a few minutes. I guess it makes sense to someone on the outside. They are both fair--skinned with light--colored hair and brown eyes, whereas I’m a bit darker, maybe olive--toned, with dark hair and green eyes. They have stubbier features, and I have sharp features.

  We look nothing alike. I don’t know why I never noticed it before. I feel like a fool. I have spent my whole life believing that they were my parents.

  “Layla, are you all right?” The inquisition comes from my fake dad.

  “I just need some time to process this.” I hear Mom’s gasp as I stand, chair legs screeching on the floor, and go to my room. I feel guilty for walking out on them without talking to them, but I don’t have it in me at the moment.