The Colour of Broken – when hearts collide – an excerpt

tcob front cover

Title: The Colour of Broken
Author: Amelia Grace
Publisher: Lilly Pilly Publishing

The streets of Tarrin woke to a beautiful morn. Flowers for Fleur opened, gifting the township with its colourful blooms and magical flower fragrances that convinced people the world was indeed a beautiful place, filled with love and light.

Except, it was a lie.

There was darkness within. A darkness that sought to rise and consume the light of two souls. Two women. Two tragic tales. Broken lives. Broken dreams.
The loved and the unlovable, bound by blood.

 

The Colour of Broken … an excerpt …

 

Dear Flowers for Fleur,

How much is the bicycle?
I would like to acquire it.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Dear ?

The bicycle is not for sale.

Regards,
Andi

__________________________________________________________________________________________

‘FLOWERS, TEA, COFFEE … OR BOOKS?’ I said, according to Gram’s script, still looking at my list of jobs and trying to decipher Gram’s shaky writing. It was so unlike her meticulous decorative cursive script …

‘None. I’m delivering this letter in person instead of putting it in the flowers of the bicycle.’

I froze, unable to move my sight from the list. Xander was standing before me? His voice sounded so unlike a rotund, balding, middle-aged business man. I looked up at him and my thoughts scattered. His blue eyes were decadent, his dark hair inviting me to run my fingers through it. I blinked to find my senses. This tall, slender, fit looking, god-like person standing before me was the persistent, annoying, pigheaded stranger becoming an unstranger, the one wanting to acquire Gram’s Schwinn Phantom Cruiser bicycle? He was the color of azure blue, like a male morpho butterfly—determination and ambition—with a splash of … light red passion and sensitivity. What? Two colors? That was indeed a rarity. I raised an eyebrow at him, impressed by his presence of being. ‘So, you don’t want flowers today?’

‘No. Never in fact.’ His voice was fruity; deep and strong in a pleasant way.

I breathed out the luring potion he offered. ‘You know what flowers do—don’t you?’

‘Of course … they die!’ His lips curled up on one side.

I smiled. He was being obscure and intentionally annoying. I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes at him, then burst out laughing.

He frowned at me and smirked.

‘Flowers are happiness, bundled into a bouquet—they are regret, an apology, a bridge to amends, friendship, thinking of you, you make my heart sing, they are the color at a funeral, get well soon, thank you, a surprise, a grand celebration … I miss you—’ Was this really the man I had been writing notes to? He was stunning. ‘I love you.’ I stopped speaking and swallowed. He was hard to convince. If he was a flower, he would be a Nigella damascena, otherwise known as Love-In-A-Mist, or Jack-In-Prison. The petals would definitely be in shades of blue, it’s flowers hidden in the misty foliage. In the language of flowers, Nigella damascena was equal to perplexity.

‘Have you finished your rambling sales campaign?’ He lifted an eyebrow at me.

I sighed. I needed to dig deeper. Who was this beautiful man who stood before me who wasn’t responding to my sales tactics? They always worked. ‘Flowers for a girlfriend?’ I continued. Surely he had an elegant woman who graced the social pages.

No response.

‘Boyfriend?’

He took a deep breath.

‘Mother, or Grandmother?’

No response.

The phone rang. I held up my finger. ‘Wait … one moment, and I’m yours again.’ I picked up the phone and put it to my ear, and wrote down the flowers ordered for delivery. I finished the phone call and looked up at the beautiful Xander.

He let out an audible breath. ‘Just take the letter. I need an answer.’

What’s his problem? He seemed so arrogant. I took the letter from his hand, placed it on the desk and tapped it. Twice. ‘I’ll read it after the rush hour and get back to you.’

He nodded, removed a pink Peruvian lily from a container on a table to the right of the sales desk, and held it out to me. ‘For persuasion.’ He raised an eyebrow at me.

I half-smiled, conscious of the warmth that flowed through me. ‘Flowers don’t work their magic on me. I live and breathe them five days a week. You’re going to have find something else. I hope your day gets better …’

He looked down at the flower and ran his hand through his dark hair, gazed into my eyes and pulled his eyebrows together. ‘I don’t think anything can beat the education about flowers you just gave me—but you forgot one description of them—they’re beautiful, like you.’

I laughed more loudly than I intended. Conversations stopped around the store and people turned to look at me, then him.

He looked around and gave a nervous smile.

‘Well played, Xander. The power of flattery. For a moment there, I almost believed you. Kindness and intelligence rank more highly on my list as a compliment. Beauty fades with age and fake beauty deceives and is all too abundant.’ I stilled for a moment, looking into his blue eyes, and sighed. ‘I’ll give you an answer, later today.’

He put his hands into his pocket. ‘I can’t ask for anything more. Thanks.’

He gazed into my eyes for a little too long. My lips parted in response to his unexpected, intimate, eye connection. He narrowed his eyes at me, took a deep breath, turned and left.

I watched as he threw his backpack over his broad shoulders, then took long strides out the door. I frowned. He was dressed in a black, sleeveless hoodie and black jogger pants, but he had the walk of a man raised with wealth and privilege. What’s his story?

A muffled scream sounded in the store. Gram.
I looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. I rushed to her office and hesitated at the door, my heart thudding. When I opened it, Gram was sprawled on the floor, and blood was pooling near her head.
She was staring at the wall, her head held still.

I grabbed five sheets of paper towel and swooped down to her, and pressed them to her forehead to try to stop the bleeding, ignoring the poison of anxiety that tried to control me. I watched her eyes. They were moving rapidly from side to side. What’s going on?

‘Enough of this. I’m calling the paramedics.’ My voice was more forceful than I intended.

‘No. I’ll be fine, after a few hours—’

‘Gram, you’re bleeding! You won’t be fine!’ I tried to keep my panic from her.

Gram reached up to her head. The only part of her body that moved was her arm and hand. It was like she was a robot, the rest of her body fused into place.
Slowly, she moved her hand in front of her eyes, then vomited. Spectacularly. I squeezed my eyes shut while her body went into a spasmodic movement each time she expelled the contents of her stomach, numerous times.

‘I can’t do this anymore … please help me … please help me … I can’t do this anymore …’

Tears streamed down my face. There was something seriously wrong with Gram. I didn’t want it to be sinister … what would I do without my Gram? She meant everything to me.
I pulled my phone from my pocket with my free hand, and pressed some numbers. ‘I need an ambulance … please.’

*  *  *  *  *

A portion of sales from this novel will be donated to Meniere’s disease research at Meniere’s Disease Research Fund Inc.

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Formats and Editions
Trade paperback (print book)

the colour of broken 3d

ORDER AMAZON UK
ORDER LILLY PILLY PUBLISHING AUS

978-0-6480846-2-4
March 28, 2018
Lilly Pilly Publishing

The Color of Broken 3d copy

ORDER AMAZON US
9780648084662
March 28, 2018
Lilly Pilly Publishing

EBook

tcob front cover

ORDER AMAZON UK
ORDER AMAZON AUS
978-0-6480846-5-5
March 28, 2018
Lilly Pilly Publishing
The Color of Broken

The Color of Broken cover

ORDER AMAZON US
9780648084631
March 28, 2018
Lilly Pilly Publishing

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Amelia Grace is the pen name of Julieann Wallace, who is a published author of multiple, sort after stories. She writes novels (under her pseudonym) and is an author and illustrator of numerous children’s picture books, written under her own name. Prior to her career as a writer, Julieann was an educator with Education Queensland (Australia) for 25 years, and was nominated twice for the National Excellence in Teaching Awards.
Julieann is continually inspired by the gift of imagination and the power of words that can create change to reach out to others. She is a self-confessed tea ninja, has a quirky cat named Claude Monet, and has a passion for music, art and sport. She lives in
Queensland, Australia, and is a paper cut survivor…

Julieann is a member of 

 

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