Prologue

 

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.

— Douglas Adams

 

They say it takes a moment to fall in love with someone but a lifetime to forget them. You’ll want to remember that. Hello, my name is Lincoln Chandler, and I write historical fiction. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. I’ve written on everything from the American Revolution to the War on Terror and am considered by many to be the leading authority on wars with American involvement. 

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Despite my profound understanding of warfare, I’ve never considered myself an advocate. The battles, the strategy, and the politics, though fascinating, are merely scaffolding for what truly captivates me—the people. The unassuming heroes, the unwilling participants, the innocent bystanders caught in chaos not of their choosing. It’s their stories which breathe life into the skeletal structure of history. Their tales of courage, sacrifice, love and loss drive my passion, fuel my creativity.

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Over the years, I’ve crossed paths with countless individuals whose lives have been touched, shaped, or shattered by war. Each of their stories has left an indelible mark on my heart, and in the margins of my manuscripts. They have altered the course of my pen on paper, compelling me to explore the depths of human experience that only conflict can reveal. If you’ve read any of my books, then you know I don’t spare my readership the harsh realities of war. The blood-soaked fields, the charred cities, the wails of the bereaved. I paint these scenes not for the sake of carnage, but for truth. Likewise, I highlight the glimmers of hope, the unyielding spirit, the indomitable will to survive that so often blooms amid the ruins. 

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But of all the stories I’ve written, there is one that has stayed with me more than any other. A story so deeply entwined with my own that it has become a part of me, etched into the very fiber of my being, woven into the fabric of my soul. It is the tale of Charlie Ross, a young man turned soldier, Anna, the girl he left behind, and the heart-wrenching saga of their love.

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If you have the time, I’d like to share this story with you. A few hours are all I ask in return for something that will stay with you long after our time has ended. Perhaps a steady rain is falling in your corner of the world today or the night has settled in, and you can snuggle up with a blanket in your favorite chair, enjoy a hot cup of tea, and spend some time with Charlie and Anna, and a tale that took a lifetime to compose.

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In case you’re wondering, the story isn’t all about conflict. There’s plenty of love and romance, too. Since a better description presently escapes me, let’s call it a life story, shall we? 

Before we begin, I want to warn you this story will bring you to tears, so if you don’t have tissues nearby, I suggest grabbing some now. If you manage not to shed a tear… well… you’re tougher than I am. And tougher than Charlie and Anna, though I doubt that’s possible. You’ll understand why soon enough.

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As I learned, both of them cried countless times throughout the years of living this story, and admittedly, I shed quite a few tears while writing it. But don’t worry, it’s not all sad. You’ll laugh too, I promise. And smile. I hope it makes you smile. For the sake of honesty, I’ll recount it just as it was told to me, so if some parts offend you, my apologies in advance. 

All right, enough chatter. Let’s begin!

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Chapter 1

 

October 2011

Saturday

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For the past hour, I’ve been fixated on the computer screen, the blinking cursor a constant reminder of my stalled progress. My fingers linger above the keyboard, eager to craft something fresh and meaningful. It’s been months since I felt that spark of true inspiration, and almost a year since I last created anything noteworthy. The lively realm of words I once knew has turned into a desolate wasteland. My mind feels burdened, my thoughts tangled. It’s as if my creativity is trapped in a vault, out of reach and forgotten.

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My eyes drift away from the glowing screen to the photograph of Madeline on my desk. Her eyes, always full of life and wonder, seem to shine even in the stillness of the image. That was when we were together, before everything unraveled. Now, she’s hundreds of miles away, living her life without me, perhaps even forgetting the times we shared. Her departure has left an unfixable void, an abyss of silence and solitude that continues to swallow the remnants of my creative spirit. Our home, once filled with love and laughter, now stands as a haunting mausoleum of memories. The emptiness isn’t just physical; it extends to my thoughts too, numbing my ability to weave words together, leaving me in a constant state of creative paralysis.

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The phone rings, breaking my train of thought.

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“Hello?” The word comes out as a murmur, a whisper against the silence that has become my constant companion.

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On the other end of the line, my agent’s voice comes through, sharp and impatient. “Lincoln. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Any updates?”

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“Not yet, Vanessa,” I say.

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Her sigh hisses through the receiver, a cloud of disappointment that I am becoming all too familiar with. “Lincoln,” she begins again, her voice softer this time. “The publishers are getting impatient. They want something new, and they want it now.”

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“I know, Vanessa,” I say, rubbing the stress from my forehead. “It’s just …”

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The line goes silent for a moment, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The weight of her words registers deeply, dragging me further into my pit of despair. I promise her I will try harder, that inspiration will strike soon. 

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“Look, Lincoln, I know these past few months have been rough for you, especially since Madeline left, but you are one of the most talented writers I know. You need to find a way to channel whatever you’re feeling into your work. Use it as fuel….”

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“That’s easy for you to say, Vanessa,” I interject before she can finish. “I’ve tried, but it’s like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.”

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There’s another long pause and I can practically hear the wheels turning inside her head, considering the best way to approach the situation.

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“Well, what if you took a break? Went somewhere? Recharged? Got your mojo back?” There’s a softness to her voice that hadn’t been there before, a note of understanding. “I hear the mountains are beautiful this time of year.”

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“I appreciate the suggestion,” I say, my fingers tracing the edge of Madeline’s picture frame. “But I can’t leave. Not now. I’ve got too much unfinished business here.”

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“That wasn’t a suggestion, Lincoln. In fact, I have a lead for you, something that might get your creative juices flowing again. I’m sending you an email with the details. Consider this an assignment if you will. You can thank me later.”

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“Assignment? Vanessa, I’m not—”

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“Yes, yes, a journalist. I know. But this is different. You need to get out of that house, away from your comfort zone. Consider this more of a… creative detour. Trust me on this, Lincoln.” Her voice softens even more, becoming almost maternal. “Just look at the email and think about it, okay?”

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I don’t respond immediately, my mind racing with thoughts and apprehensions. Going away? Tackling an assignment? It all seems too foreign, too sudden. But there’s a part of me, a tiny glimmering spark, that feels a pull toward the idea. Could this be the change I need?

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“All right, Vanessa. I’ll think about it. Send me the details and I’ll look into it.” 

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No sooner had I hung up with Vanessa than a notification pings on my computer. I open the message, my eyes fluttering over the subject line: “There’s a story here!”

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The email from Vanessa is brief but intriguing. Charlie Ross, a Vietnam veteran, claims to have a story so profound and moving that it must be shared with the world. Since relocating to Greeneville, Tennessee after the death of his wife, Charlie has been reaching out to various publications, desperate for someone to hear his story. Vanessa’s email ends with Charlie’s contact information and a simple message: “Please don’t let this be another missed opportunity!”

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Realizing that Greeneville is just a few hours’ drive, I pick up the phone and dial the number. Each ring etches deeper into my apprehension, but I persist. After all, what do I have to lose?

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Just when I think there will be no answer, the line clicks alive.