The Color of Heaven

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

By Julianne MacLean

Writing as

E.V. Mitchel

Copyright © 2011 Julianne MacLean

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Al rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any

form. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental.

“A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without adversity.”

- Donina Va’a Renata

A lot goes through your mind when you’re dying. What they say about life flashing before your eyes is true. You remember things from your

childhood and adolescence – specific images, vivid and real, like bril iant sparks of light exploding in your brain.

Somehow you’re able to comprehend the whole of your life in that single instant of reflection, as if it were a panoramic view. You have no choice but to look at your decisions and accomplishments – or lack of them – and decide for yourself if you did al that you could do.

And you panic just a little, wishing for one more chance at al the beautiful moments you didn’t appreciate, or for one more day with the person you

didn’t love quite enough.

You also wonder in those frantic, fleeting seconds, as your spirit shoots through a dark tunnel, if heaven exists on the other side, and if so, what you wil find there.

What wil it look like? What color wil it be?

Then you see a light – a bril iant, dazzling light – more calming and loving than any words can possibly describe, and everything final y makes sense to you. You are no longer afraid, and you know what lies ahead.

Sunshine and Rain

In this remarkable, complex world of ours, there are certain people who appear to lead charmed lives. They are blessed with natural beauty, have

successful and fulfil ing careers. They drive expensive cars, live in upscale neighborhoods, and are happily married to gorgeous and bril iant

spouses.

I was once one of those people. Or at least that’s how I was perceived.

Not that I hadn’t endured my share of hardships. My childhood had been far from idyl ic. My relationship with my father was strained at best, and

there were certain pivotal events that I preferred to forget altogether – events that involved my mother, which I don’t real y wish to go into now, but I wil explain later, I promise.

Al you need to know is that for a number of years my life was perfect, and I found more happiness than I ever dreamed possible.

o0o

My name is Sophie. I grew up in Camden, Maine, but moved to Augusta when I was fourteen. I have one sister. Her name is Jen and we look

nothing alike. Jen is blonde and petite (she takes after our mother), while I am tal , with dark auburn hair.

Jen was always a good girl. She did wel in school and graduated with honors. She went to university on scholarship and is now a social worker in

New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband, Joe, a successful contractor.

I, on the other hand, was not such a model student, nor was I an easy child to raise. I was passionate and rebel ious and drove my father insane with my adventurous spirit, especial y in the teen years. While Jen was quiet and bookish and liked to stay home on a Friday night, I was a party girl. By the time I reached high school, I had a steady boyfriend. His name was Kirk Duncan, and we spent most of our time at his house because his

parents were divorced and never around.

Before you pass judgment, let me assure you that Kirk was a decent, sensible young man – very mature for his age – and I have no regrets about

the years we spent together. He was my first love, and I knew that no matter where life took us, I would always love him.

We had a great deal in common. He was a musician and played the guitar, while I liked to sketch and write. Our artistic natures gel ed beautiful y,

and if we hadn’t been so young when we first met (I was only fifteen), we might have ended up together, married and living in the suburbs with a

house ful of children. But life at that age is unpredictable. It’s not how things turned out.

When Kirk left Augusta to attend col ege in Michigan and I stayed behind to finish my last year of high school, we drifted apart. We remained friends and kept in touch for a while, but eventual y he began dating another girl, and she was upset by the once-a-month letters we continued to write to

each other.

We both knew it was time to cut the cord, so we did. For a long stretch I missed him – he was such a big part of my life – but I knew it was the right thing to do. Whenever I was tempted to cal him, I resisted.

I went on to study English and Philosophy at NYU, which is where I met Michael Whitman.

Michael Whitman
. The name alone had a sigh attached to it…

He was handsome, charming and witty, the most perfect man I had ever seen. Every time he walked into a room, I lost my breath, as did every other

hot-blooded female within a fifty-yard radius.

If only I knew then, when I was nineteen, that he would be my future husband. I probably wouldn’t have believed it, but there’s a lot I wouldn’t have believed about the extraordinary events of my life. I doubt you’l believe them either, but I’m going to tel them to you anyway.

I’l leave it up to you to decide if they’re real.

Michael was nothing like Kirk or any of the boys I had known in high school. His parents owned a corn farm in Iowa, but he looked as if he’d been

raised by aristocrats in an English country house and had just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.

Wel -dressed and devastatingly handsome – with dark, wavy hair, pale blue eyes, and a muscular build – he had a way of making you feel as if you

were the most attractive, witty, charismatic person on earth. And it wasn’t just women who worshipped him. He was a man’s man, too, with a

number of close, loyal friends. His professors respected him. He was an A student and the class valedictorian at graduation. And then – big

surprise – he went off to Harvard Law School on scholarship.

He was your basic “dreamboat,” and though he spoke to me now and then on campus, like everyone else, I mostly admired him from afar.

It wasn’t until four years after graduation, when I was interning in the publicity department at C.W. Fraser – a major publisher of non-fiction books and celebrity tel -al s – that I became the envy of every single young woman in Manhattan and beyond.

It was June 16, 1996. I was twenty-six years old, and had helped to organize a book launch party that Michael attended.

We saw each other from across the room and waved. Later that night, we went out to dinner, and when he escorted me home, I invited him inside.

We stayed up al night, just talking on the sofa, listening to music, and we kissed when the sun came up.

It was the most magical, romantic night of my life.

One year later, we were married.

o0o

During our honeymoon in Barbados, Michael confessed something to me that he’d never been able to talk about before, not with anyone.

When he was twelve years old, his older brother Dean had died in a tractor accident. The vehicle slid down a muddy embankment, rol ed over and

landed on top of Dean, kil ing him instantly. Michael was the one who found him.

His voice shook as he described Dean’s lifeless body, trapped beneath the heavy tractor.

I hadn’t known about the accident when we attended university together. I don’t think anyone did. Michael had always seemed so strong and

dynamic. It seemed as if nothing bad could ever touch him.

As soon as I heard this, I understood that we shared something very profound – a common experience that left us both broken in unseen places, for

I had lost my mother when I was fourteen.

I was stil angry with her for leaving us.

Because that’s what she did. She made a choice, and she left us.

I, too, shared these things with Michael, and we grew even closer.

When I mentioned earlier that I had once led a charmed life, I was referring to this stretch of time, which began on my wedding day and lasted for

ten wonderful years.

Michael and I were crazy in love as newlyweds. He rose quickly at the law firm, and we both knew it was only a matter of time before he became a

partner.

Things were going wel for me, too. Six months after we began dating, I was offered a ful -time, permanent position in the publicity department at

C.W. Fraser, and with Michael’s encouragement, I pursued my first love – writing – and began submitting stories to magazines. We dined out often

and connected with al the right people. Before long, I was leaving my job in publicity to write for the New Yorker.

Everything seemed perfect, and it was. We made love almost every night of the week. Sometimes Michael came home from work with a Victoria’s

Secret box containing something lacy, wrapped in pink tissue paper, and we’d make love during Letterman.

Other times, he brought ingredients for chocolate martinis and we’d go dancing until midnight.

We were as close as two people could be, and just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, the most amazing thing happened. I found out I was

pregnant.

How effortless it al seemed.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder if it was al a dream. I suppose it was, because eventual y I did wake from it. In fact, I sat straight up in bed,

gasping my lungs out.

But let’s not talk about that yet. There are stil a few miracles to explore.

So let’s talk about the baby.

Here’s the thing about motherhood. It exhausts you and thril s you. It kicks you in the butt, and the very next second makes you feel like a superstar.

Most of al , it teaches you to be selfless.

Let me rephrase that. It doesn’t real y teach you this. It creates a new selflessness within you, which grabs hold of your heart when you first take your child into your arms. In that profound moment of extraordinary love and discovery, your own needs and desires become secondary. Nothing is as

important as the wel -being of your beautiful child. You would sacrifice anything for her. Even your own life. You would do it in a heartbeat. God

wouldn’t need to ask twice.

o0o

Our beautiful baby Megan was born on July 17, 2000. It was a difficult labor that lasted nineteen hours before ending in an emergency C-section,

but I wouldn’t change a single second of it. If that’s what was required to bring Megan into the world, I would have done it ten times over.

For the next five days, while recovering from my surgery, I spent countless hours in the hospital holding her in my arms, fascinated by her

movements and expressions. Her sweet, chubby face and tiny pink feet enchanted me. I was infatuated beyond comprehension by her soft black