The space between, p.1
The Space Between, page 1
The Space Between
Sarah Ready
Praise for Sarah Ready
PRAISE FOR FRENCH HOLIDAY
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"Ready (The Fall in Love Checklist) whisks readers to the South of France for a saucy enemies-to-lovers romance...This is a winner."
Publishers Weekly starred review on French Holiday
"Ready has written a tale that deliciously taps into its French trappings...A charming dramedy featuring a promising sleuthing duo."
Kirkus Reviews on French Holiday
PRAISE FOR JOSH AND GEMMA MAKE A BABY
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“Romance author Ready gives Gemma rich and complex motivations for wanting a baby…An unusual and winning read about a little-discussed topic.”
Kirkus Reviews
“A lively, entertaining, romantic comedy by an author and novelist with a genuine flair for originality, humor, and narrative driven storytelling…”
Midwest Book Review
PRAISE FOR JOSH AND GEMMA THE SECOND TIME AROUND
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“In this sequel—which stands well enough on its own—the happily-ever-after moment is merely the starting point…Ready effectively leads readers to wonder if she isn’t going to upend every single one of the genre’s expectations. It’s a testament to her exceptional writing skill that even the most romantic-minded readers won’t be sure which outcome they prefer. A charming and disarmingly tough story of the many ways that love can adapt to crises.”
Kirkus Reviews
PRAISE FOR CHASING ROMEO
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“A fun and sweet love story…”
Kirkus Reviews
PRAISE FOR THE SPACE BETWEEN
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“…emotional roller-coaster, but in the end true love prevails. For hopeless romantics, this one’s got the goods.”
Publishers Weekly
“A touching tale of adult reckonings and reunions with some heart-tugging reversals.”
Kirkus Reviews
Also by Sarah Ready
Stand Alone Romances:
The Fall in Love Checklist
Hero Ever After
Once Upon an Island
French Holiday
The Space Between
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Josh and Gemma:
Josh and Gemma Make a Baby
Josh and Gemma the Second Time Around
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Soul Mates in Romeo Romance Series:
Chasing Romeo
Love Not at First Sight
Romance by the Book
Love, Artifacts, and You
Married by Sunday
My Better Life
Scrooging Christmas
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Stand Alone Novella:
Love Letters
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Find these books and more by Sarah Ready at:
www.sarahready.com/romance-books
Jace and Andrea. Andrea and Jace. From the moment of their fate-filled first meeting in Central Park they’ve known one true thing—they’re meant to be.
Life doesn’t have many certainties but for Andrea and Jace forever is one of them.
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Andrea Leighton-Hughes—shockingly wealthy Upper East Sider, a chess-piece in her family’s games since before she was born—knows what it’s like to hide behind a mask. Her world is one of lies, manipulation, and reputation. Jace is the first and only person to see who she truly is.
* * *
Jace Morgan is no stranger to tragedy and every day is a struggle to get by. A musical prodigy from the Bronx, Jace and his brothers will do whatever it takes to climb to the top of the music charts. Andrea is the first and only person who has helped him play from the heart.
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No one understands their connection. No one understands their love.
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As Jace and Andrea struggle to stay together and prove that love defeats all obstacles, life sets out to prove them wrong.
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What happens when two people promise forever, but life tears them apart?
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What happens in the time they aren’t together—in the space between?
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A love that lasts decades and a friendship that never dies. Sarah Ready’s The Space Between is a novel full of passion, betrayal, longing, and redemption—where love and lyrics hold the key to everything.
W.W. CROWN BOOKS
An imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing LLC
www.wwcrown.com
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. All the characters and situations in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to situations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locations are used fictitiously.
* * *
Copyright © 2023 by Sarah Ready
Published by W.W. Crown Books an Imprint of Swift & Lewis Publishing, LLC, Lowell, MI USA
Cover Illustration & Design: Elizabeth Turner Stokes
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All rights reserved.
* * *
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915660
ISBN: 978-1-954007-52-9 (eBook)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-53-6 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-54-3 (large print)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-55-0 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-954007-56-7 (audiobook)
For the music and for love
Contents
Prologue
Part I
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
Chapter 16
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
Part II
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
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Part III
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Prologue
Jace
* * *
I fly across the grass, sprinting through Central Park, desperate to stop the only woman I’ll ever love from marrying another man.
I weave through the crisscrossing paths, past green benches that stand empty like mourners, over hills and jutting gray rocks.
There’s the Alice in Wonderland statue where Andi fell when she was small.
A playground with kids shouting and sliding.
There. Gone.
My lungs burn as I round the path climbing toward Bethesda Terrace, the angel of the waters rises high, her hand outstretched, her wings flared.
Tourists crowd around her, the bronze angel of healing in her fountain, holding a lily in her hand.
There’s a raucous wedding party taking photographs, a bride in white, a groom in black, my heart thunders—but it’s not Andi.
My feet pound across the red brick, past the arched stone, past the lake and the rowboats with couples bobbing in the sparkling green waters.
The sun is already high over the leafy green trees, the dirt and grass smell strong with the evaporated dew, the bright blue sky mocking.
It’s the perfect day for a wedding.
He’ll be at Wagner Cove in the morning, she said.
I charge down the path lined with tall shade trees and leap over the wire mesh fencing separating the grass from the path.
When I land, my leg screams in pain, the old injury flaring, and I grab my thigh, dig my fingers into the pain and keep running.
I jump over another fence. I don’t ha ve time to take the prescribed path.
I dodge a bicyclist and keep running as they shout after me. Then I’m on the small stone and dirt path tumbling down to the lake and the cove.
The woods are thick with green, the boulders rise out of the ground and trees dig their roots into the stone.
The path winds down, down, and my chest heaves as I drag in the summer air.
Sweat runs down my back, and every step down the stone path is like a hot poker stabbing bone.
But I see her.
I see her now.
I round the path. Down below, cascading down the forest toward the lake, there’s a rustic wooden gazebo, hewn from roughly cut logs, perched like a fairy tale on the edge of the shimmering lake.
And standing underneath the sloped wooden roof, surrounded by a carpet of red rose petals, is Andi.
She’s in white.
Of course she’s in white.
She’s getting married.
But the white nearly strikes me down. She looks like an angel, radiant and beautiful.
I almost can’t reconcile the Andi lying in my arms last night with the Andi standing in the gazebo.
Her dress is the most brilliant white I’ve ever seen. It floats around her like a cloud and must have a thousand diamonds sewn into the fabric because it gleams like the noonday sun.
The top of the dress is tight, strapless, showing the thin line of her shoulders and the smoothness of her skin. The bottom, though, flows out, like a cloud blowing in the breeze, sparkling as the sun lights over her.
Her veil is pulled back, settling over her hair, a diamond and pearl tiara rests on her head. And on her neck, there’s the thickest diamond and ruby choker I’ve ever seen.
She looks like a billion dollars.
She looks like a bride.
The sight punches me, robs me of breath, but I fly down the stone path, desperate to stop her.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
No one has.
Andi’s holding his hands, staring up at him with a solemn, grave expression, her face pale and serious.
A gust of wind hits me then, bringing the voice of the officiant…do you take…to have and to hold…
Andi tilts her chin, that defiant, stubborn, take-on-the-world look I’ve dreamed about for years.
It means she’s going to say I do. She’s looking at him, holding his hands, and she’s going to say yes.
I reach out my hand, as if I can stop it all with a gesture, and say raggedly, my lungs burning, “Andi, don’t.”
At that, Andi turns to me, but the only part of her that shows surprise is the flaring in her eyes. I can see it, the surprise, but also the overwhelming love.
I take another step forward, my leg burning, my chest aching. I reach out my hand, palm up.
She can take it, she can take my hand and we can walk away, leave all this behind together.
“Don’t do this. Come with me.”
I let my hand hang there and all she has to do is take it.
My heart thuds a heavy, desperate beat as she looks into my eyes, a bright, shining love there.
Around us, her family is shifting, her brother laughing, her dad murmuring angrily, the groom’s family confused and stunned.
And him, he’s still holding her hands, a somber expression on his face.
But I don’t see them, I don’t hear them, I only see Andi.
None of them matter.
None of them.
“Andi,” I say, the taste of her riding on my lips, the memory of her kisses, the memory of her laugh, the memory of her touch.
When I say her name she gives me a brilliant smile, one like the sun coming out from behind the clouds on a rainy day.
It’s a joyful smile, the one that first made me fall in love with her all those years ago. The one she’s only ever given to me.
The one that says, I love you.
And when she smiles that smile, I know exactly, without a doubt, what she’s about to say.
Part I
1
Jace
* * *
My dad loved only three things in life—my mom, his sons, and Louis Armstrong.
His entire world revolved around us and Louis.
Every day at six-thirty when he walked into our windowless, railroad-narrow living room in the Bronx, he’d line us up—me, River, and Dean—and then we’d play.
Not play as in board games, or catch, or video games, but play as in play music.
Me on the Martin I’d been strumming since before I could talk. River on the busted-up, moldy church piano we nabbed from the curb on trash day. Dean on his second-hand bass. My mom beating the drums, crooning Ella to my dad’s trumpeting Louis.
The building actually vibrated from our music. The plaster walls shook—my mom took down the pictures after the third frame fell and shattered—and the old wood floors rumbled.
But no one in our six-story former tenement building ever complained about the nightly concert reverberating through the paper-thin plaster walls.
First, because my dad was six foot five and as wide as a door. Second, because we were good. Better than good.
So a little thing like plaster dust raining from the ceiling when my mom had a drum solo, or cracks running down the walls from when we really turned it up, didn’t bother anyone.
From the time I was conceived to thirteen years old, I was surrounded by music and love.
My dad came from Ghana. My mom from Switzerland. They met at a jazz club in Geneva when they were eighteen and fell in love over “What a Wonderful World.” They married right away and left for America, the home of their idol.
Dean came along. Then River. Then me. And Dad did what all self-respecting cover artists do. He made a family band.
Sometimes you hear horror stories about parents who mold their kids into actors or musicians. There’s punishing practice, verbal abuse, physical abuse, all for the ultimate goal of fame and fortune.
That wasn’t my dad. He loved the music, he loved my mom, and he loved us.
And if he could have all that combined into one—our band—then that was his version of heaven.
After we finished playing we’d be sent to bed. Then my mom and dad would have their time.
Sometimes, when I was really little, I’d sneak out of the bedroom that I shared with River and Dean. I’d tiptoe down the hall and peer around the corner, just to watch them.
