A Thousand Tomorrows & Just Beyond The Clouds Omnibus

by Karen Kingsbury

Genres: Christian Fiction

Synopsis

Cody Gunner has no use for real love. Abandoned as a child by the person he needed the most, he swears he will never allow himself to love again. Ali Daniels denies love as well. Carrying a terrible secret, she lives life to the fullest, taking risks and refusing relationships. When Cody and Ali meet, their first instincts are to hide behind their emotional walls, seemingly doomed to repeat the patterns they have established of roost of their lives. But their attraction is too strong, and soon they're doomed in another way, for neither can avoid falling in love, regardless of the consequences. Only after three years--a thousand tomorrows later--do they realize at what cost their relationship comes. In the end, they must decide if love is worth the ultimate price.

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Center Street

Print pages: 592

Sample

Donald, my prince charming.

We’ve reached a new year, another season in life, and still I cannot imagine this ride without you. Our kids are flourishing,
and so much of that is because of you, because of your commitment to me and to them. You are the spiritual leader, the man
of my dreams who makes this whole crazy, wonderful adventure possible. I thank God for you every day. I am amazed at the way
you blend love and laughter, tenderness and tough standards to bring out the best in our boys. Thanks for loving me, for being
my best friend, and for finding “date moments” amidst even the most maniacal or mundane times. My favorite times are with
you by my side. I love you always, forever.


Kelsey, my precious daughter.

You are seventeen, and somehow that sounds more serious than the other ages. As if we jumped four years over the past twelve
months. Seventeen brings with it the screeching brakes on a childhood that has gone along full speed until now. Seventeen? Seventeen years since I held you in the nursery,
feeling a sort of love I’d never felt before. Seventeen sounds like bunches of lasts all lined up ready to take the stage
and college counselors making plans to take my little girl from here and home into a brand-new big world. Seventeen tells
me it won’t be much longer. Especially as you near the end of your junior year. Sometimes I find myself barely able to exhale.
The ride is so fast at this point that I can only try not to blink, so I won’t miss a minute of it. I see you growing and
unfolding like the most beautiful springtime flower, becoming interested in current events and formulating godly viewpoints
that are yours alone. The same is true in dance, where you are simply breathtaking onstage. I believe in you, honey. Keep
your eyes on Jesus and the path will be easy to follow. Don’t ever stop dancing. I love you.


Tyler, my beautiful song.

Can it be that you are fourteen and helping me bring down the dishes from the top shelf? Just yesterday people would call
and confuse you with Kelsey. Now they confuse you with your dad—in more ways than one. You are on the bridge, dear son, making
the transition between Neverland and Tomorrowland and becoming a strong, godly young man in the process. Keep giving Jesus
your very best, and always remember that you’re in a battle. In today’s world, Ty, you need His armor every day, every minute.
Don’t forget… when you’re up there onstage, no matter how bright the lights, I’ll be watching from the front row, cheering
you on. I love you.


Sean, my wonder boy.


Your sweet nature continues to be a bright light in our home. It seems a lifetime ago that we first brought you—our precious
son—home from Haiti. It’s been my great joy to watch you grow and develop this past year, learning more about reading and
writing and, of course, animals. You’re a walking encyclopedia of animal facts, and that, too, brings a smile to my face.
Recently a cold passed through the family, and you handled it better than any of us. Smiling through your fever, eyes shining
even when you felt your worst. Sometimes I try to imagine if everyone everywhere had your outlook—what a sunny place the world
would be. Your hugs are something I look forward to, Sean. Keep close to Jesus. I love you.


Josh, my tender tough guy.

You continue to excel at everything you do, but my favorite time is late at night when I poke my head into your room and see
that—once again—your nose is buried in your Bible. You really get it, Josh. I loved hearing you talk about baptism the other
day, how you feel ready to make that decision, that commitment to Jesus. At almost twelve, I can only say that every choice
you make for Christ will take you closer to the plans He has for your life. That by being strong in the Lord, first and foremost,
you’ll be strong at everything else. Keep winning for Him, dear son. You make me so proud. I love you.


EJ, my chosen one.

You amaze me, Emmanuel Jean! The other day you told me that you pray often, and I asked you what about. “I thank God a lot,” you told me. “I thank Him for my health and my life and my home.” Your normally dancing eyes grew serious. “And
for letting me be adopted into the right family.” I still feel the sting of tears when I imagine you praying that way. I’m
glad God let you be adopted into the right family, too. One of my secret pleasures is watching you and Daddy becoming so close.
I’ll glance over at the family room during a playoff basketball game on TV, and there you’ll be, snuggled up close to him,
his arm around your shoulders. As long as Daddy’s your hero, you have nothing to worry about. You couldn’t have a better role
model. I know that Jesus is leading the way and that you are excited to learn the plans He has for you. But for you, this
year will always stand out as a turning point. Congratulations, honey! I love you.


Austin, my miracle child.

Can my little boy be nine years old? Even when you’re twenty-nine you’ll be my youngest, my baby. I guess that’s how it is
with the last child, but there’s no denying what my eyes tell me. You’re not little anymore. Even so, I love that—once in
a while—you wake up and scurry down the hall to our room so you can sleep in the middle. Sound asleep I still see the blond-haired
infant who lay in intensive care, barely breathing, awaiting emergency heart surgery. I’m grateful for your health, precious
son, grateful God gave you back to us at the end of that long-ago day. Your heart remains the most amazing part of you, not
only physically, miraculously, but because you have such kindness and compassion for people. One minute tough boy hunting
frogs and snakes out back, pretending you’re an Army Ranger, then getting teary-eyed when Horton the Elephant nearly loses his dust speck full of little
Who people. Be safe, baby boy. I love you.


And to God Almighty, the Author of life, who has—for now—blessed me with these.

Mary Williams never saw it coming.


She became Mike Gunner’s wife the summer of 1972, back when love was all the world needed, big enough to solve any problem.
So big no one imagined it might end or die or drop off suddenly the way the muddy Mississippi River did ten yards out.


The wedding was small, held on a hillside in Oxford not far from Ole Miss, a stone’s throw from the grassy football field
where Mike had been king. Marriage, they told themselves, wouldn’t mean losing their independence. They were just adding another
layer to their relationship, something more diverse, more complex. As a reminder, during the ceremony they each held something
that symbolized themselves—Mary, a book of poetry; Mike, a football.


A football.

Looking back that should’ve been a sign, because football was Mike’s first love, and what sort of man could be married to two lovers? But at the time—with half the guests in flowing tie-dyed gowns and flower wreaths—holding a football and a
book of poetry seemed hip and new, a spit in the face of tradition and marital bondage. No three-piece suits and starched
aprons for Mike and Mary.


Mike had an NFL contract with the Atlanta Falcons, and a pretty new house a few miles from the stadium. Mary was a runaway,
so leaving Biloxi meant cutting ties that were already frayed. They would live as one, him in a Falcons uniform, her with
a pen and paper, ready to capture the deep phrases and rhymes that grew in the soil of her heart.


Babies? They would wait five years at least. Maybe ten. She was only nineteen, a child herself. Marriage would mean finding
new and heightened ways to love each other. Sundays cheering from the stands while her husband blazed a trail down the football
field, and lazy Tuesdays, barefoot and sipping coffee while she recited to him her latest creation.


That was the plan, anyway.

But God didn’t get the memo, because Mary was pregnant three months later and gave birth to a baby boy shortly before their
first anniversary. Cody William Gunner, they called him. Little Codester. Mary put away the pen and paper and bought a rocking
chair. She spent her days and most nights walking a crying baby, heating up bottles, and changing diapers.


“Sorry I’m not around more,” Mike told her. He wasn’t used to babies. Besides, if he wanted to keep up, he needed more time
at the field house, more reps with the weights, more hours on the track.


Mary told him she didn’t mind, and the funny thing was, she really didn’t. Life was good at home. Mike was happy about being
a father, because Cody was all boy from the moment he was born. His first word was ball, and Mike bought him a pair of running shoes months before he could walk.


The years that followed were a blur of vibrant reds and happy yellows. Mike was coming into his own, each season showing him
faster, more proficient at catching the long bomb. There had been no warning, no sign that life was about to fall apart.


In the spring of 1978, when Cody was nearly five, Mary learned she was expecting again. Still, it wasn’t the coming baby,
but a bad catch one October Sunday that changed everything. Mike was all alone, ten yards away from the nearest defender,
when he reached for the sky, grabbed the ball and came down at an angle that buckled his knees.


A torn anterior ligament, the hospital report showed. Surgery was scheduled; crutches were ordered. “You’ll miss a season,”
the doctor told him. “To be honest, I’m not sure you’ll ever run the same again.”


Six weeks later Mary gave birth to Carl Joseph.

From the beginning, Carl was different. He didn’t cry the way Cody had, and he slept more than usual. His fussiest moments
were during feeding time, when milk from the bottle would leak out his nose while he was eating, causing him to choke and
sputter and cough.


Mike would look at him and get nervous. “Why’s he doing that?”

“I’m not sure.” Mary kept a burp rag close by, dabbing at the baby’s nose and convincing herself nothing was wrong. “At least
he isn’t crying.”


Either way, Mike wanted to be gone. As soon as he could, he got back in the training room, working harder than ever to make
the knee well again. By the next fall, he was cleared to play, but he was more than a second slower in the forty.


“We’ll try you at special teams, Gunner,” the coach told him. “You’ve got to get your times down if you want your spot back.”

His future suddenly as shaky as his left knee, Mike began staying out with the guys after games, drinking and coming home
with a strange, distant look in his eyes. By the time Carl Joseph was two, Mike was cut from the Falcons. Cut without so much
as a thank you or a good-luck card.


By then they knew the truth about Carl Joseph.

Their second son had Down syndrome. His condition came with a host of problems, feeding issues, developmental and speech delays.
One morning Mary sat Mike down at the breakfast table.


“You never talk about Carl Joseph.” She put her hands on her hips. “You act like he has the flu or something.”

Mike shrugged. “We’ll get him therapy; he’ll be fine.”

“He won’t be fine, Mike.” She heard a crack in her voice. “He’ll be this way forever. He’ll live with us forever.”


It was that last part that caught Mike’s attention. He said nothing significant at the time, nothing Mary could remember.
But that summer, he was gone more than he was home. Always his story was the same. He was traveling the country looking for a tryout, getting a few weeks’ look in one city and then another, working out with a handful of teams, trying
to convince coaches he hadn’t lost a step, hadn’t done anything but get stronger since his injury.


But one weekend morning, when Mike was still asleep in their bedroom, Mary found a Polaroid picture in his duffle bag. It
was of him in a bar surrounded by three girls, one on each knee, one draped over his shoulder.


When Mike woke up, Mary was in the kitchen ready to confront him. He would have to stop traveling, stop believing his next
contract was a tryout away. Bars would be a thing of the past, because she needed him at home, helping out with the boys.
Money was running out. If football had nothing more to offer, he needed to find a job, some other way to support them. She
had her speech memorized, but it was all for nothing.


He took control of the conversation from the moment he found her at the kitchen table.

“This…” He tossed his hands and let them fall limp at his sides. His eyes were bloodshot. “This isn’t what I want anymore.”

“What?” She held up the Polaroid. “You mean this?”

Anger flashed in his eyes. He snatched the picture from her, crumpled it, and slammed it into the trash can. The look he gave
her was cold, indifferent. He gritted his teeth. “What I do outside this house is my business.”


She opened her mouth, but before she could tell him he was wrong, he slid his wedding ring from his left hand and dropped
it on the table between them.


“It’s over, Mary. I don’t love you anymore.”


Carl’s cry sounded from upstairs. Slow and monotone, the cry of a child who would always be different. Mary looked up, following
the sound. Then she found Mike’s eyes again. “This isn’t about me.” She kept her tone calm, gentle. “It’s about you.”


A loud breath escaped his lips. “It’s not about me.”

“It is.” She sat back, her eyes never leaving his. “You were on top of the world before you got hurt; now you’re out of work
and afraid.” Compassion found a place in her voice. “Let’s pull together, Mike.” She stood, picked up his ring, and held it
out to him. “Let me help you.”


Carl’s crying grew louder.

Mike closed his eyes. “I can’t…” His words were a tortured whisper. “I can’t stay here. I can’t be a father to him, Mary.
Every time I look at him, I… I can’t do it.”


Mary felt the blood drain from her face and the cheap linoleum turn liquid beneath her feet. What had he said? This was about
Carl Joseph? Precious Carl, who never did anything but smile at Mike and long to be held by him?


Mary’s scalp tingled, and the hairs on her arms stood straight up. “You’re saying you can’t stay married to me because of…
because of Carl Joseph?”


“Don’t say it like that.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and hung his head.

Carl’s crying grew still louder.

“But that’s it, right?” The truth was exploding within her, spraying shrapnel at her heart and soul and leaving scars that
would stay forever. “You want out because you can’t be a father to Carl Joseph. Or because you’re embarrassed by him. Because he’s not perfect.”


“I’m already packed, Mary. I called a cab; I’m flying to California and starting over. You can have the house; I’ll send money
when I get a job.”


In a small, less important part of her mind, Mary wondered where Cody was, why he was so quiet. But she couldn’t act on her
curiosity. She was too busy reminding herself to breathe. “You’re leaving because your son has Down syndrome? Do you hear
yourself, Mike?”


But he was already headed back up the stairs.

When he left the house ten minutes later, he mumbled a single good-bye to no one in particular. Cody came tearing into the
entryway from the living room, his eyes wide, forehead creased with worry.


“Dad, wait!” Cody ran out the door, his untied tennis shoes flopping with every step.

Carl Joseph in tow, Mary followed, horrified at the scene playing out. The cab waited out front, and without turning back,
Mike helped the driver load both his suitcases into the trunk.


Cody stopped a few feet away, chest heaving. “Dad, where are you going?”

Mike hesitated, his eyes on Cody. “Never mind.”

“But Dad—” Cody took a step closer. “When’re you coming home?”

“I’m not.” He looked at Mary and back at Cody. “This is it, son.” Mike moved toward the passenger door. “Be good for your
mama, you hear?”


“But Dad… I got a baseball game Friday; you promised you’d be there!” The boy was frantic, his words breathless and clipped.
“Dad, don’t go!”


Mike opened the door of the cab.

“Wait!” Mary stormed barefoot across the damp grass toward the cab. Carl Joseph stayed behind, rooted in one spot, watching,
his thumb in his mouth. Mary jabbed her finger in the air. “You can’t leave now, Mike. Your son’s talking to you.”


“Don’t do this, Mary.” Mike shot her a warning look. He lowered himself a few inches toward the passenger seat. “I have nothing
to say.”


“Dad!” Cody looked from Mike to Mary and back again. “What’s happening; where’re you going?”

Mike bit his lip and gave a curt nod to Cody. “Good-bye, son.”

“Fine!” Mary screamed the word, her voice shrill and panicked. “Leave, then.” She bent over, her knees shaking. Tears ran
in rivers down her face. “Go ahead and leave. But if you go now, don’t come back. Not ever!”


“What?” Cody looked desperate and sick, his world spinning out of control. He glared at his mother. “Don’t say that, Mom.
Don’t tell him not to come back!”


Mary’s eyes never left Mike’s face. “Stay out of this, Cody. If he doesn’t want us, he can go.” She raised her voice again.
“Do you hear me, Mike? Don’t come back!”


What happened next would be a part of all their lives as long as morning followed night. Cody’s father looked once more at
the three of them standing on the lawn, then he climbed into the backseat, shut the door, and the cab pulled away.


“Dad!” Cody screamed his name and took off running.

The sound frightened Carl Joseph. He buried his face in his hands and fell onto his knees, rocking forward and calling out,
“Mama… Mama… Mama.”


Mary went to him. “Shhh. It’s okay.” She rubbed his back. Why was this happening? And why hadn’t there been any warning? She
was dizzy with shock, sick to her stomach and barely able to stand as she watched Cody chase after his father’s cab.


Never did the cab slow even a little, but all the while Cody kept running. “Dad! Dad, wait!” Five houses down, seven, ten.
“Don’t go, Dad! Please!”


Each word hit Mary like a Mack truck. When she couldn’t take another minute, she screamed after him, “Cody, get back here!”

But he wouldn’t come, wouldn’t stop running. All the way to the end of the block, with a speed he’d gotten from his father,
he ran until the cab was long gone from sight. Then, for ten minutes, he stood there. A dark-haired eight-year-old boy, standing
on the corner staring after a cab that wasn’t ever coming back.


In some small way, Mary was almost glad Mike was gone.

Sure, a few hours earlier she’d been willing to fight for their marriage. But that was when she thought things were simpler.
She could understand his confusion, what with his football career in limbo.


But to be embarrassed by Carl Joseph?

Carl was her son, a part of her. Because of his disability, he’d never be capable of the kind of low, mean-spirited act his
father had just committed. No, Carl would always have a kind, simple heart, but Mike would miss that—the same way he’d missed
everything about Carl Joseph since the day he was diagnosed.


Even as she stood there, willing Cody to turn around and come home, not quite believing her marriage was over, she felt her
resolve building. There was no loving a man who didn’t love his own son. If Mike didn’t want to be a father to Carl Joseph,
she’d love the boy enough for both of them. She would survive, even if she never heard from Mike Gunner again.


She focused on Cody once more, his little-boy shoulders slumped forward as he waited, facing the empty spot where the cab
had disappeared. He was crying, no doubt. She could almost see his smudged, tearstained cheeks and the slack-jawed look on
his face. Was he feeling the way she felt? Abandoned? Overcome with despair?


A strange thought hit her, and suddenly fear had the upper hand.

Because the thought was something she hadn’t considered until that moment. Yes, she would survive, and certainly Carl Joseph
would be okay without Mike. But Cody adored his father; he always had. And if the boy’s slumped shoulders were any indication,
Cody might not bounce back the way she and Carl would.


Rather, he might never be the same again.

Cody’s sides hurt from running.


He dug his fingers into his waist and stared down the empty street. “Dad!” The picture filled his mind again. The cab slowing
down, stopping for a minute, then making a gradual left turn. “Dad, come back.”


A breeze hit him in the face and he realized he was crying.

“Dad!” Cody gasped, grabbing at any air he could suck in. Why did he leave? Where did he go? Dad took trips all the time,
but he always came home. Always. What had he said? He wasn’t coming back; was that it? His dad’s words rumbled around inside
him, making his chest tight, filling his heart and soul and lungs with hurt. Every breath was a struggle.


His dad was gone.

He was gone and there was nothing Cody could do about it. Come back, Dad! The words stayed stuck in his throat this time, and he stared down. Stay, feet. Don’t move. He’ll come back; he will.


Cody lifted his eyes to the place where the cab had turned. Any second, right? He’d turn around, come back home, tell them
all he was sorry for getting so mad, right? Cody waited and waited and waited. And then he remembered the thing his dad had
said about Carl Joseph.


I can’t be a father to him…

Eight years was plenty old enough for Cody to understand the problem. Carl Joseph was different. He didn’t look right or talk
right or walk right. He was happy and really good at loving everyone and he almost never got mad, but their dad maybe didn’t
notice that. That’s why, this time, having his dad leave was more serious.


Because he didn’t want to be a daddy to Carl Joseph.

Cody stared down the street. Come back, Dad… turn around. He waited and watched for a long, long time.


Nothing.

No movement, no sounds of cars turning around and coming back. No yellow cabs. Just the quiet dance of twisty green leaves
above him and the hot summer song of unseen crickets. Or something like crickets.


Later his mother would tell him that she cried for him, standing there all that time, waiting for his father to come back.
But after a while, Cody wasn’t just standing there waiting; he was swept up in a feeling he’d never known until that day.


It started in his feet, almost as if it were oozing up through the cracked bumpy sidewalk. A burning that flooded his veins
and pushed higher, past his knees and thighs, into his gut, where it swirled and mixed and grew until it filled his heart and mind, and finally his soul.


Not until it fully consumed him, not until it took up every spare bit of his young body, did he realize what had come over
him, into him.


Cody knew what hate was because of Billy Bloom in his second-grade class. Billy was bigger than everyone else. Bigger and
meaner. He tripped kindergartners, and stole the ball from the kickball game at recess, and laughed at Cody when he got a
wrong answer in math. Cody hated Billy Bloom.


But what he was feeling now, this was something new, something so powerful it burned in his arms and legs and made him feel
heavy and slow and trapped. All the other times Cody had used the word hate, he’d been wrong. Because this—what he felt for his father—was hatred.




CODY NEVER TOLD anyone, but that morning he felt his heart shrivel up and die, all except the piece that belonged to Carl Joseph. His little
brother thought Cody was Superman and Christopher Robin all rolled into one. As the weeks passed, every morning was the same
routine. Carl Joseph would scamper down the hall to Cody’s room, slip inside, and stand next to the bed.


“Brother…” He would pat Cody’s shoulder. “It’s a new morning.”

Cody would stir and blink his eyes and find Carl Joseph there. “Yep, buddy. A brand-new morning.”

“Is Daddy coming home today?”

Cody would grit his teeth and sit up some. “Not today, buddy. I don’t think so.”


For a minute worry would cast shadows on Carl Joseph’s face. But then a grin would fill his round cheeks and he’d make a funny
chuckling sound. “That’s okay, ’cause know why, brother?”


“Why?”

“ ’Cause I have you, brother. I always have you.”

Cody would hug him around the neck. “That’s right, buddy. You always have me.”

The two of them were inseparable. Carl Joseph followed him around the house, waiting for him at the front window on school
days. He didn’t talk as clear as other kids, and he had those puffy bunches of skin under his eyes. But he was the happiest
little guy Cody ever saw. He loved with abandon, and after a few months he walked into Cody’s room one morning and didn’t
ask about when Daddy would come home.


That day Carl Joseph worked his way into the deepest part of Cody’s heart. He still wasn’t sure exactly what was wrong with
Carl Joseph, but whatever it was, Cody had a feeling there wouldn’t be many people in his little brother’s life. If their
dad didn’t want Carl Joseph, maybe no one would.


No one but Cody. Whatever else happened, Cody would love Carl Joseph, and maybe that was all he’d ever love. He had no use
for his mother; she was a grown-up, the only one with the power to keep Cody’s father home. Instead, she’d stood right there
on the grass and told him to go. Told him to go and never come back.


The rest of that year, Cody would wait until Carl Joseph was asleep, then he’d creep up to his room without saying good night
to his mother. He’d lie on the bed and stare at the wall. Sometimes tears would come, sometimes not. Always he would start
at the beginning.


Hearing his dad talk to his mom about leaving, about not wanting to be with Carl Joseph. Then seeing his dad with a suitcase
and following him out into the front yard and watching him head for the yellow cab.


“Good-bye, son. Good-bye.”

The story would run again and again in his head, playing out on the blank wall beside his bed. Almost always his mother would
find him there. Most of the time she didn’t ask about why Cody went to bed early or why he was lying on his side staring at
the wall or why he never told her good night or what he was feeling about his dad being gone.


But once in a while she would try.

Cody remembered one night the next spring when his mom came up to talk to him. She opened the door and took a loud breath.
Then she moved a few steps toward him. “I hate that you hide up here, Cody. You’re not the only one hurting.”


“Yes, I am!” Cody turned over and sat up. His heart skittered around in his chest. “Carl Joseph doesn’t remember Daddy.”

“I miss him, too.” She sat on the edge of his bed. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her voice was tired. “I love him, Cody.
It’s not my fault he left.”


“It is too your fault!” Cody closed his eyes and remembered his father leaving. When he opened them the anger inside him was bursting to get out. “You told him to go!”


“Cody.” His mom touched his foot. Her fingers were shaking. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes you did!” His voice got louder. “You told him to go and never come back.”

“Because I was mad. I didn’t really want him to go.”

But nothing she said that night or any other time was enough to convince Cody. She told his dad to leave, and not only that,
she did nothing to make him stay. Maybe if she’d been nicer to him, helped him find another football job. Made him better
dinners. Anything to make sure he didn’t walk out the door.


Even when it no longer made sense, long after his childhood days blended into middle school, Cody blamed her. Because it was
easier to dole out b