The Forgotten Road (Volume 2) (The Broken Road Series, Band 1) - Hardcover

Evans, Richard Paul

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1501111795 ISBN 13: 9781501111792

Verlag: Simon & Schuster, 2018

Inhaltsangabe

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

The second novel in the bestselling trilogy from Richard Paul Evans about a man on an inspirational pilgrimage across Route 66 to find his way back to himself.

Chicago celebrity and successful pitchman Charles James is supposed to be dead. Everyone believes he was killed in a fiery plane crash. But thanks to a remarkable twist of fate, he’s very much alive and ready for a second chance at life—and love. Narrowly escaping death has brought Charles some clarity: the money, the fame, the fast cars—none of it was making him happy. The last time he was happy—truly happy—was when he was married to his ex-wife Monica, before their connection was destroyed by his ambition and greed.

Charles decides to embark on an epic quest: He will walk the entire length of Route 66, from Chicago to California, where he hopes to convince Monica to give him another shot. Along the way, Charles is immersed in the deep and rich history of one of America’s most iconic highways. But the greater journey he finds is the one he takes in his heart as he meets people along the road who will change his perspective on the world. But will his transformation be enough to earn redemption?

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Richard Paul Evans is the #1 bestselling author of The Christmas Box. Each of his more than thirty-five novels has been a New York Times bestseller. There are more than thirty-five million copies of his books in print worldwide, translated into more than twenty-four languages. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including the American Mothers Book Award, the Romantic Times Best Women’s Novel of the Year Award, the German Audience Gold Award for Romance, five Religion Communicators Council Wilbur Awards, The Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award, and the Volunteers of America National Empathy Award. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife, Keri, and their five children. You can learn more about Richard on Facebook at Facebook.com/RPEFans, or visit his website RichardPaulEvans.com.

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The Forgotten Road

Chapter One

“Everywhere is within walking distance if you have the time.” Steven Wright

—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY

WEDNESDAY, MAY 4, 2016 (THE MORNING AFTER THE UNITED FLIGHT 227 PLANE CRASH)

Oak Park, Illinois

I had a dream last night. Not the usual recurring one: this one was original. Original, but just as miserable. My dream was about my ex-wife, Monica. It was our wedding day. She looked stunningly beautiful in a champagne-colored strapless dress with pearl sequins. That part of the dream was good. Then it got weird.

After our wedding we went to get on the plane for our honeymoon. Monica boarded first. Then, as I was about to get on, the door slammed in front of me, and the jet backed out to the runway, leaving me standing alone at the open end of the Jetway. I was still there when I saw her plane crash.

I woke with a start. As I lay there, soaked in sweat, I could only think of her. My Monica. My pearl. I wondered if she had heard news of the crash and been told that I was on the flight. I wondered if she cried. I hoped she had. I wouldn’t bet on it, but I hoped.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. Hours later I woke with the sun in my face. I turned over and looked at my clock. It was already past ten. I rubbed my face, then groaned. My head was pounding from all I’d drunk the night before. Instinctively, I was trying to remember what I had to do that day when it hit me that I had nothing to do. I was dead.

It’s liberating being dead. Remarkably. Zero responsibilities. Zero expectations. Actually, being a zero. A nothing. My reality was still settling in.

As you deduced by my obituary, the world thinks I was killed in that plane crash. You probably remember hearing about the accident. For a while it dominated the media. United Flight 227 out of Chicago–O’Hare. The media reported that all 212 passengers and crew on board were killed. What they didn’t know—what no one knew—was that there were only 211 passengers on board.

As stated flatteringly in my obituary, I was a seminar presenter. A stage salesman. I sold the Charles James Wealth package. In older days I would have been called a huckster or charlatan—the successor of a snake-oil salesman. It’s a prestigious line, really, attached to famous names like Rasputin and Charles Ponzi.

Working the stage, I railed at people who believed in fate. “Fate,” I taught, “is the refuge of losers who don’t take responsibility for their lives.” Professionally, I had to take this position. People who believe in fate don’t buy high-priced wealth packages to change their future.

Yet here I was, as swept away by circumstances as a swimmer pulled over Niagara Falls.

Was fate the reason I was still alive? If so, why would it choose me to survive? Maybe fate has a sense of humor.



One thing I was certain of was that I couldn’t stay in my house much longer. People would be coming. People always come together after a death. I wondered how it would happen. In most cases of death there are spouses and partners, mourning family, all connected to the deceased, coming together to complete the tasks and rituals of death.

That wouldn’t happen with me. My mother and brother were likely still alive, but I hadn’t heard from either of them for more than a decade. The only familial obligation I had was a legal one. It was the child support payment I made monthly to Monica. I suppose that would be the first in a long series of legal actions.

I couldn’t stay in the house, but I wasn’t ready to leave Chicago either. As I lay in bed thinking about where to go, I heard a noise downstairs. Someone was opening my door. Someone with a key.

My heart froze. Already? I walked out of my room and peered around the corner to see who it was.

The door swung open. At first no one entered. Then a woman hobbled in sideways, awkwardly dragging two large suitcases. It was Marta, one of my cleaning ladies. She was a fairly recent addition to the crew. She spoke no English and mostly kept to herself. Now she had come to take my things. My first thought was to go charging downstairs, but I stopped myself. Was it worth losing my anonymity over a few knickknacks?

Still, the thought of her stealing from me infuriated me. I felt as though I was living the fourth stave of A Christmas Carol, where people invade Scrooge’s home to claim his belongings, stealing the very shirt from his body. “Why wasn’t he natural in his lifetime? If he had been, he’d have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with Death . . .”

As I thought the situation through, I realized that I had nothing to lose in confronting her. First, who was she going to tell? She was new to America and didn’t speak English. She could tell her boss, but since she had no business being in my house alone, she would likely be fired. Second, even if she somehow did tell someone, who would believe her? I was dead. Dead as a coffin nail. It was her word against the overwhelming crush of media.

I quietly walked downstairs to the dining room, where Marta was putting a silver serving platter into one of her bags. That platter had been a Christmas gift from Amanda two years back. I waited until she finished, then said, “Hola, Marta. Qué tal?”

I don’t know if Marta’s horror came from being caught stealing, seeing a ghost, or—the worst possible scenario—being caught stealing from a ghost, but no matter; she was out of my house like an Olympic sprinter off the starting blocks, leaving her loot and suitcases behind. Honestly, I didn’t know she could move that fast. I wouldn’t have guessed it from watching her clean my house.

Back to my dilemma. As underscored by Marta’s appearance, the fact was, I couldn’t remain in my house. I needed a place to stay while I prepared for my journey.

Fortunately, there were several hotels within walking distance, including one I’d put a client up in just three blocks from my home. The Write Inn. I called and made a reservation.

Next, to plan for my walk. My hiking equipment was kept in my garage in a storage bin that probably hadn’t been opened since I’d filled it. For someone who never hiked, I had premium equipment—expensive and never used. I had purchased the bulk of it when I was dating a swimsuit model who liked to hike. We broke up before I had even taken the tags off the equipment.

The first thing I retrieved from the locker was a backpack. All I knew about the pack was that the guy at the sporting goods store said it was one of the best ever made—and their most expensive. Bizarrely, the second reason was more important than the first. I always bought the most expensive version of everything I purchased. Always. There was something deeply psychological about this habit. I bought the best of everything not necessarily because I wanted it—there were actually times that I would have preferred another option. I bought the best because I could. I suppose that’s what happens when you grow up with deprivation. You feel driven to purchase what you would have been denied before, just to prove that you can’t be denied now.

I filled my pack with only the most essential things: a water bottle, a rain tarp, a sleeping bag...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Simon & Schuster
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2018
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1501111795
• ISBN 13: 9781501111792
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 272
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: webstar; casetta@mondadori.it; ; Via Mondadori 1,; Segrate Milano; 20090; Italien