October

by J. Grace Pennington

  October

  by J. Grace Pennington

  Text and cover Copyright 2017 J. Grace Pennington

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Kindle Edition, October 2017

  Cover design by Patience Pennington

  Layout by Penoaks Publishing, http://penoaks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are merely coincidental.

  For Ophelia—my Za

  because she’s been beside me

  in the taming of my dragons.

  Contents

  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

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  Other books by J. Grace Pennington:

  Chapter One

  The first time I saw October Blake, I was sitting in the front right pew of the Pleasanton First Baptist church, where we always sat, watching as people filed into the sanctuary. The sweet piano tones of ‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus resonated through the chamber under the magic of Ms. Hendrix’s wrinkled fingers. Soft chatter and friendly greetings mingled with the tune. Stained-glass windows cast rainbows across the scene.

  October fit the setting better than anyone I had seen enter. She didn’t walk in, she glided, moving over the gray carpet with a grace that held the eye. Her thick red hair was piled up on her head like something out of an Anne of Green Gables movie, her skin almost porcelain, her eyes a pale, crystal green visible from across the sanctuary. A ruffled cream blouse left her arms bare, and a floor-length green skirt swished as she slipped down the aisle.

  I watched—stared is a better word—as she found her way to the third pew from the front center. She laid a hand on the back of it, then turned to look at the people behind her. I hadn’t noticed until then that Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were there, shuffling to adjoining seats. She didn’t seem to belong to them. But then, she didn’t seem to belong to anything about Pleasanton. Pleasanton consisted of farms, fields, and stores reluctant to move into the twenty-first century, with a little brick high school and long, hot summers. This girl seemed more fitted to lilac and lace and the smell of old books with long, beautiful words in them.

  In any case, she far better fit the spring day than either of her associates did. Mr. and Mrs. Rivers were short and plain and always wore dark colors. They were our neighbors, in the sense that their farm was just under a mile away.

  They had no children. And I had never known them to have visitors.

  “Don’t stare, Emily,” whispered Mom’s voice in my ear. Even as she spoke, the girl caught my eye, smiled, then looked quickly away.

  My cheeks warmed, and I straightened to watch the choir as they stood in their places in the risers on the small stage. The youngest person in the choir was Mr. Giles Ferguson, age forty-six, who had joined because his mother insisted on it.

  The piano stopped, and the congregation fell silent. The last few stragglers slipped in through the twin doorways at the back of the church and found seats.

  Pastor Ulrich climbed up the stage from the left side and stepped across it. He was young, at least comparatively so, being somewhere in his mid thirties. He always seemed a little nervous to me. His voice, soft and sometimes halting, held a hint of an Alabama accent, and he relied a little too much on his sermon notes. And he was the only man in church with a full beard.

  This morning he wore the same white shirt, black suit, and blue tie that he always wore on Sundays. He laid a well-worn brown leather Bible down on the wooden pulpit, then leaned on it and licked his lips, cleared his throat, breathed, and smiled. “Rise, and sing hymn number two,” he instructed, demonstrating an upward motion with both arms.

  The choir rose first and the congregation shuffled to its feet a little slower, fumbling for hymnals and flipping pages. Ms. Hendrix began again on the piano and I bit my lip, trying to resist turning around to see the girl again.

  It was a losing battle. As soon as the first note of Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing rang through the chapel, I swiveled my head in her direction again.

  She was tall enough that the multi-colored rays of light from the windows fell across her face, hair, and blouse. She had no hymnal, and I was too far away to pick her voice out from the well-meaning cacophony, but I could see that she mouthed every word with precision and clarity. At first she kept her eyes on the pastor as he tried to lead the singing, then she began to look around in quick little glances. Before I knew it her eyes were on me again, and this time I was the one who looked away, face flushing again.

  The pastor started his sermon, and it was about faith and how powerful even a little of it could be. I didn’t pay much attention. I tried to at first, but soon gave up and let myself stare at the stained-glass window on the opposite side of the room. It was a picture of Jesus carrying the lost lamb on His shoulders. This window was my favorite, winning out over the Crucifixion, Jesus calming the sea, and Jesus calling the little children to Himself. I liked the look on His face—sad and happy at the same time. Whoever had crafted the windows had made a mistake, a panel of red glass in an otherwise blue robe. Or was it supposed to be a patch? He was a carpenter, after all. Who could afford new robes all the time?

  No matter how intently I tried to focus on the lines of the glass, I couldn’t keep the newcomer from rising to the forefront of my mind. Who was she? And why should I care? We’d had visitors in church before. Not often, to be sure, but it happened, and I had never been so drawn to any of them. They were just more normal Baptist folks like the rest of us, sitting in church at eight thirty on a Sunday morning because it was the thing to do.

  “Let’s rise and sing hymn number three forty-five,” I heard, signaling the end of the sermon. We sang, the pastor prayed, and then we were dismissed as the choir sang Blessed Assurance.

  I wheeled to look at the girl again, but she was already gone.

  “I’ll be outside,” I called over my shoulder as I scooted out of the pew and hurried out to make it through the crowd.

  I could still hear the choir as I stepped out the back of the church. The girl was just ahead of me, smiling shyly as a little old lady held her hand and welcomed her too enthusiastically, as little old ladies always do to newcomers.

  Jax drew up beside me, hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. “Who is she?”

  “How should I know?” I retorted. “Why don’t you go ask her?”

  I looked up at him and he shrugged and kept watching her. Jax, my cousin, was six feet, three inches, and as introverted as they come.

  “I’ll ask her,” I offered.

  Jax looked down at me and grinned. “You will, will you?”

  “What, you don’t believe me?” I planted my fists on my hips.

  “Frankly, no.”

  I dropped my arms to my sides. “Come and see, then!”

  Holding my head high, I trotted over to where the girl stood. Jax followed, tagging about three feet behind me, hands still in his pockets—close enough to hear what happened, but far enough to claim to be una
ssociated with me if the encounter turned embarrassing.

  I came upon the girl just as the old lady finally let go of her hand and hobbled off.

  She turned to me, seeming to sense my approach, and for a moment we stared in silence, her anticipation making every word that I’d planned to say fly out of my head. She smiled, but made no move to speak or come closer.

  “Hi,” was what I finally did say. My face reddened yet again. I considered myself a friendly person, not shy in most cases, but with those eyes on me and Jax behind watching every move, it was hard to shake the awkward nervousness.

  “Hi,” she said. It was a pretty voice, melodious but uncertain.

  I blinked. “I’m Emily Baxter.” I stuck my hand out towards her.

  “October Blake.” She lifted her arm and her hand clasped mine.

  The name fit her so perfectly that I again forgot anything I’d had to say. October.

  I turned to Jax to save me, beckoning at him as though he were an afterthought. “This is Jackson Miller, my cousin. We call him Jax, though.”

  Jax’s eyes told me he’d kill me later, but he pulled his right hand out of his pocket and put it out to October. “Pleased to meet you.”

  She nodded, smiled, and shook his hand, too, letting go of it a bit sooner than she had mine.

  I’d thought when I first saw her come into the church that she was far older than Jax or I, but seeing her up close, I wasn’t so sure. We were both seventeen and she looked like she might be in her early twenties. Too old to ask someone’s age, I knew.

  “So... you’re new here?” Jax asked. It was a stupid question, but the silence hung so heavy that even a mention of the weather would have been welcome.

  “Yes. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle for awhile. Tom and Helen Rivers.”

  “Ah yes. The Rivers.” I nodded, knowing it was a useless comment, but longing to keep the conversation open. “I know them. Very... nice people.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Another moment of silence in which I feared she’d excuse herself, but Jax saved the day again. “So... where are you from?”

  “Chicago. I’m going to be staying here for quite awhile, though.”

  She offered no more information. “Why do...” I began, but Jax leaned forward and stepped on my foot rather hard. I shut my mouth and winced.

  “It was nice to meet you,” he smiled, gripping my elbow. “We have to be getting home though, remember, Em?”

  “Oh of course.” I tried not to look like I was gritting my teeth. “Welcome to Pleasanton, Miss Blake.”

  Amusement crept into her eyes as she glanced at the tightly squeezed elbow. “You can call me October.” She flashed a friendly smile, looking me in the eyes for just an instant.

  I forgot about Jax’s annoyingness and smiled back, feeling childish delight creep into my heart. “I’ll see you next week, I guess.”

  “I guess so.” Still smiling, she turned and walked towards the parking lot.

  I watched her for a moment, then I growled and jerked my arm out of Jax’s grasp. He let it go. “What was that all about?” I rubbed my elbow and glared at him.

  He shrugged, and stuck his hands in his pockets again.

  “Well I wasn’t trying to be rude, Jackson Miller.”

  “Did I say you were rude?”

  “You thought it.” I stuck my nose in the air and tried to look intimidating, which isn’t easy to do with somebody ten inches taller than yourself.

  “It’s a free country. I can think what I like,” he grinned.

  Annoyed by his complacency, I stomped off towards the church to find the rest of the family. He shuffled along behind me.

  “Do you ever plan to take your hands out of your pockets long enough to do anything substantial?” I asked.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that he shrugged and grinned.

  We hurried back to find Mom and Daddy before they left without me, weaving in between Baptists of all ages who were scattered across the lawn, exchanging prayer requests and potluck recipes.

  My best friend Melissa ran up to us before we reached the building.

  “Hey Drag,” she greeted amiably. “Your mom says that Patrick Charles wasn’t feeling well, so they left. Jax can take you home.” She glanced at Jax with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “I see I’ve been volunteered,” he noted, raising his eyebrows.

  “More like voluntold,” I insisted. “You can’t leave me here.”

  “Hrm. You can drive, too, you know.”

  “So you’re saying I should take the truck and leave you here?”

  “What a gentleman!” Melissa giggled.

  Jax was unfazed. “There are extra seats in the truck, you know.”

  “Oh good! So can I sit in one?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

  Pastor Ulrich walked by and nodded at us. I smiled and nodded back, as did Melissa, her short brown curls bobbing in the wind. Once he passed, she turned to me with a grimace.

  “He’s so weird,” she whispered.

  I swallowed and cleared my throat. “He’s just shy.”

  “Well, a pastor shouldn’t be shy. Besides, don’t you think his beard is odd?”

  Jax spoke up before I could say anything. “What’s the matter with beards?”

  “Well nobody has them anymore,” she said.

  Jax shook his head. “Great. I’ll look forward to being shunned by you whenever I manage to grow one. Come on, Em.”

  He started tromping towards the parking lot, and I laughed and hugged Melissa. “See you tomorrow!”

  “Okie doke!” She hugged back, and I ran after Jax.

  Jax’s mother was my mother’s sister, and their small farm was half a mile from our house. His parents, taking advantage of the new adulthood of their son, had decided to take a trip to Europe for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, leaving Jax to run the farm for the summer with us to help look after him. This would be the first time he went home from church to an empty house. When I offered to have him over for the afternoon, though, he shrugged and said he was fine.

  When he dropped me off, I ran right into the house and changed into blue jeans and my favorite teal t-shirt. It was always good to get out of my church clothes.

  I had intended to spend the afternoon reading, and I even pulled my favorite dragon book off the shelf and lounged on my bed with it, but I didn’t read the words. I opened it to my place, even looked at it for awhile—though not at it, exactly. I was thinking, and looking nowhere.

  I kept seeing October in my mind, my curiosity collaborating with my imagination. Why would she leave Chicago and come all the way here? Just to stay on a quiet farm with two quiet old people? Perhaps she was an orphan—though at her age, that didn’t mean she had to live with relatives. She could live by herself. Or go to school. Or get married. How old was she, anyway? Was she too old to be my friend?

  Maybe that was what kept drawing me to her. Some spark, some sense that if she would allow it, we could be very good friends. I could show her my poetry, and we could have a book club, and discuss things. Not that I didn’t have friends—in addition to Melissa, there were half a dozen other girls close to our age who went to the same church and school. We had fun, in a manner of speaking. But—October looked different. She looked like she might appreciate books and words. None of the other girls did. They laughed at me for reading so much, and I didn’t dare broach the subject of poetry. None of them wrote poetry, which meant that it was not the thing to do, and therefore something to be kept quietly to oneself.

  But this new girl, with her old-fashioned appearance and pale, sensitive eyes looked as though the sound and beauty of words and the pictures they could tell might be something she would understand. More than my parents, or even Melissa or Jax ever seemed to.

  Perhaps she would even like dragons.

  “Emily?”

  I looked up to see my mom standing in the doorway. The book was no longer in front
of my face, I realized. Instead, it was sprawled open on the bed beside me, pages facing downwards. “Yes ma’am?”

  “Would you help me with lunch, please?”

  “Sure.” I hopped off the bed and followed her downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “What are you making?” I asked. I saw a pot on the stove and a big lump of dough resting on a bed of flour.

  “Chicken soup, before it gets too warm to have soup anymore.”

  I stood at the counter and closed my eyes, taking in the spicy, comforting aromas already present.

  “Would you cut the onions?”

  “Yes ma’am.” Mom always insisted that I couldn’t cut onions with my eyes closed, so I reluctantly opened them as she placed the smooth, cool vegetable in my hand. I pulled a plastic cutting board towards me, picked up a knife, and positioned the onion on the board. “Mom?”

  She kneaded her dough. “Yes?”

  “Do you know anything about October Blake?”

  If she did, she’d scold me for staring at her during church, but I was willing to take the risk.

  For a moment she said nothing. Then, “Not very much.”

  “But a little?” I chopped the ends of the onion off and tossed them into the trash.

  “She’s living with the Rivers. I don’t know why, though. Helen didn’t say much about her.”

  I waited for the scolding, but she said nothing more. Balancing the onion on its side, I began slicing it into rings. “She’s pretty, isn’t she, Mom?”

  “Yes, she’s a beautiful girl.” Mom started pulling the dough into bits that would become rolls once they rose and baked. “But be careful about attaching yourself to her too fiercely, hon. We don’t know much about her.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She dropped the balls of dough into waiting pans and I went on cutting, feeling my nose and eyes already start to burn.

  “She knows all the hymns by heart,” I said, sensing that it wasn’t a very smart thing to say.

  “Emily.” Mom put the dough down and looked at me. “Knowing all the hymns by heart doesn’t prove anything about someone.”