“That’s because you’re not outside,” Ruby laughed. She flicked her empty hand forward as if shooing flies. “Now excuse me, ladies.”
They stepped through the doorway. Ruby set the box on the counter and dug out a tall glass vase from under the kitchen sink. Vivienne kept walking through the kitchen, headed for the back door.
“I’m going to find your grandfather and Celeste. I suspect he’s lettin’ her drive the tractor again. James David, don’t shell all the beans. Snap a few and mix ’em in like I showed you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There sat JD—“everybody”—grinning at the table with his hands in a bowl of butter beans. Maxine tried to slow her heartbeat with her hand. “You scared the dickens out of me! How did I miss that yellow Porsche?”
“I drove Blue. She’s parked in back.”
Robert bounded from the table and sprinted to Maxine. “Finally you’re here! They don’t play the right way.” He aimed an index finger at Zan and Second John, who sat in front of a Blokus game board.
His twin shook his head. “Robert likes to play with you because you give him extra chances, and Zan and I don’t. You should think twice and move once. Face the consequences.”
Maxine snuggled her baby brother. “Second chances are a thing, right, Bro?”
Zan cast his eyes toward the ceiling with a beleaguered sigh as he put away the last of the colored tiles. “Grandma, can I help you with those flowers?”
Maxine cupped Robert’s shoulder. “Here’s another willing worker.”
The back screen creaked open. Vivienne held it wide, and her husband walked in, burdened with a wooden crate of peaches. “Somebody can help me with these. They need to be washed and sliced for the pies,” her stepfather ordered, out of breath.
Maxine rushed over. “Sure thing, Dad.” She reached for the crate, but when he didn’t move, she looked up. “Mama Ruby would tell you to ‘stop catching flies.’ Why are you standing there with your mouth wide-open?”
“You just called me Dad.”
Maxine ignored the suspicious gleam in his eyes. “That’s what you are, aren’t you?” She kissed his cheek and hoisted the crate to the counter.
“Excuse me; I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation with Dad, but I’ll help you scrub and slice those peaches.” Vivienne turned on the faucet. “So we’re retiring First John?”
Maxine glanced at her stepfather and back at her mother. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”
“It’s been time, that’s what I think.”
“Come on now, Viv. All in God’s time. It doesn’t matter what she calls me. The relationship is still the same. Where’s Roy? We can’t have a family meeting without the rest of the family.”
“He’s at Lis’s, but he’ll be here directly. They went out for breakfast. I think they discovered they have more to talk about than her birthday.” Ruby wiped her hands on her apron and approached the three at the sink. “As soon as your granddaddy and Celeste get in here, we can pray and get started. Can I get y’all somethin’ to tide you over ’til then?”
Maxine tucked her hands in her front pockets and looked around the room. She shrugged, content. “No, I can’t think of anything. Oh, that’s right . . .” She withdrew a tiny object and let it roll around in the palm of her hand.
JD’s eyebrows furrowed as he peered at the acorn.
Maxine laughed at his unspoken question and closed her fingers around the seed. “Maybe Celeste and I will explain it to you later.”
Chapter One
June 18
That night when my man eased through the door, his clothes felt and smelled like the summer rain tapping on the roof. There sure aint nothing like a North Carolina rain. He bout scared the breath out of me, but then he grinned and whispered my name in that way he had. I started missing him on the spot cause I figured he’d be gone by the time the first rays of sunlight tickled the floorboards. I slipped to the kitchen anyway and made him a plate since I never could say no to them eyes. To this day when I fry up pork chops, I can still see him gnawing on that bone.
Know what else I see? Me pushing him out that same door not even two hours later. Only the Lord coulda made me do it. And that man made such a fuss! My heart practically thudded to a stop when I heard the children stir. A part of me ached to pull him inside and wrap my arms round him, but my bones said, Bee, there aint no coming back from this. He probly heard my heart pounding in my chest as he stood there with the rain dripping off his brim and his mouth a straight line. His eyes weren’t laughing then. And they weren’t asking me for nothing either. He just tipped his hat to me—and he sure never looked back. I know. Cause I waited.
But deep inside I could tell he wouldn’t come creeping back in a month or so to melt away my anger with them smiles and empty promises and sliding out the door before sunrise. I just wish I coulda told my fool self—Bee, get away from that window and either stop wishing for your husband to come back or stop fearing it. You can’t have both.
Beatrice tucked her pencil into the gutter of her worn leather journal and dragged her eyes from the page. She readjusted the thin watch on her left wrist. 10:42. Holding her book to her chest, she hefted herself from the chair. Her bones creaked as they made themselves comfortable in her new upright position by the window of her Spring Hope, North Carolina, home. She strained her neck, aiming to see where the once-graveled road, now paved, turned the corner. Her fingers fiddled with the long gray braid curled across her right shoulder as she imagined his knee-length black coat and matching black felt fedora worn so low it almost covered one eye.
Then, sighing, Beatrice removed the pencil and closed the book altogether. She pulled the strip of rubber from her wrist and snapped it around her diary to secure the pencil. She’d been spending too much time these days looking backwards, getting lost meandering through those long-ago days. “Keep yo’ hand to the plow, Bee.”
Peeking around the curtain one last time, Beatrice cast a disparaging eye on the Wilson boys in their daddy’s car. “Mm-mm, flying down the road like they ain’t had no sense.” As the noise from their engine faded, she stepped away from the window, retrieved the box from the bed, and laid the journal atop the papers inside. She’d just stow it all in her closet for now. Too much trouble gettin’ out that key to the steamer trunk.
She shut her closet door and glanced around her bedroom. Sunrays streamed through the parted curtains and struck the mirror. The reflected glare revealed not one speck of dust. It had taken her the better part of a week of stops and starts to scrub her room and the rest of the house with orange-scented Murphy oil soap, and the wood floors seemed to smile at her, they were so shiny. Two fluffed pillows adorned her otherwise-plain light-blue bedcover, the hem of which hung exactly one-half inch from the floor. Nothing needed fixing, straightening, dusting, sweeping, or spraying.
In the front room, Beatrice found something to straighten: the black-and-white photograph of her mam and pap, one of the two framed pictures on the eggshell-colored wall. The back bedroom sat empty, undisturbed. She walked the few steps to the kitchen, but there even the stainless steel sink proved true to its name. Everything was cut, canned, wiped, washed, or stored away. Sighing again, she retrieved the empty clothes basket on the washing machine and tramped from the kitchen out to the clothesline.
The heat slapped her. Beatrice reached toward the first wooden pin and unclipped the underwear. She worked her way down the line, folding the stiff laundry and dropping it into the basket at her feet. She grimaced—Too heavy a hand with that bleach—and edged the now-overflowing basket to her right. Panting as much from exertion as from the oppressive heat, Beatrice bent and hoisted the basket to her waist and plodded to the kitchen.
The kitchen clock read 11:17. Beatrice fetched the garden hose from the shed and brought it to the front yard to water the roses her granddaughter had planted by the mailbox for Mother’s Day. After she finished dousing the wilting plants and any other hint of vegeta
tion in the yard, she walked to the hose bib. With a squeak of the spigot and a stiff turn of the wrist, she extinguished the stream and detached the hose. She coiled it loosely around her elbow and trooped toward the porch to enter the house by the front door, too tired to go around to the shed. After she dragged her slight frame up the steps, she noticed her water-splattered legs and mud-covered brogans. Shoulders slumped, she eased down the steps—even more slowly this time—to go around back. Worn-out once she reached the door, Beatrice plopped down on the stoop to catch her breath. She couldn’t even make it up the one step.
“I told Ev’lyn them flowers was mo’ trouble than they’s worth.” The hose uncoiled on the ground around her ankles.
Some time later, Beatrice pushed herself to her feet with great effort and left the hose in a loose pile, forgotten. She unlaced and removed her shoes before entering the kitchen. Inside, her hot, wet skin greedily sucked in the cool air from the window unit. Refreshed a bit, Beatrice glanced at the clock over the sink: 11:55. It ain’t too early to eat some lunch. I’ve worked me up quite a hunger.
The refrigerator yielded just enough pimiento cheese for a nice-size sandwich, and she plucked a Granny Smith apple from the bin in the pantry. Sitting at the table facing down her food, she prepared her stomach to eat.
Lord, You know what I need ’cause You the one who gave it to me and blessed it. Thank You. Amen. She took her time chewing, talking her way through her meal, frequently sipping the water, all the while ordering her stomach to stay in line. And just like many of the people in Beatrice’s life, it obeyed.
When it was nearly half past noon, Beatrice slid her bookmark on James 1 and closed her Bible. She ignored the scrape of the chair’s feet as she pushed away from the table. She scrubbed her lunch dishes, dried them, put them away, and retreated to her bedroom. There she resisted the urge to flip back the curtain to see whatever busied itself on the other side. Instead, she cast an eye at the clock. Its hands told her, “Time for a nap.”
Nearly two hours later, refreshed and back on the porch, Beatrice leaned on the cushions and replaited her hair. She wound it, tucked it, and pinned the one long, silver braid into a bun at the nape of her neck. By now, the sun had crept toward the rear of the house, mercifully sparing the front porch. She basked in the nothingness stretching out beyond the yard and the street running in front of it. Then, “My Lord!” she entreated, gripping her side. She hunched over as pain speared her insides, inched around her spine and over her hip, and took hold somewhere in the area around her chest. It stole her breath. She sat still as stone, gripping her dress, eyes squeezed shut.
Seconds . . . a minute . . . forever passed until at last, the fist of pain loosened its hold, finger by finger, and finally let go altogether. The breeze that merely dislodged the heavy air raised chill bumps on her clammy skin. Doctors had warned her, but the suddenness of this spell caught Beatrice off guard. She had half a mind to cancel her afternoon plans, but before the other half caught up, a car crunched into the drive.
Piece by piece Beatrice put herself together, and then she stepped into her house far enough to retrieve her keys and turn the lock. She’d already pushed the heavy baskets laden with clean laundry onto the porch. Wordlessly Beatrice lifted her head a notch as she passed the hand that tried to help and stiffly took the three concrete steps to the ground.
“How you doin’ today, Granny B?”
“Same as always.” Beatrice looked neither to the right nor the left as she marched to the ancient burgundy metallic Monte Carlo, much as the second hand had ticked away the time. “You can put them two baskets in back.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she climbed in. Beatrice drew from her pride rather than from her depleted stores of energy to slam closed her door behind her.
The other door opened and the seat was let down before the driver scooted the laundry baskets across the back. Then he slammed shut his own door and the engine chugged to life. Reverend Farrow turned to his passenger. “Granny B, are you ready?”
Beatrice nodded briskly. “If I ain’t now, I ain’t never gon’ be.”
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A Note from the Author
ACCORDING TO DOROTHY in The Wizard of Oz, “There’s no place like home.” There’s also no place like Mount Laurel in North Carolina. I do hope the Owens family and the other characters who live there have found a warm and comfy place in your heart!
Acknowledgments
“THANK YOU” MIGHT SOUND BANAL. It’s what I say after someone passes me the salt. Now, if that same person smushes a funnel web spider on the way to the dinner table, I’ll use those very same words—only this time with feeling. So to the One who is Salt and Light and in whom I live, move, and have my being . . . thank You. You are the Author of my life’s story and the One who waits for me at its end.
God alone knew how much I’d need these folks who sit around my kitchen table every day, consuming anything they can cover in ketchup or hot sauce or eat with a side of bacon. I used to think I couldn’t write because of my peeps, but He showed me I wouldn’t write without Eddie, Nicholas, Kate, Benjamin, Faith, Hillary Grace, Hallie, August, and yes, even my four-legged baby, Oscar. And without the history and experiences of Daddy, Mama, Dad, Mother, and their parents, I wouldn’t have a story to share with my readers or new chapters to live and breathe with Hubby and my little people. They make me laugh until I have to wipe the tears off my glasses.
But not all my peeps fit around my table. Just like Jesus Christ said in Matthew 12:50, my family also includes “whoever does the will of My Father in heaven”—people like Tammy Grant with Sunflower Creatives who don’t mind my “I love it, but just one more thing”; the Hannah Circle, my prayer partners of twenty-plus years; my church; precious friends; fellow authors who’ve endorsed, advised, and exhorted me; and all the readers and reviewers who see themselves in my fiction.
And I can’t forget the people I get to work with, who continually show me Jesus in them. My agent, Cynthia Ruchti with Books & Such Literary, smooths the worry lines from my forehead with her fitly spoken words, “apples of gold in settings of silver” (Proverbs 25:11). She reminds me of the why of my work when I focus on the what and how. Karen Watson and Jan Stob gave me a comfy seat at the Tyndale House table, and their warmth and attention make their home my home. My editor, Caleb Sjogren, makes sure my stories aren’t filled with mere words found in the dictionary; they’re based on truth that comes from the Bible. Eva Winters designs amazing covers that drive each story straight to the heart, while Elizabeth Jackson, Andrea Garcia, Mariah León, and the rest of my family at Tyndale keep my plate full of all manner of good things.
So to all who bring flavor to my life, and who keep me in stitches and joyfully bug free, thank you. My faith and you, my family, are my bread and butter, sustaining me, inspiring me, and feeding me. I couldn’t want for more. Blessings!
About the Author
ROBIN W. PEARSON’s writing sprouts from her Southern roots. While sitting in her grandmothers’ kitchens, she learned what happens if you sweep someone’s feet, how to make corn bread taste like pound cake, and the all-purpose uses of Vaseline. She also learned about the power of God and how His grace led her grandmothers to care for their large families after their husbands were long gone, a grace that has endured through the generations. Robin’s family’s faith and superstitions, life lessons, and life’s longings inspired her to write about God’s love for us and how this love affects our relationships with others. In her debut novel, A Long Time Comin’, Robin weaves a family drama rich in Southern flavor that a starred review from Publishers Weekly called “enjoyable and uncomfortable, but also funny and persistent in the way that only family can be.”
While her family history gave her the stories to tell, her professional experiences gave her the skills to tell them effectively. Armed with her degree from Wake Forest University, she has corrected grammar up and down the East Coast in her career as an editor and writer that starte
d with Houghton Mifflin Company more than twenty-five years ago. Since then she has freelanced with magazines, parenting journals, textbooks, and homeschooling resources.
At the heart of it all abides her love of God and the family He’s given her. It’s her focus as a wife and homeschooling mother of seven. It’s what she writes about on her blog, Mommy, Concentrated, where she shares her adventures in faith, family, and freelancing. And it’s the source and subject of her fiction—in her novels, in the new characters currently living and breathing on her computer screen, and in the stories waiting to be told about her belief in Jesus Christ and the experiences at her own kitchen sink.
Follow Robin at robinwpearson.com.
Discussion Questions
Mama Ruby says, “Forgiveness don’t always soften the consequences.” What consequences is Maxine facing at the beginning of the story? What about JD? Celeste? Vivienne? Which characters extend or receive forgiveness, and what happens as a result?
At the end of her first premarital counseling session, Maxine says, “I wonder what else God sees when He sees me.” Why does Maxine wrestle with her identity? What do you learn about her struggles through her dreams and monthly columns? How does your view of her change as the pages of her story unfold? How well do you know yourself? What do you think God sees when He sees you?
Maxine’s past inserts itself into her life when her childhood friend calls her Maxie, a nickname Maxine had left behind her. JD needles Maxine when he refers to her fiancé as Teddy Bear. And Maxine has special reasons for calling Vivienne Mother and her grandmother Mama Ruby. What do these names and nickname preferences say about how these characters see themselves and others? Why did some biblical characters (Abraham, Sarah, Paul) get new names?
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