A Novel
Jennifer Moorman
Honeysuckle Hollow is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Moorman
www.jennifermoorman.com
Cover Design by Julianne St. Clair
www.juliannestclair.com
Fourth Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise—except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or book reviews—without prior permission in writing from the author.
Other Works by Jennifer Moorman
The Baker's Man
Little Blackbird
Full Moon June
The Legend of James Grey
Average April
Wednesday's Child
Finding May (Coming 2019)
For You
I am wholly uninterested in a life without You
1
Waffles and Cane Syrup
Every resident in Mystic Water suffered beneath a relentless humidity uncommon for an April spring. Most everyone complained and decided it must be July. Even the post office snatched three months off the wall calendar, swearing the town had somehow leapt into the blazing melt of summer.
Air conditioning units shuddered and spluttered, ice melted in freezers, and parents dressed their children in snorkels and goggles, sending them off to school looking like lost travelers, saying the air was more water than oxygen.
Young’s General Store sold out of handheld fans, even the god-awful psychedelic ones that people swore they wouldn’t be caught dead using. Ladies flapped their fans so wildly seeking relief that dogwood blooms ripped from their branches, and Mystic Water looked like a town trapped in a snow globe full of swirling white petals.
Everybody started praying for rain just to ease the swelter. The air was so wet that mold grew on moving car tires. The books in Mystic Water’s library swelled on their shelves and dropped like mayflies, littering the hallways and spilling down the stairs. Little Johnny Stone nearly broke his leg trying to kick down the elementary school’s flagpole. He said he wanted to use it to poke a hole in the sky just to let out the water.
Within a week, townsfolk began boycotting clothing. They didn’t want to go outside in anything more than a bathing suit, which made for awkward grocery store conversations. Nobody knew exactly where to look when Ned Lincoln wore his Speedo to the council meeting. Two days later, the sky burst open like a slit water balloon. Rain fell in fast, gray sheets, and the storm didn’t stop for twenty-six hours, forty-four minutes, and two seconds.
Saturday mornings were Tessa Andrews’ favorite. She drank mocha-flavored instant coffee and read a cheesy romance novel in bed until her stomach growled. Then she pulled on her most comfortable clothes and drove across the bridge to Scrambled, Mystic Water’s diner serving breakfast from five in the morning until three in the afternoon. Nothing bad ever happened to Tessa on Saturday mornings. Not until the Saturday morning the rain stopped.
Tessa woke to the sound of a chorus of ducks quacking and a persistent bullfrog croaking out a bass line. Why do they sound so loud? she wondered. She opened her eyes and stared into the two shiny, black eyes of a fat, knobby bullfrog sitting beside her on the bed. Its wide mouth seemed to be grinning at her. It opened its gaping maw and croaked a good morning. Tessa inhaled so sharply all the air in the room funneled toward her, bringing the bullfrog so close she could smell its pond-water breath. She screamed, sat up like someone who’d been jolted by lightning, and jerked the covers toward her chin. The sudden tautness of the duvet launched the bullfrog into the air as though he’d been bounced from a trampoline. It sailed through the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, croaking a question, and landed with a splash into the water surrounding her bed.
Tessa’s eyes widened like chocolate malt balls. At least two feet of muddy water swirled in from the hallway and into her bedroom, soaking the edges of her dovetail gray duvet. A family of colorful wood ducks circled around the bedroom, trying to find ways onto the dry land of her bed. For an entire minute, all Tessa could do was stare at the deluge in her condo. A bottle of lotion floated past as though it was a pink, rose-smelling boat, carrying three ladybug passengers on a voyage. Daisies in an overturned vase drifted into a wall, one red flip-flop bobbed out her bedroom door, and the plastic cup she’d used as a wine glass the night before rocked back and forth like a buoy.
Her bottom lip trembled as she flipped back the covers. Her beautiful condo was drowning. She tested the water with a big toe. It was the same temperature as Jordan Pond in the summer. Tessa inhaled a deep breath, gathering her courage. Then she slipped off the bed into the murk. The wave created by her movements caused two gray tennis shoes to surf out of her closet and crash into her legs.
She waded through the water, picking up sopping wet items and cradling them in her arms as she moved down the short hallway into the combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. The front door was a victim of the rising water. The door had bulged and cracked away from its frame, allowing gallons of water to fill her home. The coffee table knocked into her hip as it floated off center in the living room. She glanced down and saw that her cell phone and notepad had miraculously survived the flood. She had also missed fifteen calls. Tessa dropped the wet items onto the floating table and grabbed her phone. She scrolled through the missed calls from her mama and Lily Connelly, her best friend.
Tessa dialed Lily’s number. Before she could say a word, Lily launched into a conversation. “Where have you been?” Lily demanded. “I’ve been calling for hours. Jakob told me he saw on the seven o’clock morning news that Jordan Pond rose ten feet overnight and that all of Oak Bend is flooded. And I asked him, ‘Why does Oak Bend sound so familiar?’ You know how distracted I’ve been lately, and he said, ‘Doesn’t Tessa live in Oak Bend right off the pond?’ And I freaked out. I’ve been calling and calling—”
Tessa released a pitiful sob. She pried open her front door the rest of the way and more water flowed in. She couldn’t distinguish Jordan Pond from her front porch or front yard or even fifty yards in any direction. She was now living in the pond. Something scaly and quick flitted past her bare leg, and she screamed into the phone, dancing around like a drunken ballerina.
Lily shouted, “Tessa! What is going on?”
Tessa pressed herself against the nearest wall and stared at the murky water surrounding her. Then she blubbered, “There are ducks in my bedroom. I slept with a bullfrog.”
“You slept with who? Don’t tell me you let Robert sweet talk you into staying over last night. You know he’s totally wrong for you. Weren’t you just telling me that he bored you to death? Those were your exact words. He bores me to death, Lily. I fell asleep the other day mid-conversation—”
“Lily!” Tessa said. “My condo…it’s underwater.”
“Are you serious?” Lily asked.
Tessa nodded even though she knew Lily couldn’t see her head bobbing or the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Yeah. I’m standing in the living room in my pajamas, and I think there are fish in the kitchen. You remember in the sixth grade when Bobby Fletcher told everybody there were gators living in Jordan Pond? You think he was lying, don’t you?” she asked, trying to keep herself from a full-blown panic attack.
“Tessa, you hold on, okay? I’ll be right there.”
By the time Tessa heard Lily’s voice calling out to her,
she had packed a couple of small bags with clothes and miscellaneous personal items she didn’t want to leave unattended in her wrecked condo. She had also changed into a pair of shorts and a gray Eeyore T-shirt. When Tessa sloshed toward the front door, she saw Lily sitting in a rowboat wearing a bright orange life jacket that clashed horribly with the pale pink shirt she wore. Her long, curly blonde hair was pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head. A white-haired, older man sat at the stern. A rowboat floated outside her condo where there used to be a sidewalk and the azaleas she’d planted. She thought, Don’t park there. You’ll kill the bushes. Which were drowning at least five feet under the water. A laughing sob bubbled up her throat.
She and Lily locked eyes, and her bottom lip trembled. Lily reached out to her. “Be careful.” Lily took the bags from Tessa. “We’ve seen all sorts of debris floating on top of the water. There’s no telling what’s underneath.”
Underneath? Like my condo, my car, my life.
The old man handed Tessa a life jacket and said, “I know it’s not that deep here, but it’s a lot deeper in other places. Better safe than sorry.”
Tessa nodded, slipped the jacket that smelled like last year’s mildew over her head, and secured it around her chest and waist. The man motioned for her to approach him at the rear of the boat, and while keeping the weight in the boat balanced, he pulled Tessa over the stern.
Tessa slid into the boat like an uncoordinated baby seal, belly first with arms trapped beneath her body weight. She flopped onto her back and stared up at the man with his head haloed by white marshmallow clouds in a faded blue sky.
“Thank you,” she said as he pulled her into a sitting position. She crawled over a bench seat toward Lily and sat. Then she exhaled, trying hard not to start crying again. She tugged off her pink rain boots and dangled them over the side of the boat as water poured out. Then she wrangled them back on her wet feet.
“This is Harold Spencer,” Lily said. “He’s one of the men who volunteered to help those who are stranded today.” Lily lifted her oar and paddled in rhythm with Harold.
Tessa hugged her arms around her middle even though the rising sun warmed her cheeks. Soggy air clung to her skin like heated syrup. “How’s the rest of town? Are there a lot of people who need help?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Harold said. “Most of the people in the low-lying areas are either under a good bit of water or the roads around them are flooded. Anybody stuck in a flooded home has been pulled out now, though. The other men have motorboats much faster than Bessie here,” he said, patting the edge of the rowboat. “And they picked up people a lot quicker. Mrs. Connelly here flagged me down as my grandson Adam and I were rowing Mrs. Jolene Evans to her niece Bonni on Walnut Street. Adam stayed behind to make sure she got there safely.”
Tessa nodded. “That’s nice of y’all.” She looked at Lily. “I haven’t called Mama yet. You think she’s having a conniption about now?”
“I called her. She was having a conniption and wanted to know why you didn’t call her first. I told her it’s because Jakob and I live closer.”
“Did she buy that?” Tessa felt too frayed at the edges to try and soothe her mama’s worries effectively.
“Sure,” Lily said. “She was just relieved you were okay. She’d already talked to your neighbor, John somebody, around eight this morning, and he said the whole bottom floor of the building was underwater. She didn’t know why you didn’t call anyone sooner. What took you so long?”
Tessa stared at an armada of clear plastic bowls with blue lids floating past. A spring wreath decorated with pastel, plastic eggs and tied with a soggy, blue ribbon weaved in and out of the current that pulled everything downhill, back toward the epicenter of the pond. “I was sleeping. You know a cannon blast can’t wake me when I’m out.” She glanced at Lily again. “Thanks for coming to get me.” She blinked away her tears. “Where am I going to live?”
“Hey, now,” Lily said, pausing in her rowing and sliding closer to Tessa. She looped her arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “It’ll dry up, and we’ll get in and assess the damage. Then, we’ll fix it. You can stay with us if you can tolerate a two-year-old holy terror, and you know your mama will take you in.” Lily squeezed Tessa’s shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it seems right now.”
“’Cause it seems awful,” Tessa said. A toothbrush sailed past on miniature rapids.
“Wanna grab breakfast at the diner? Isn’t that your usual routine?” Lily asked.
“Is it even open?” Tessa tucked her short brown hair behind her ears.
“It is. I drove past it on my way to you. Downtown is dry. How about a huge stack of waffles smothered in cane syrup?”
“You think they’ll let me eat inside? I smell like a river rat.”
“You’ve smelled worse. Remember when you were on that boiled cabbage kick? Dang, you reeked for days.” Lily nudged her elbow into Tessa’s side.
Tessa couldn’t help but chuckle. She had stunk. Nobody liked the smell of cabbage sweating out of the pores, not even the one sweating. “I think I might need biscuits and gravy too. For comfort, you know.”
Lily grinned and lifted her oar. “Mr. Spencer, will you please row two damsels in distress who are in desperate need of Southern cooking toward downtown? We would be much obliged for your kindness,” she said, laying on her Southern accent thick.
Mr. Spencer shook his head and mumbled, “Silly girls,” but he was smiling and changing directions, pointing the bow toward Scrambled.
2
Home-style Biscuits and Comfort Gravy
Tessa thanked Mr. Spencer again as she climbed out of his boat onto dry land, which was still five blocks from downtown. She slung her purse and one bag over her shoulder while Lily grabbed Tessa’s other bag, and they walked the remaining way to Scrambled. People milled about everywhere, emerging from shops and fluttering around street corners like butterflies released from cages. Kids, unable to truly absorb the immensity of the nearby disaster, leapt into water puddles hugging the curbs.
For a moment, Tessa wished she could slip back in time and join them in their carefree existence. Their giggles traveled up the sidewalks and pressed against her chest, warming her, comforting her in a way that made a voice in her head say, It’s all going to be okay. Tessa adjusted the bag on her shoulder and exhaled. Sunshine peeked around fat, lazy clouds. A bluebird swooped down, chirping madly, as if calling to his family and telling them the worst had passed. Tessa wondered, Had it? Had the worst passed?
As they approached the diner, Tessa looked up at the familiar sign bolted to the new building—two cartoonish eggs sat in a brilliant blue bowl with the word Scrambled arcing over them. For more than fifty years, another building, Bea’s Bakery, had stood in its place. Tessa felt the familiar ache of loss, followed by a longing for pastries and chocolates that could soothe her worries. In a freak fire, the bakery had burned to the ground two and a half years ago, nearly suffocating her, Lily, and their best friend and owner of Bea’s Bakery, Anna O’Brien. Their lives had been saved, but not the bakery or the building.
Anna had decided to rebuild a structure on the lot, but she had moved her bakery and taken her sweets to Wildehaven Beach, a seaside town less than two hours away. Anna sold the new building, housing the diner and the apartment above it, to Harry and Cecilia Borelli. Scrambled didn’t replace what the town of Mystic Water lost in the fire, but it soothed the townsfolk in a new way, wrapping the people in the toasty comfort of biscuits and gravy or folding courage into basil, goat cheese, and tomato omelets.
Scrambled was nestled in between the imposing brick building of Lily’s clothing boutique and the hardware store with its window decal peeling at the edges. A Radio Flyer red wagon was parked in the window, holding a teddy bear wearing a hard hat.
A waterlogged garden smeared dirt across the diner’s front patio, and the garden trailing along the side of the building looked as though angry fists had pummeled the earth. Many of the plantings s
lid from their positions or lay beaten against the sodden soil.
Before Tessa even reached the door, she could see and hear the crowd of people in the diner. Many looked just like her—wide-eyed, lost, and seeking relief.
Lily opened the door and ushered Tessa inside. The air inside reminded Tessa of the Sunday mornings of her childhood. She recalled images of her family crammed into the breakfast nook while they dragged pancakes through cane syrup—maple for her daddy because he was from the North. Tessa imagined browned link sausages lined up on paper towels and her mama scolding her daddy when he ate one after another without stopping, not even to breathe. But this morning, foreign smells infiltrated the room. The stink of exhaustion, floodwaters, and rubber boots mingled with the aromas of coffee and bacon.
Sapphire blue vinyl booths lined the walls, and tables holding two or four chairs were scattered across the middle of the room. Colorful canvases, created by a local artist, decorated the walls. Small white placards hung beneath the artwork and displayed the artist’s name and her prices. Tessa’s pink rain boots squeaked against the tile floor as she and Lily weaved their way through the crowded room to an empty booth. Within a minute, the usual waitress, Laney Tucker, strolled over. Her wavy, blonde hair was a mess of curls pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail. She dropped two laminated menus on the table.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” Laney said. “You girls okay?” She gave Lily and Tessa a once-over. “From the looks of you, I’d say no,” she said to Tessa.
“My condo is underwater. Lily rescued me in a rowboat,” Tessa said, trying to stop her bottom lip from quivering.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. You’ve got the same story as more than half of the people sitting in here right now. Most are sure their homes are ruined.” Laney shook her head and sighed. “You got a place to go?” Laney asked, her honey-brown eyes full of compassion.
Honeysuckle Hollow Page 1