Hope's Corner

by Chris Keniston

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Christine Baena

  Excerpts from The Champagne Sisterhood - Copyright 2013 Christine Baena

  Cover Design by the Killion Group

  Developmental Edits by Vickie Taylor, Copy Edits by Denise Barker

  Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, redistributed or transmitted in any form or by any means; print, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Author.

  ISBN: 9780989360838

  Indie House Publishing

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  There are always so many people to thank when a book comes together and Hope's Corner is no exception.

  As always to Molly Cannon for sticking by me no matter how many deadlines loom. To Vicki Batman for reading this thing over and over and over. To Linda Steinberg for finding the spring point. To Liz Lipperman, Karen Chetty, and Cheryl Lucas for taking on yet another book. And To Mary and Kathy Sullivan for the constant support.

  A special thank you to Regina and her hubby, Steve. No matter what time, day, or personal crisis, you walked me through the police procedures so as not to embarrass myself. Any and all mistakes are mine and no reflection on your patient efforts.

  And to my publishing coordinator, Dallas Hodge, for sticking with me despite the growing demands in the publishing business.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hurry. The crumpled brown grocery bag slipped an inch farther down her hip; sweat trickled along her brow. If only her hands would stop shaking. Blinking quickly, she willed back the tears. She would not cry.

  A heavy weight brushed against her pant leg. Fear surged and her grip tightened. The ragged edge of a key sliced into her palm. Then she heard it; not the thump of human footsteps but a soft mewl. Peaches, the calico she’d rescued from a local shelter, had jumped from the porch railing and now circled her feet. Her forehead hit the cool glass window of the old wooden door. “Damn.”

  This was ridiculous. No one pressed behind her. No stale hot breath bathed her neck. No icy fingers restrained her. Nothing chased her but her own fear. Her mind knew all this, and yet, she couldn’t stop the rising panic, the growing sense of danger anymore than she could stop Peaches from leaping onto the porch.

  She’d moved home to Hope’s Corner, hoping, praying it would put an end to the daily torment. While she no longer suffered from nightly terrors, the occasional nightmare left her nervous, on edge, and downright petrified of her own shadow.

  “Are you okay?” A distant baritone voice carried up to her.

  The ebbing panic rose again, licking at her racing heart.

  “Do you need some help?” The voice, a very masculine voice, moved closer. With his every step, the wooden porch groaned under his weight. When the heaviness of the bag she’d clutched to her side lifted away, she bolted back as though stung by a live wire.

  “I noticed you seem to be having a little trouble with the lock.” The words were spoken softly, slowly. He’d taken a half step back. The corners of his mouth tilted in what he no doubt meant to be a disarming smile, but his piercing eyes studied the way she now pressed herself against the wall with an intensity that set her every hair on end. Still smiling, his hand stretched hesitantly forward. “May I try?”

  Her grip tightened on the keys in her hand. The sharp stinging pain shot up her arm. She almost tripped over the cat now preening at her feet. The polite stranger, who had been casually holding her groceries and patiently extending his hand, wrapped his strong fingers around her arm to steady her.

  “Careful.” His voice came out in a near whisper, the look in his eyes softer.

  Irrational fear and panic in control—her throat tightened, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t find words. Keys still clenched in her hand, she raised her arm to him. As he pried her fingers open to retrieve them, she kept her attention on his face, watching every shadow, every nuance. Shock flickered momentarily in his eyes when he saw her grip had been tight enough to draw blood.

  It was his grimace that brought her a slip of calm. She’d seen the pain in his eyes as he'd had pulled the keys away and stared at her bleeding palm. Nearly numb from head to toe, she watched him slide the key into the lock, turn the latch, and shove open the door.

  Grateful she was able to make her mouth move, she mumbled, “Thank you”, yanked the keys from the lock, and hurrying inside, slammed the door shut behind her. Her back pressed to the door, she dragged in deep ragged breaths. Another surge of panic rushed through her. He still held her groceries.

  Now what? He looked from the closed door to the bag in his arms and back again. He didn’t need a psych degree to know something had spooked that woman badly, and his offer to help her had done anything but.

  “Jefferson Davis Parker, what are you doing growing roots on Pamela Sue’s porch?”

  Good question. “She seemed to—”

  “I thought I told you to be here at four? It’s only three o’clock. You’re early.” Etta Mae Parker stomped up her neighbor’s porch steps and snatched the bag from her son’s arms, cutting off his reply.

  “A smart boy should be able to tell time,” she muttered, nudging him toward the porch steps. “You go on back next door. There’s fresh banana bread on the counter. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A smart man knew when to stand his ground and when to do as his mother told him. No one in Hope’s Corner could say Etta Mae had raised a fool. He was halfway across Pamela Sue’s front lawn before he heard his mother rap softly on the door.

  “Pamela Sue. It’s me, Etta Mae. I’ve got your groceries for you, honey.”

  The door inched open slowly. From his mother’s walkway he could barely see wisps of long blond hair peeking through the narrow space as his mom handed over the bag.

  Images of an angelic face with button-round bright blue eyes gripped in terror flashed through his mind. Possibilities of what put that fear there in the first place raised his hackles.

  He wasn’t a violent man. It wasn’t part of his job description. But his fists clenched shut with wanting to beat sense into whoever had put that fear in those angelic eyes. One more reason why he knew it was time for a new career.

  “Here you go, sweetie.”

  “Oh, Etta.” Pam took a deep breath. Had Etta witnessed the entire scene? Once again she’d made a fool of herself. She’d thought it would be different here, better, easier. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense, dear. I made some banana bread. Why don’t you put your groceries away, and join Jefferson and me for some coffee.”

  “Jefferson?” Oh no. “That wasn’t—”

  “Yes. Nice boy when he’s not scaring the bejesus out of my new next-door neighbor.”

  Oh, God, she’d just acted like a first-class nutcase and slammed the door on Etta’s son—Pastor Jeff. “I don’t think this is a good time, Etta.”

  “Of course it is. You take all the time you need. I’ll go make sure he leaves us some bread.” With a wave of her hand, Etta smiled and scurried across the lawn to her own house.

  “All the time I need,” Pam muttered as she sank to the floor beside the closed front door. “And just how much time is that, Etta? How much time?”

  As if saying, “Enough already,” Peaches stepped onto her lap and, with precise aim, flicked her tail, clipping Pam square in the nose.

  A heartfelt burst of laughter escaped. “Right.” Scooping the cat into her arms, she nuzzled her chin across the soft silken
fur and took a deep breath. “I can do this.” She set Peaches back down, picked up the grocery bag, and pushed to her feet.

  Peaches trotted ahead, her tail held high like a parade flag. Following her cat’s example, Pam squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched into the kitchen. A few minutes to put away the groceries and she’d be ready.

  She wouldn’t let that bastard win.

  “Is your father still napping?” Etta Mae breezed through the front doorway.

  “Yeah. He got up to use the bathroom, but decided to go back to bed.”

  “I was afraid the two of you would have eaten all the banana bread. I wanted to give Mrs. McCarthy across the street a loaf too.”

  “I’m not hungry, Ma.” Staring out the window, Jeff could see his mother’s young neighbor moving about her kitchen, putting away the contents of the brown sack he’d held.

  His hands still fisted at his sides, he hadn’t noticed the painful way his nails bit into his palms until his mother walked up beside him and patted his arm.

  “She’ll be all right.”

  “What happened to her?” Flexing his fingers, he continued watching through the window.

  “I don’t know.” Etta Mae picked up a large knife and slowly sliced the still warm banana bread. “The day she moved in, she was all friendly and smiles. I never noticed her acting skittish. She seemed just fine. Her brothers brought a huge crowd of folks to help. You remember Jake and Bo Wharton?”

  “She’s big Jake’s sister?” He dragged his eyes away from the window long enough to see his mom’s grin grow wide as she placed the slices on the blue-and-yellow platter his sister had made for her in fifth grade ceramics class.

  “Grown up some, hasn’t she?”

  “That Pamela Sue is little Pammy Sue Wharton?”

  “One and the same. Only now she’s Pamela Sue Dawson.”

  It couldn’t be. The last time he had seen her, he and Jake were seniors in high school and little Pammy Sue was a twelve-year-old tomboy. When the rest of the girls her age, including his sister Carol Ann, were discovering makeup, boys, and padded bras, Pammy Sue was still wearing ball caps, T-shirts, and blue jeans, looking like any other middle school baseball player.

  The kid was a regular hellion. No one with any sense would dare say a word against her siblings while she was within earshot. Pammy’s mouth was a lethal weapon, and for a little pipsqueak, she had a nasty right cross. Once when another player had been teasing Jake for dropping an easy-out fly ball in left field and then falling flat on his face, little Pammy Sue had torn into the dugout and thrown a punch that left the outfielder with a black eye for a week. Her brother Jake laughed it off. He’d snagged Pammy’s baseball cap, mussed the top of her short boyish hair as though she were still a toddler, and said, “Way to go, sport.”

  That fall Jeff had gone off to college in Austin and never gave little Pammy Sue another thought. He certainly never expected the scrawny kid to blossom into his mother’s beautiful next-door neighbor. He also wouldn’t have expected her to be so horribly afraid of her own shadow.

  “I first noticed something wasn’t right a few days later.” Etta set the plate on the table, then turned to the refrigerator, and pulled out a large pitcher of sweet tea. “I’d taken her some blueberry muffins. Got carried away again. Made too much batter. Figured she could use a little meat on those skinny bones more than your father or me. Anyhow, she was pulling a plate out of the cupboard when I put my hand on hers and asked if I could help. She nearly shot through the ceiling.”

  Without asking, Etta poured her son a glass of tea and placed it beside him on the counter. “I just wrote it off to her bein’ one of those jittery people.”

  “So what changed your mind?” He’d turned his attention back to the neighbor’s house. Pammy Sue had finished puttering in her kitchen, but his gaze lingered on the empty room.

  “I was working in the vegetable garden, pulling those infernal weeds. Pamela Sue was reading a book on one of them lounge chairs—the kind you use when you want to get a tan. Anyhow, she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know the poor girl was thrashing about and shouting. By the time I was able to get around the fence and into her backyard, she’d let out a bloodcurdling scream, bolted upright, and cried like a baby. She apologized from here to next Tuesday, tried to brush it off as a bad dream. Said something about what she’d eaten for lunch not sitting right with her. But I haven’t been a preacher’s wife for nearly forty years without knowing when to recognize a soul is hurting. Whatever is haunting that girl, it has nothing to do with bad Chinese food.”

  He wasn’t any good at this. Once again, his fingers curled into fists at his side. Something, or more likely someone, had broken that beautiful spirit. And this time, more than anything, he wanted to be the person to teach that someone a lesson. A lesson he’d never forget.

  Pam put everything away in the kitchen, arranged the cookies on a pretty plate, then stopped herself from wasting more time cleaning countertops that weren’t dirty. Feeling the need to look more presentable, she hurried up the stairs to her room. “I did it again, Travis. I promised myself I wouldn’t let that happen anymore, but I freaked out—again. And in front of Etta Mae—again.”

  Her hands finally a bit more steady, she took a seat at her vanity, touched up her lipstick, and ran a quick brush through her hair. Maybe, she thought for the hundredth time, she was ready to get it cut. Something cute and easy to manage.

  “Or not.” Turning to the framed photo of her wedding day, she waved her hairbrush at the picture. “Travis Dawson, if you didn’t love long hair so much, I could chop it all off and have a nice wash-and-run hairstyle. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

  Pam set down the hairbrush and pushed back the small vanity stool. A drop of blood from the cut on her palm had stained the front of her shirt. She needed to change before going to Etta Mae’s. “I still remember so clearly the first time I realized you liked girls with long hair…” She walked to the closet. “Jeanne Browne. Remember her? There you were standing in the hall, in front of God and the rest of us, with your tongue on the floor as usual. That’s when Jeanne batted those mascara-laden eyes at you, patted the back of her head, and drawled, ‘I’ve been thinking it’s time for a change. Maybe I’ll cut my hair.’”

  Undoing the buttons on her blouse, Pam tossed it into the nearby hamper. “Jeanne might as well have told you that she was going to slit her wrists. You practically lunged at her, begging her not to cut her hair.”

  The light blue shirt, she wondered. No. The pretty pink top she’d bought online from Talbots would be better. Help her mood. Bright, cheery, not too modest, but conservative enough for a visit with Etta Mae. It would be perfect. “I thought my hair would never grow out, and then when it grew past my shoulders, I still couldn’t get your attention. Finally, halfway through your senior year you asked me out. I thought I was going to melt into a puddle right there on the spot.”

  She slid the shirt over her shoulders and chuckled at the memory. “The first time you ran your fingers through my hair and mumbled something about how beautiful I was, I knew I’d never have short hair again. Of course back then you hadn’t told me the truth about the math book yet.

  “I remember that night after dinner when you finally confessed what it was about me that first caught your attention.” The memory of Travis blushing at the kitchen counter, hemming and hawing made her smile. “You said I was leaving school, about to cross the street to walk home, when I dropped my math book. You just happened to look in my direction as I bent over to pick it up, and then you watched me walking away until I was out of your line of sight.”

  Buttoning the blouse, looking up at the ceiling, feeling much better, she laughed a little louder. “I thought growing my hair long had gotten your attention but no. My ass. You finally spotted my ass. Good thing Mama knew what she was talking about. She’d said having rounded hips would come in handy someday.

  “Of course, I
just thought I had a fat backside. Figures Mama was right.” Pam’s smile faded, she shook her head, sighed, and blinked back the water pooling in her eyes. “You know it made me love you even more that you told me.”

  Taking a deep breath, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, then squeezed her eyes shut. “God, Travis. I miss you so much. I’m scared, and I want you here to tell me not to be. To hold me in your arms and tell me I’m beautiful. Tell me I’m the only girl in the world for you, the way you always did. I want everything to be all right again. I need you to make it all right again.”

  “Etta Mae, this is the most delicious banana bread I’ve ever had.” Since moving next door to Etta, Pam had finally resigned herself to the idea of growing old, round, and fat in Hope’s Corner. She could no more resist Etta’s baked goods than Peaches could turn up her nose at a bowl of fresh cream.

  “None of us ever had a shortage of friends,” Jeff sat at the kitchen table across from Pam, grabbing at his mother’s apron and pulling her close. “Growing up, it was chocolate chip cookies, cupcakes, and blueberry sour cream pie. Every kid in the county wanted to be friends with us, just so they could have a taste of mom’s homemade bread.”

  “Well, that explains why my brothers spent almost as much time here as at home. My mom tried baking bread once. We used it for a doorstop.” Pam chuckled, took another bite of banana bread, and swallowed the urge to moan with delight. Yep, she could definitely feel the inches spreading across her hips, but this was so worth it.

  “You two cut it out, or you’re gonna give me a swelled head.” Etta leaned over and kissed the top of her son’s head. “How’s the hunt going to find a fill-in for Ellen while she’s on maternity leave?”

  Jeff’s smile slipped. “It’s not.”