Copyright © 2019 by Charlene Bright
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronical, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Editing: Flying Elephant Editing
Cover Design: Killion Group
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Country Pride
Being a best-selling author has its advantages. Kinsley Griffin loves her life, but begins to see the downside of success when she hasn’t slept in her own bed in months and wakes up not sure which town she’s in. Her newest dream includes taking a rest, resetting her inner clock, and sleeping in until noon. And it looks like she’ll get her chance until Ethel, her sturdy rental car, breaks down on the side of a country road. Lucky for her, an only-in-the-movies-good-looking cowboy is on the way.
Jared Adamson lost his beloved Julia four years ago. Waking up to the sounds of Adamson Pride used to be his alarm clock, but since his loss he looks for peace while riding the fence line on his Tennessee farm. All that changes during a tranquil Sunday afternoon ride when he comes across a beautiful woman in tight-fitting jeans stranded by the road. What’s a cowboy to do, but ride to the rescue?
Prologue
“The point is,” said the female voice on the radio, “that many women tend to dread aging more than many men do because they experience a number of physical things that are exclusive to their gender. All of us can expect a degree of loss in ability, reduction in eyesight, more fragile bones …”
The man turned up the volume on his headphones and closed his eyes. This way, he could block out the rest of the world and immerse her into the center of his brain. He could feel the vibration of her voice, with a slight accent that gave away her southern roots, in his chest and he put his hand there to hold it closer, imagining her sitting next to him, talking to him.
“What women experience that men do not, however, is the complete loss of one of the things that most sets us apart from men … the ability to give birth.”
He smiled, wondering if she was feeling her own longing to have a child. He knew from reading about her on the backs of her books, on her website, and in every interview he could get his hands on, that she had no children and had never been married. He held his breath, thinking of the emptiness that must consume her.
“I see what you’re saying,” said another female voice, “but must women be able to reproduce to feel whole?”
“Absolutely not,” the first voice answered. “I try to make it clear in my book that the ability to have a child does not define a woman, but it’s still a change that men do not experience. It’s a change on a very basic level of hormones. And isn’t it possible that this physical change is one of the things that has led to this social construct that aging men are distinguished while women are not elevated to the same status?”
“I understand—”
“But this only sets the stage for what my book is really about,” the woman continued. “I’m not arguing what women should or shouldn’t feel as they age. It’s not a sociological examination of aging in women. This is a book written by a woman who’s on the cusp of turning forty, who is reaching out to other women to share my own experiences and help create dialogue and partnerships between women during a time when there are few resources available to tell us what to expect … to tell us we are okay and that all of these feelings and experiences are normal. That there is no one size fits all.”
The radio host directed her voice to the listeners. “I’m talking with best-selling author Kinsley Griffin, whose new book, Forever 21, Eventually 40, has just been released. She’ll be signing books at Books on the Square tomorrow afternoon at two right here in Chattanooga. Are you ready to take some questions from callers, Kinsley?”
“Absolutely.”
The man squeezed his fist over his heart in anticipation. He had called in as soon as she went on the air to be the first in line to talk to her, to hear her talk directly to him. He’d been following her career since her very first book, Maybe It’s You, Not Me, and had been taken in immediately by her articulate nature and the confidence that seemed to be inked into every letter she wrote. He knew this was a woman with whom he could share his passions and his knowledge, someone who would reflect back to him the strength he had so much trouble conveying to others.
“Our first caller is a man who wants to know how to be more loving toward his fiancée.”
A tiny “aw” from Kinsley caused the man’s heart rate to speed up.
“Mr. Schmidt, are you there?”
“I’m here,” said the man. He cleared his throat. “Umm, Miss Griffin, I—”
“Please, call me Kinsley,” she interrupted.
Please, call me Kinsley, he nearly repeated out loud. A pleasant burn spread across his stomach. “Umm, Kinsley then. Umm, how can a man who loves a woman at this age show his affection in a way that makes her feel valued?”
“What a great question,” said Kinsley. The delight in her voice made Mr. Schmidt nearly grown out loud. He’d have to try to remain patient. They would be together in just a couple more days. “If more men were like you, I think we’d have a much more caring world and stronger relationships. First of all, there’s not a recipe that will be effective with every woman. It’s important to know her, to listen to her, and to ask her what she values.
“Pay attention to what she gives time and attention to. Actively listen when she talks to you, especially when she’s talking about her own desires and things she might be experiencing. And be open and honest about your needs. Some women may enjoy more physical contact in public, more physical affection, while some women may feel pressured by such displays. If you truly love this woman, make it your mission to find out what makes her feel the most valued. And if your desires are lined up so that you are compatible, it will help both of you feel like a valued part of the relationship.”
“Thank you, Miss—I mean, Kinsley. I love her more than anything and want to make her feel how she makes me feel.”
“Thank you for sharing that with us, Mr. Schmidt. It sounds like she’s a special woman.”
She really is, he thought as he hung up the phone.
1
Kinsley Griffin looked out at the room full of people—mostly women—as she closed her book, finishing with, “And after all, isn’t how well we love ourselves what’s really important?”
Applause punctuated her final comment and the audience of around seventy-five people stood in appreciation. It never ceased to reinforce her mission and make her feel appreciated.
“Thank you,” she said with sincerity. “The attendance here was beyond our expectation, so in the interest of leaving enough time for the book signing and to preserve the bookstore’s schedule of events, we’ll limit the questions to two, so make sure they count, folks!”
Hands went up, and she tried to randomly pick one without giving it a lot of thought. She pointed to a young woman with long blonde hair in the second row. She could not have been more than twenty, Kinsley thought, and she was curious to find out what about her book interested that demographic.
As if reading her thoughts, the blonde began, “I know I’m not the normal target for your books.”
Kinsley began shaking her head before the young woman had finished her statement and jumping in quickly. “Anyone who finds anything he
lpful in my words is my target.”
The young woman smiled appreciatively and continued. “My mom just turned forty-five. My whole life, she’s been my biggest fan and has supported me and made me feel strong. She’s been going through a really hard time the last few years. I find your books important not only as I learn about the woman I want to become, but also as a daughter who wants to make my mother feel as special as she’s made me feel.”
Hands went down and the crowd grew quiet as all eyes focused on the eloquent young woman. Kinsley caught more than one woman in the group wiping at her eyes.
“I didn’t really have a question, I just wanted you to know that your books help more than just women like my mom. Thank you.”
Tears built in the corners of Kinsley’s own eyes as all heads turned to her. “You have no idea how much that means. Thank you for sharing your story.”
She pointed to another, older woman with dark hair and cat-eye-shaped glasses reminiscent of the sixties. “Did you have a question, ma’am?”
The older woman stood, nodding hesitantly. “Well, that certainly won’t be easy to follow now,” she said, looking directly at the younger woman in the second row. “Your mother must be so proud of you.” She turned her attention back to Kinsley. “I just wanted to know how you learned to embrace yourself with so much self-care.”
“I’m just passing along what I’ve learned, what other people have taught me, and the care that others have shown for me. More than anything we can do individually, our community is what makes us who we are and what gets us through difficult spots.”
More hands went up but she backed away from the podium, but the bookstore manager stepped to the podium next to Kinsley and announced, “I’m sorry, that’s all we have time for. Ms. Griffin will be available for more questions as she signs your books.” She thanked Kinsley for her time and thanked the audience for coming out. Kinsley moved toward a table that held stacks of Forever 21, Eventually 40 and sat behind it, pulling her favorite pen from her bag while the bookstore manager gave directions on forming a line to purchase the book and have it signed.
Half an hour later, the line had been reduced to four people: one woman with two bored-looking teenaged daughters and one man who appeared to be in his late thirties with a hairline that had just begun to recede and harsh, bushy eyebrows above a pair of intense, dark eyes. Men were sometimes at her events, but were certainly not in the majority, and almost always there as a companion to a woman. She always wondered what about her books spoke to them. Did these men connect to the content of the books personally or did it have more to do with women in their lives? It pleased her to know that her words might carry greater weight than she could imagine, not because she wanted to be famous or influential, but because she truly believed in her work and found hope when people helped one another.
After signing the man’s book, she checked her phone and saw a missed call from her publisher. The bookstore manager approached and thanked those still lingering for being there. This manager was one of the better ones. She had the rare talent to be both kind and stern and was able to give Kinsley permission and space to excuse herself. If only they were all like this woman, thought Kinsley as she walked to the office in the back where the manager had told her she could store her belongings. She called her publisher Lynn, who had been a godsend, acting as agent, publicist, and friend. While she waited for Lynn to answer, she sank into a chair.
Lynn picked up on the third ring. “Twelve down, one to go. How’s it going out there on the road?” she asked without saying “hello.”
Kinsley let out a deep breath that she felt like she’d been holding in for the past two hours. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. We have to put a big gold star next to Books on the Square. This was, by far, the most organized event on the tour.”
“That’s great to hear. I’ll be sure to add it to my list of places I recommend for authors.”
“Jana, the manager here, is amazing. She would make a great addition to your staff.”
The publisher chuckled. “With bookstores becoming a rarity, she will probably do greater good where she is, but she may be on the market someday soon … unfortunately,” she added wistfully.
Kinsley’s tired smile faded. She knew Lynn was right. Independent bookstores had made their way onto the endangered list, and there seemed to be no preservation organizations standing in the wings ready to revive the dwindling population. Technology was great in many ways. Even Kinsley herself loved the convenience of carrying her library on her tablet with her everywhere she went. It made sense on a technological evolution level, but she couldn’t help feeling something very special was quickly becoming a ghost of an idea, and it made her worry for future communities. “True,” she said simply.
“Are you ready for lucky number thirteen? You’ve got three days to rest up, hit the road, and get set up in Carrollton.”
“Is that on this side or the other side of Atlanta?” She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She had been on the road for only three weeks and was now on the southeast leg of her tour. This was the final leg, and the next event was the last on the tour, the thirteenth event.
She had managed to keep up the energy for more than half of the full tour and was now near the end of her fuel. The end was in sight, but the thought of one more event made her want to crawl into her bed, pull the covers up, and sleep for a year.
“Other side. Only two and a half hours. And the way you drive, maybe just an hour and a half.”
“Ha-ha,” Kinsley said unenthusiastically and silently reminded herself not to send Lynn that speeding ticket she had gotten on the way to Chattanooga.
“Then you can catch your flight back to Chicago in Atlanta the next day. I know you’re ready to be home.”
“That’s the understatement of the year. Lynn, I’m so worn out, I couldn’t remember my grandmother’s maiden name yesterday.”
“That’s right, you grew up not far from there. Did you run into some relatives?”
“No, but I was looking around on the internet for someone nearby to whom I might be related. I think my mom’s great-grandparents were from a town about ninety miles from here.” She had been reaching recently to distant relatives getting some more history lined up. “I really wish I had taken advantage of my grandparents’ knowledge before they died. Since I was so young when my mom passed away, I really don’t have any memories of her. I thought maybe talking to people who knew her might help fill in some blanks and make her more alive to me.”
“Any luck?”
“No, by the time I had my wits about me enough to remember her name, Mr. Sandman had dumped a full bag on my head. Maybe I’ll spend some of my time off after this tour back around this area and do some research.” Kinsley sighed and wondered what it must be like to have some time off. She felt like she had been going one hundred miles to nothing for her entire life now. “Are you sure this last event is absolutely necessary?”
“Eyes on the prize, hon. You’re rounding third base. For your next book, we’ll try to go lighter on the tour. I can’t have my best author having a breakdown—think of what it would do to your sales.”
The author laughed, but it was tired and short-lived. “Yeah, always have your priorities in line. I know. And I’m not so sure that I have another book in me. I think you’ve bled me dry.”
“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Lynn with mock hurt lining the edges of her words.
“Hey, Lynn, it looks like the store is empty and Jana is closing up. I’m gonna head on back to the hotel to relax and have some dinner, then get a good night’s sleep before I hit the road in the morning. Just one more … just one more. It’s my new mantra. Just one more.”
“You’ll be back in Chicago before you know it,” assured her publisher. Kinsley knew she had lucked out on this publisher. She was nothing like the first one who never remembered how to spell Kinsley’s name. “Sweet dreams and safe travels.”
�
�Thanks, Lynn.”
Kinsley thanked Jana before she left Books on the Square, telling her how wonderful and organized the event was. Jana gushed that it was the best event they’d had in a long while and thanked Kinsley for coming, asking her to please come back for her next book.
If there is a next book, thought Kinsley as she stifled a yawn.
Then she drove back to her hotel room where she drew a bath and soaked until she felt her toes and fingers tighten. She stepped out of the tub and dried off, thinking about what a good idea taking a relaxing bath had been. It had given her some solace and serenity.
Her phone broke the silence with the sound of “I’ll Be There for You,” making her smile.
Carley.
She let it go to voicemail so she could finish getting ready for bed and focus on the soothing voice of her best friend.
After pulling on her silk pajamas—a rare luxury she allowed herself—she bought a drink from the minibar and settled into the soft bed with a glass of wine and ordered room service after setting up her laptop on the bed. Lynn’s jab about her next book wasn’t just a tease; she was expecting a concept from her “favorite author” soon, but Kinsley’s exhaustion and this recent journey into her home state had taken over much of the real estate in her brain, leaving little room for planning a book.
She picked up her phone before completely settling in.
“Is the prodigal daughter on her way home?” Carley answered.
Kinsley settled further into the pillows. “One more stop. Why is it when there’s only one thing left to do, I suddenly feel my feet digging in and refusing to go one more step?”
“Because you’ve not taken a breath between books and tours. I mean, it’s exciting that you’ve reached a level where you’re in such high demand, but there’s only so much you can give without depleting all of your own spirit.”
Kinsley closed her eyes and let the warmth from the wine make its way down the back of her throat. She nearly moaned out loud. “Any idea where I go to fill back up on some spirit?”
Country Pride (Belle Ridge Book 1) Page 1