The Sweet By and By
Page 1
Advance Acclaim for
The Sweet By and By
“A heartwarming collaborative debut.”
— PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Enter the magic of Whisper Hollow and open your heart. Like Sara Evan’s bittersweet songs, the notes and melody of Jade Fitzgerald’s past sing a new future. In a world of wounded souls, forgiveness and redemption are the lyrics of this enchanting story.”
— PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
New York Times best-selling
author of Driftwood Summer
“The Sweet By and By is the flowing story of a family struggling across the generations for redemption and reconciliation. The women in this novel are sometimes funny, sometimes serious, but always interesting. I was hooked from page one.”
— HOMER HICKAM
best-selling author of Rocket Boys
and Red Helmet
“. . . witty dialogue, believable characters and a page-turner of a plot. Just what I look for in a good book!”
— CASSANDRA KING
author of The Same Sweet Girls
“Conveys a meaningful message about forgiveness.”
— CBA RETAILERS +
RESOURCES
“Beautifully real characters shine in this even more beautiful story. A wonderful first novel.”
— EVA LONGORIA PARKER
actress and model
“Wow! I am completely inspired by this book. I have always admired Sara’s ability to tell stories through her music, and now I can say wholeheartedly that she is able to make a great story sing on the pages of this book. This is a beautiful, breathtaking novel full of redemption, reconciliation, and grace. I fully recommend it!”
— ROBIN MCGRAW,
#1 New York Times bestselling
author
The
SWEET
By and By
Sara Evans
with Rachel Hauck
THE SWEET BY AND BY
© 2009 by Sara Evans
All rights reserved. No portion of this book maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc. titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.
Scripture quotations are taken from the following:
THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
The KING JAMES VERSION of the Bible. Public domain.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
978-1-4185-8392-7 (e-book)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Evans, Sara, 1971–
The sweet by and by / Sara Evans with Rachel Hauck.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-59554-489-6 (hardcover)
I. Hauck, Rachel, 1960- II. Title.
PS3605.V3765S94 2009
813'.6—dc22
2009022210
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 13 WC 5 4 3 2 1
To Olivia, Audrey, and Sarah Ashlee
“And our spirits shall sorrow no more.”
—“THE SWEET BY AND BY,”
lyrics by S. Fillmore Bennett, 1868
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
About the Authors
Prologue
Summer ’77
The stage lights were down, but then an electric guitar buzzed from the darkened stage, igniting the crowd gathered in the Iowa State Fair grandstand.
Chills multiplied down Beryl’s legs as she glanced over her shoulder to a sea of cigarette lighters raised toward the twilight sky.
She leaned against Harlan as he swayed back and forth with his arm around her hips. For the first time since Woodstock, she was at a concert with no intention of getting high-as-a-kite, or leaving with the last man she’d kissed.
Her senses felt heightened by love, in tune with the frenetic energy around her and the music to come.
Rumor had it that this was the largest concert gathering in fair history. Fans stood shoulder-to-shoulder, cushioned by the heat-infused air.
Whistles pierced the night, followed by cheers and shouts: Stevie, Lindsey, . . . Mick.
Another guitar lick reverberated in the air with a shrill that hit Beryl in her chest. She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled from the deepest part of her belly. She wanted to be heard.
Harlan’s call for the music bellowed after hers, then his warm kiss blessed her ear, then her cheek.
When a drunken fan stumbled against her, sloshing beer against her sweat-dampened shirt, Harlan grabbed the man by the collar.
“Watch what you’re doing.”
The drunk moved on without a word.
“You all right?” Harlan asked Beryl.
“I’m perfect.”
Until Harlan Fitzgerald, Beryl had been a wanderer, a traveler, a liberated woman with no visions of picket fences, rocking babies, and happily ever after.
Then he came along, a ponytail-lawyer from Des Moines. He rescued her from legal trouble—arrested at a sit-in—and stole her heart.
“Ladies and Gentlemen—” The announcer’s mike screeched, settling the crowd down to a hovering din. “Fleetwood Mac.”
Beryl’s cheer erupted with the rest as she applauded with her arms in the air. Harlan’s chest swelled as he drew a long breath and let go a deep, resonating holler.
The lights came up with the opening bars of “You Can Go Your Own Way.” The grandstand seemed to move with a life of its own—the crowd swaying and clapping. Beryl moved in time with Harlan and the music.
If I could, baby I’d give you my world . . .
Beryl stretched to see over the fans in front of her.
“Jump up,” Harlan said, then caught her midmotion and hoisted her to his shoulders.
Lifting her arms, Beryl let them sway freely with Harlan’s motion. When the song ended, she bent forward to kiss his forehead. He was one of the truly good ones.
Harlan pressed something into her hand.
“What’s this?” Beryl lifted the lid of a small black box. “Harlan—”
He helped her slide down from his shoulders. “It’s an engagement ring, to seal our deal. Since you’re not a traditionalist, I figured a di
amond wouldn’t be your thing—”
Even in the dim light, she could see the blue spark in his eyes. He looked cute and shy as he tried to explain himself.
“An engagement ring, huh?” She grabbed his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. “Very cool.”
“It’s a jade stone. The green matches the flecks in your eyes.” He brushed her flyaway hair from her face, then took the ring and slipped it onto her finger. “Will you marry me, Beryl Walker?”
She didn’t have to wait a week to give her answer this time like she did a month ago when Harlan took her by surprise and proposed under the moonlight, his voice textured with emotion. “Yes, Harlan Fitzgerald, I’ll marry you.”
One
Whisper Hollow, TN
The October sun warmed the Blue Umbrella’s office. A pool of light washed over Jade’s paint-chipped desk and the box of ruby-red invitations shoved against the windowsill.
“Here you go, Liz. Eighty-five dollars for your aunt’s antique bread box.” Jade pushed the box out of the way so she could grab the check she’d printed for her customer, exposing a solitary, displaced red invitation.
BERYL HILL, PRAIRIE CITY, IOWA.
“Bless your heart, old Aunt Ginny, for never making friends with the garbage can.” Liz Carlton blew a kiss at the check before folding it into her purse. “Jade, I’ve got plenty more items to consign with you.”
“I’m always interested.” She patted the small, spry woman on the shoulder.
“And don’t forget you can sell some of your valuables on eBay.”
“On eBay? Goodness, child, I’d have no idea how to—”
“And there’s the county dump.” Jade walked her across the bright, polished shop to the front door.
“The county dump? I do believe you don’t sound a bit grateful, Jade Fitzgerald.
I bring in my precious family treasures for you to sell, sharing the profits with you, and what thanks do I get? A recommendation to the county dump.”
“Liz, I appreciate your business. You know I do. But the Blue Umbrella is looking for timeless pieces, items with a story and a history. Last week you brought in a bag of peeling costume jewelry and some moth-eaten sweaters.”
“Those sweaters had a story, Jade. I told you my great-great-granny knitted them by a coal fire.”
Jade gently slipped her arm through Liz’s. After all, she was a valued client, despite her lack of vintage prowess. “I’m looking for quality, not quantity, Liz.
But I do admit”—Jade paused at the door—“your items always come with interesting stories.”
Liz opened the door. “You wait and see what I dig up next.”
“I’m holding my breath,” Jade said with a grin.
Back in her office, Jade dropped to her desk chair, sighing. Liz was entertaining if nothing else.
She surveyed the row of lime-green sticky notes running along the top of her desk. Her to-do list. Her eyes fell on one sticky note, the one with the curled edges where her arm grazed over it:
Mail invitations.
Jade snatched up the note. The gummy adhesive was dotted with dust and lint and no longer adhered to the desk’s surface. The lump she felt in her chest every time she moved the note had grown from a pebble to a rock. How much longer could she stall? The wedding was five weeks away.
“Hey, boss, what’s up for today?”
Jade glanced up at Lillabeth, her sole and treasured part-time assistant. “You’re early today.”
“Coach rescheduled the team meeting for Friday.” The seventeen-year-old folded herself into the rickety metal chair beside the desk. Her blonde ponytail swished over her shoulder, and a pair of tiger-striped Oakley shades rode atop her head.
“It’s slow-day Monday. Why don’t you work on the Baker estate inventory?”
“Shouldn’t you have mailed these already?” Lillabeth slipped a wedding invitation from the box.
“You sound like my future mother-in-law.” Jade took the envelope and jammed it back with the others.
“What about that one?” Lillabeth pointed to the banished invite.
“This one is special. Sort of.” Jade tucked it a little farther under the box. “Tell me, what do you think when you hear the word invitation?”
“‘You’re invited,’ I guess.” Lillabeth shrugged, making a face. “‘Come to the party. We want to see you.’”
“Come and participate? Your presence is requested?” Jade had been thinking about this for a while.
“Pretty much.” The Whisper Hollow basketball star nodded. “Is this a trick question? Do I win a prize for answering right? Money?”
“Money? You’re on the clock; you’re getting paid.” Jade got up and headed toward the storeroom. “Come on. Let me show you the Baker stuff.”
On the opposite side of the shop was the old Five & Dime’s storeroom, cool and dark with cinder-block walls, a cement floor, and a row of random old calendars hanging on the back wall.
When Jade set up the Blue Umbrella, she left the calendars for posterity’s sake. A piece of the building’s history. The first calendar was 1914. Then 1920, followed by 1929. There were calendars from 1945 and 1950, 1963 and 1967, 1980 and 1988, 1996 and 2001.
Jade planned to add her own, but she wanted to wait for a really cool year.
Though so far, the one she lived now had been fairly stellar. When she moved to Whisper Hollow, a close-knit, small Southern town up the mountain from Chattanooga, she’d expected to moonlight for her former boss writing promotional copy for Smoky Hills Media. But the Blue Umbrella thrived its first year, ending in a lovely shade of financial pink.
Then she met Max—love wrapped in olive-toned skin, hazel eyes, strength, and kindness. Yes, this calendar year just might be worthy of the wall.
“Okay, where’s this famous Baker inventory?” Lillabeth dropped to the stool in front of the antique-white secretary hutch Jade used as the storeroom desk and jiggled the computer’s mouse. “Odd question about the word invitation, Jade.”
“Yet you still answered it.” Jade pushed a crate toward Lilla with her foot.
“These are leather-bound, mint condition, first editions.”
“Books? Since when do we take books?” Lillabeth angled to read the gold-imprinted spines while absently launching iTunes, then hunted for QuickBooks in the Mac’s dock.
“Since these are worth money. A friend from college knew the family and hooked me up.” Jade gave her a cheesy thumbs-up. “Jessup Baker was a Tennessee governor and his wife, Cecelia, earned all kinds of humanitarian awards for establishing reading programs in the hills.”
“Who’s going to read these?” Lillabeth wrinkled her nose as she examined one of the books, the spine creaking, the pages crackling.
“Plenty of people. We just need to figure out how to lure book snobs to Whisper Hollow.”
Lillabeth settled the book on the secretary. “Who don’t you want to invite to your wedding?”
“Someone. So, get to inventorying these and listen for the front bell. I’ll be in the office.” Jade paused in the doorway. “The camera is in the file cabinet. Take pictures of the books for the website.”
“I’ll crash your wedding if you didn’t invite me.” Lillabeth started typing in the publishing information. “I witnessed your first meeting with Max, right here in the shop. I should get a finder’s fee or something.”
“What is with you and money today?” Jade propped herself against the door frame.
“Nothing.” The girl’s light dimmed.
Jade regarded her for a moment. “Hey, if you need to talk . . .”
“I know.”
On her way back to the office, Jade checked the shop for customers. It was quiet, like last year this time, and she welcomed the reprieve. Gave her time to catch up from the busy summer, scout out new inventory avenues, advertise for new consignment clients. It wasn’t like vintage merchandise came with manufacturer sales reps.
Jade stood by her desk and scanned he
r sticky note to-do row.
Call Henna Swift about exhibiting at February’s Country Home Antiquing Festival in Nashville.
Upload new images to website.
Call Ilene to pick up her consigned items.
Dress fitting at 2:00 next Monday.
Set appointment for trial wedding hairstyles.
Pick up prescription for Max’s back.
Mail invitations.
She couldn’t get past Mail invitations. Not today. She had been ignoring that particular note, despite her future mother-in-law’s constant, “Please mail the invitations.”
BERYL HILL, PRAIRIE CITY, IOWA.
A snort resounded from under her desk. Jade took her seat to peek underneath, nudging the sleeping dog with her foot. “Wake up, Roscoe, and give me some advice.”
The sprawled-out German shepherd lifted his head, viewing her with his one good eye.
Jade flashed him the red invitation. “Do I invite her to the wedding? What would you do if, say, dogs got married?”
He exhaled, tucked up his paws, closed his eye, and dropped his head back to the floor.
“And after all I’ve done for you.” Jade tapped his belly with her foot. “Don’t expect me to share my pizza crust next time, buddy.” The threat carried no authority, caused no shiver of trepidation. One wink of his big brown eye, and she’d hand over a whole slice without hesitation.
“Okay, Roscoe, how about this. Heads, I invite her; tails, I don’t.” Jade fished a quarter from the stash she kept in the middle drawer’s paper clips slot. “Lift your head for, well . . . heads. Wag your tail for tails. Here we go.”
Before she settled the quarter on her thumb and forefinger, a squeaky, airy sound emitted from Roscoe’s hindquarters.
“Oh, dog. Phew.” Jade fired her rolling chair across the floor, crashing into the filing cabinet. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”
He snorted.
“I need a soda.” Lillabeth burst into the office, going straight for the quarter stash. “My throat is clogged with book mites.”