by Karen White
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS
OF KAREN WHITE
Falling Home
“This sweet book is highly recommended.”
—Booklist
The Beach Trees
“[White] describes the land and location of the story in marvelous detail. . . . [This is what] makes White one of the best new writers on the scene today.”
—The Huffington Post
“The Beach Trees has beach in the title and has an ocean setting, but it’s more than just a ‘beach read.’ It’s a worthy novel to read any time of year—anytime you wonder if it’s possible to start anew, regardless of the past.”
—The Herald-Sun (NC)
“Tightly plotted . . . a tangled history as steamy and full of mysteries as the Big Easy itself.”
—The Atlanta Journal Constitution
“Sense of place is high on the list of things that White does exceedingly well. . . . But place is more than mere setting in this novel; it is also a character, as tenacious and resilient as the people who call this region home. . . . I give this book my highest recommendation.”
—The Romance Dish
“White has once again written a novel that is both heart-wrenching and heartwarming, and is filled with all the gentle nuances of the graceful but steadfast South. . . . Readers will find White’s prose an uplifting experience as she is a truly gifted storyteller.”
—Las Vegas Review-Journal
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
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“White’s ability to write a book that keeps you hankering for more is her strong suit. The Beach Trees is a great book about the power of family and connection that you won’t soon forget.”
—South Charlotte Weekly
“White . . . weaves together themes of Southern culture, the powerful bond of family, and the courage to rebuild in the face of destruction to create an incredibly moving story her dedicated fans are sure to embrace.”
—Moultrie News (SC)
“White’s ability to showcase her characters’ flaws and strengths is one of the best in the genre.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“Expertly written, White’s emotionally tender story of intrigue, love, and modern day natural disasters sets her apart as the ultimate voice of women’s fiction.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Girl on Legare Street
“Karen White delivers the thrills of perilous romance and the chills of ghostly suspense, all presented with Southern wit and charm.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks
“If you have ever been fascinated by things that go bump in the night, then this is a bonus book for you . . . will have her faithful fans gasping.”
—The Huffington Post
“In The Girl on Legare Street, Karen embraces Charleston’s mystical lore, its history, its architecture, its ambiance, and its ghosts.”
—Lowcountry Weekly (SC)
“Elements of history, romance, and humor. I couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen next.”
—BellaOnline
“Beautifully written with interesting, intelligent characters and a touch of the paranormal. The story is dark, [and] ofttimes scary.”
—Fresh Fiction
The House on Tradd Street
“Engaging . . . a fun and satisfying read, this series kickoff should hook a wide audience.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The House on Tradd Street has it all, mystery, romance, and the paranormal including ghosts with quirky personalities.”
—BookLoons
“White delivers funny characters, a solid plot, and an interesting twist in this novel about the South and its antebellum history.”
—Romantic Times
“Has all the elements that have made Karen White’s books fan favorites: a Southern setting, a deeply emotional tale, and engaging characters.”
—A Romance Review
“If you enjoy ghost stories with some mystery thrown into the mix, you are going to love this one . . . a wonderful, mysterious, and ghostly tale.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An extremely talented and colorful writer with tons of imagination.”
—Fresh Fiction
The Memory of Water
“Beautifully written and as lyrical as the tides. The Memory of Water speaks directly to the heart and will linger in yours long after you’ve read the final page. I loved this book!”
— Susan Crandall, author of Pitch Black
“Karen White delivers a powerfully emotional blend of family secrets, Lowcountry lore, and love in The Memory of Water—who could ask for more?”
—Barbara Bretton, author of Spells & Stitches
Learning to Breathe
“White creates a heartfelt story full of vibrant characters and emotion that leaves the reader satisfied yet hungry for more from this talented author.”
—Booklist
“You savor every single word . . . a perfect 10.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Pieces of the Heart
“Heartwarming and intense . . . a tale that resonates with the meaning of unconditional love.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“A terrific, insightful character study.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Color of Light
“A story as rich as a coastal summer . . . a great love story.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“As lush as the Lowcountry . . . unexpected and magical.”
—Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author of Coming Up for Air
NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY TITLES BY KAREN WHITE
After the Rain
Sea Change
The Beach Trees
Falling Home
On Folly Beach
The Lost Hours
The Memory of Water
Pieces of the Heart
Learning to Breathe
The Color of Light
THE TRADD STREET SERIES
The Strangers on Montagu Street
The Girl on Legare Street
The House on Tradd Street
after
the
rain
KAREN WHITE
NAL ACCENT
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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Penguin Books Ltd., Regis
tered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a slightly different version by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Copyright © Harley House Books, LLC, 2003, 2012
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
White, Karen (Karen S.)
After the rain/Karen White.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-451-23968-6
1. Women photographers—Fiction. 2. Georgia—Fiction. 3. Love stories. I. Title.
PS3623.H5776A69 2013
813'.6—dc23 2012031432
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
To my wonderful son, Connor—I’m so proud to be your mother.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My novel, Falling Home, was first published in 2002 and introduced my readers to the small Southern town of Walton, Georgia, and the estranged Madison sisters, Cassie and Harriet, along with the rest of the town’s endearing inhabitants. Readers clamored for more, wanting to know what happened next to these people they’d laughed and cried with, and in 2003, the sequel, After the Rain, was published. Unfortunately, both books were soon out of print and hard to find, and readers were sending me lots of e-mails and letters asking me how they could find a copy.
Happily, in 2010 my current publisher, New American Library, gave me the chance to revamp Falling Home while keeping intact what my readers had enjoyed—the characters and the story. And now, in 2012, I’ve been given the chance to do the same with After the Rain.
So thank you, readers, for encouraging me to rerelease these books nearly a decade after their first publications, and for loving these characters and the town of Walton as much as I do! Thanks, too, to New American Library, for allowing these characters to continue to live on in my readers’ hearts and in my own.
Last, I have to thank my constant and loyal canine companion, Quincy, who remains glued to my side as I type each word, and who makes me want to strive to be the wonderful person and writer he seems to think I am.
CHAPTER 1
Tides change. So does the moon. With the unfailing constancy of brittle autumn closing in on bright summer, things always changed. If Suzanne had ever had faith in anything, it was in knowing that all things were fleeting. And for good reason. The highway of life was littered with the roadkill of those who didn’t know when to change lanes.
Almost asleep now, Suzanne brushed the pads of her fingers across her forehead, then down the bridge of her nose to the small, pointed bone of her chin. Yes, it was still her. One thousand miles, a quick dye job, and the surgical removal of her life had not completely obliterated her. Just smudged the edges.
The hissing of the bus’s brakes brought Suzanne awake from her almost doze. She pushed herself away from the images of a soft bed and dark Italian suits and opened her eyes wide to stare out at the anonymous highway rolling outside her window. A waxing moon smiled down at her with a crescent grin, and she touched the glass as if to bring it closer. “God’s smile,” she whispered to no one, recalling something her mother had once told her. Absently she let her fingers fall to the charm on the gold chain around her neck, finding comfort in touching the small heart through her shirt.
A sign on the overpass above them beamed at her through the murky glass: WELCOME TO WALTON. WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY. She craned her neck as the bus slid under the overpass, partially obscuring the sign, but wanting to make sure she had read it right. The bus slowed to a stop, and the door opened with a loud gasp. An older woman, wearing red high heels and with hair puffed out in a tight bouffant like a halo, stood at the back of the bus and began walking forward.
The driver followed the woman off the bus, and Suzanne listened as the luggage compartment was opened. With a squeal, the woman greeted somebody who had been waiting. Suzanne listened as a deep male voice, definitely not that of their Hispanic driver, greeted the passenger. His voice carried an accent that would have placed him in rural Georgia no matter what corner of the world he might travel. Suzanne smiled to herself, content not to be so burdened.
The driver seemed to be taking a long time pulling out the woman’s luggage. From the snippets of conversation, Suzanne gathered that there was a piece missing. She rested her head on the back of her seat and continued to listen. She heard the Georgia man speak again, and there was something about his voice that pulled at her, something thick and rich like dark syrup. It soothed and cajoled, as if the voice had had years of practice.
Disturbed by the effect the man’s voice was having on her, she turned away, but only to catch sight of the sign again. WELCOME TO WALTON. WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY. She sat up, watching as the light trained on the sign dimmed, then brightened, flickering at her like a winking eye. With a hand that trembled slightly, she pulled at the chain around her neck until the charm fell on the outside of her T-shirt. Tucking in her chin to see it better, she turned the gold heart over in her hand to read the tiny, engraved words. A LIFE WITHOUT RAIN IS LIKE THE SUN WITHOUT SHADE. With short, unpolished nails, she scraped the charm from her palm and flipped it over. R. MICHAEL JEWELERS. WALTON.
She pressed her forehead against the window, forcing herself to breathe deeply and recalling the woman who had given her the necklace. Walton. The name shifted her jaw, as if moved by her mother’s invisible hand, but she shook her head. It was a million-to-one shot that it was the same town. It would take sheer luck—something that had always run on a parallel with her life, never intersecting.
As she stared out the window, a small shape darted from the grass on the other side of the highway and onto the shoulder of the road. Headlights from an approaching car appeared on the horizon, two pinpoints gradually growing larger. The shape moved into the arc cast by a streetlight, and Suzanne recognized the pointed head and thin, whiplike tail of an opossum.
Pushing her hands against the window in an impotent offer to help, she glanced again at the approaching car, then back at the animal, its quivering nose pointing into the road. Don’t, Suzanne mouthed, but slowly the animal waddled into the lane and stopped, watching as the car bore down on it.
The entire scene was too much like her mother’s fascination with the bottle, complete with Suzanne’s own helplessness, and she shut her eyes on the inevitable, only opening them when she could hear the dying strains of a country song from the radio of the car as it passed. Peering out the glass, she could make out the small animal in the middle of the road, curled into a tight little ball under the crescent moon. It wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t doing anything to prevent another onslaught, either.
Abruptly she stood and announced to no one in particular, “I’m getting off here.”
The driver looked up in surprise as she stepped off the bus, the gravel crunching under the heels of her flip-flops. “Your ticket goes all the way to Atlanta.”
She gave him a half smile. “I’ve changed my mind.” Spotting her one compact piece of baggage sitting on the pavement with the rest of the unloaded luggage, she stooped and picked it up. Holding the oversized canvas bag by her side and adjusting her backpack-style purse over her shoulders, she glanced at the other two people standing with t
he driver. She recognized the lady with the big hair and nodded briefly. Standing behind her was the man who had to have been the owner of the voice.
He towered over the two people in front of him, standing somewhere around six feet four. He wore a button-down white oxford cloth shirt tucked into wrinkled khakis that looked as if he’d slept in them. A red whiteboard marker and a pencil protruded from his shirt pocket. She raised her eyes to study his face and was surprised to find him staring at her chest.
Shifting her suitcase to her other hand, she sneaked a glance down at her shirt and noticed that she hadn’t tucked her necklace back in and it was now dangling over the mound of her breasts, calling attention to their size. Disgusted, she twisted away from him and turned toward the driver.
“Can you tell me if there’s a place around here to call a cab?”
There was a brief silence before the tall man drawled, “You’re not from around here, are you?”
Suzanne frowned up at him, wondering how he knew that about her. She briefly thought about stepping back onto the bus and its cool anonymity. But then she remembered the petrified opossum awaiting its chance to be roadkill, and she ground her heels a little deeper into the gravel.