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Old Fashioned
Copyright © 2014 by Old is New, LLC. All rights reserved.
Cover photographs copyright © Old is New, LLC. All rights reserved. Used with permission.
Rik Swartzwelder author photograph by Old is New, LLC, copyright © 2014. All rights reserved.
Designed by Dean H. Renninger
Edited by Sarah Mason
Exclusive representation by Working Title Agency, LLC, Spring Hill, TN.
Published in association with Books and Such, Inc., Attn: Janet Kobobel Grant, 5926 Sunhawk Dr., Santa Rosa, CA 95409.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica,® Inc. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
Exodus 20:2-17, 2 Corinthians 5:17, and Psalm 85:10 are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Old Fashioned is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the authors’ imagination.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gutteridge, Rene.
Old Fashioned / Rene Gutteridge ; based on the screenplay by Rik Swartzwelder.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4143-7933-3 (sc)
1. Love stories. 2. Christian fiction. I. Swartzwelder, Rik. II. Title.
PS3557.U887O43 2013
813'.54—dc23 2012043071
ISBN 978-1-4143-8188-6 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8189-3 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-8187-9 (Apple)
Build: 2014-07-10 11:53:38
In memory of Don and Helen
R. G.
For Amber
R. S.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Authors
Discussion Questions
Rene Gutteridge Interviews Rik Swartzwelder
Acknowledgments
Rene Gutteridge:
In reading just the first few pages of Rik Swartzwelder’s fabulous script for Old Fashioned, I knew I wanted to be a part of this project. Like any woman, I love a good love story, but this story held so much more than that. It spoke to my heart. By the middle of the script, I was crying. I was also laughing. It doesn’t get much better than that! I knew we had a strong script from which to work, which makes my job easier and fun. It’s a little shameful when a guy can beat a girl at writing romance, but Rik outdoes me in this department—I fully relied on his beautiful telling of two souls connecting through a journey of hope and redemption.
I’d like to thank Rik for trusting me with his “baby,” as we liked to call his story and script. It is quite an act of faith for a writer to turn his work over to another writer. Rik was gracious and enthusiastic, with great insights that helped make this book the best it could be. He was also really easy and fun to work with. That’s a plus in any collaboration! Finally, I’d like to thank Rik for dropping the c off his first name so both of our names would fit on the cover. With names like Swartzwelder and Gutteridge, there’s no telling how small the font might have been had he not made this tremendous sacrifice. . . .
I’d also like to thank the team at Tyndale—Karen Watson, Jan Stob, Sarah Mason, and the entire crew—for seeing the brilliance of Rik’s script and believing in the book. It’s always such an enjoyable, fun, and inspiring experience to work with the Tyndale team, and I’m grateful for any chance I get to be a part of your vision for publishing. Thanks so much for including me in this and for helping steer the novel to its fullest potential.
Special thanks also to Brandon Tylka, who spent hours sorting through stills from the film to send to me so I could get a good idea of locations and scenes. Really couldn’t have done it without you, Brandon. You were right on top of every request I sent. Thank you! And also thanks to Nathan Nazario for helping make this whole project come to life.
Last but not least, I have to especially thank my family, Sean, John, and Cate, who willingly gave up some of their summer fun to let me do this project. I appreciate the sacrifice you each make so that I can continue to write. I am so thankful for a family who supports and loves me in all I do and keeps me grounded and secure in all aspects of my life. And as always, I thank Father God, who took me on an amazing spiritual journey that included the writing of this project. Thank You for the loud and clear message You have sent my way, that I never have to rely on my own righteousness, but through Jesus I have the assurance of the Father’s love.
Rik Swartzwelder:
I don’t even know where to begin. No kidding, writing the screenplay for Old Fashioned was relatively easy in comparison to this—my first official “acknowledgments” section. How can I, in just a few paragraphs, possibly do justice to all of the people and divine graces and years of struggle that led to this movie being made—or this book? Like a toddler taking his first steps, I feel unsteady and unsure. Yet I’m also inspired and grateful to those who have held my hand and taught me how—how to dream, how to try, how to walk on. . . .
Since these are indeed my very first steps, I am compelled to—first and foremost—thank the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit for not giving up on me or this idea. There is no question: Old Fashioned (the movie, this book, etc.) exists not because of my faithfulness, but because of the Creator’s. All glory, honor, and praise to “The Butterfly Maker” for seeing nobility and hope and colorful wings in places where proof is yet absent or wanting . . . for transformation, for new life. You alone are worthy.
Special thanks to the entire Tyndale House team for seeing something unique in Old Fashioned and for having the remarkable insight to know that Rene Gutteridge was the perfect author to work on the novelization. Rene, you are a brilliant writer and such a joyful spirit. Thank you for your patience with this rookie and for wonderfully translating the screenplay into something that stands on its own and illuminates the story in exceptional ways. That said, I’m still trying to forgive you for adding scenes that were so good I wish I’d thought to include them myself in the movie. But I digress.
Thanks and appreciation also need to go out to Gordon and Susan Toering for their belief and steadfastness; you are truly my patron saints and I thank God for you. Also, thanks to Bryan Zervos for getting the Old Fashioned ball rolling all those years ago. God’s timing, my friend. Thanks to Nathan Nazario for stepping out in faith and for being the steady influence this project needed and to Dave DeBorde, Jeffrey Stott, and Rachel Dik for helping connect the dots. And likewise, to my diverse collective of other friends and cohorts (too many to mention here, unfortunately) who shared wisdom and perspective as I developed, wrote, and polished the script—I remain much obliged.
To all of our investors and supporters who believed in this story (and us) and had the vision and courage to ris
k, to throw in, to roll the dice on an independent film—thank you. To the entire cast and crew (and to all the friends and families) of Old Fashioned—thank you so much for the long hours, sacrifice, and immense effort. To my own mom and dad, siblings, and various members of my blended and beautifully overextended family—I cherish you all. Thanks for the love, for instilling the confidence and conviction in me that all things are possible, and for being the kind of safety net that I wish every vagabond/starving artist/dreamer could have so that they all might leap boldly.
In addition, for being there year after year and keeping the light of hope alive, even during the darkest of moments, I must pay due homage to Jim and Mary Seldenright, Benjamin Hershleder, Rajeev Sigamoney, Jeffrey Travis, and William and Donna Romanowski. Proverbs 11:25.
To my old hometown and our primary shooting location—Tuscarawas County, Ohio—so many of you opened your hearts (and in some cases, homes and more) to us that our modest budget was able to multiply like loaves and fishes on a hillside in Galilee. You are surely “The House That Built Me” and I am so grateful for that. Thank you.
To the Spirit-filled churches and small groups and believers who nurtured my soul along the way—there cannot be thanks enough.
And finally, to all those who ever tried to show love to a damaged heart long before it was ready to receive it or return it—this one’s for you.
Dream. Try. Walk on.
HIS DAY STARTED OUT quiet and ordinary, the way he liked and assured himself of. The morning light of early autumn rose in the east and filtered through the old, cracked windows of the antique shop, carrying with it smells of dust and wood shavings and varnish.
Every morning for nine years, before the sun fully slipped from its covers, Clay had unlocked the old shop. The store was tidy and presentable, like a perfectly tailored suit, showcasing the uniqueness of all the antiques. Everything, as it always did, had its place.
This morning he stood in the midst of them, carefully surveying the room and inventorying what he might need to acquire this week. Some items he found at estate sales. Others, the more unique pieces, George brought his way. Most needed, at the very least, a good buffing; typically they needed much more. They came to him as trash. But with hard work—tried-and-true elbow grease—there was rarely anything that couldn’t be restored. There was no magic in it, but sometimes when he was finished, it felt otherworldly. A piece would arrive at his doorstep hopeless and pathetic and leave him one day treasured and beautiful.
Wax did wonders. So did sandpaper. And paint.
But the truth was, not everything could be fixed.
It was this early part of the morning that he loved so much, before the busyness of the day began. At the back part of the shop, through the swinging doors, was his little slice of heaven, where the smell of sawdust stirred in him a delight he’d never been able to fully explain to another soul.
Clay set his keys and coffee mug aside, keeping the front lights off because Mrs. Hartnett had a bad habit of dropping by before the crack of dawn if she saw a light on. He knelt beside the small rocker he’d been working on the last several days. An elderly man had dropped it off, hardly saying a word, paying for it in advance even though Clay insisted he didn’t need to do that.
“What’s your story?” he murmured, his fingers gliding over the now-smooth wood. The chair was a hard-bitten thing when it came in, chipped and cracked and neglected, smelling vaguely of smoke. Whenever he worked on an old piece of furniture—or anything else, for that matter—he found his mind wandering to possibilities of where it once came from and how it had gotten to where it was now. Most pieces had spent dark days in attics and basements and back rooms that never heard footsteps. Somewhere in their lives, they’d served a good purpose. The lucky ones stayed in the house but sat invisibly in a corner or by a couch, an annoying place to have to dust, a thorn in the side of someone who wished it could be thrown away, except for the guilt attached because it belonged to a great-grandmother who’d spent her very last pennies to acquire it, or some such story.
Yesterday he’d cut and whittled the rocker’s new back pieces and today he would stain them. Clay grabbed the sandpaper and walked to the table saw where the slats waited, lined up like soldiers. As he ran the sandpaper across the wood, he could practically hear the creak of the rocker and the laughter of delighted children in another century.
He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and sanded more quickly. Sometimes he thought he’d been born in the wrong century. There was hardly a kid today who would care about sitting in a rocker on the edge of a porch and watching a spring storm blow in. The world that he once thrived in had become a noisy, clangoring, messy place. But here, in the shop, with sawdust spilling through shafts of dusty light, he found his peace.
The sandpaper soon needed replacing, so he went to the corner of the room where he kept his supplies and reached for a new package. Then he snapped his wrist back at the sudden and sharp pain in his hand. It hurt like a snake had bitten him. Blood dripped steadily from the top of his hand and he cupped his other hand beneath, trying to catch the droplets.
Clay searched the corner, trying to figure out what had snagged him.
There, on the old wooden gate he’d found in an abandoned field: barbed wire. The back side of the gate was wrapped in it when he’d found it, and he hadn’t had time to cut it off yet. He looked at the wound as he walked to the sink. It was bleeding so fast that it was actually seeping through his fingers, dripping on the floor.
What a mess.
He ran it under the water. It was more of a puncture wound but mightier than it looked. The blood poured, mixing with the water. And it didn’t want to stop, even for the phone.
The shrill ring cut through the still air, coming from the rotary phone he had mounted on the wall next to the sink. Keeping his wounded hand under running water, he answered it.
“Old Fashioned Antiques.”
“It’s me.”
“Lisa. Hi. I’m kind of—”
“I know, I know. Busy. As you always are. Why don’t you answer your cell? Do you even carry it with you? Don’t you text? People need to get ahold of you sometimes, you know. What if it’s an emergency? What about that kind aunt of yours?”
“She finds me through the postal service.”
“Anyway, I need to drop off the stuff for the thing.”
“Okay.”
“Are you going to be there this morning? Silly question. Where else would you be?”
“The hospital.”
“What?”
“I might be. You never know. Maybe I got tangled in some vicious barbed wire. I might be bleeding out even as we speak, and here you are completely oblivious.”
Lisa sighed. She never got his humor. “I’m being serious. Can I bring it by?”
In the background, Clay could hear Lisa’s daughter, Cosie, screaming at the top of her lungs. “She okay?”
“She’s throwing a fit.”
“So she’s in time-out?”
“You know we don’t believe in punishment.”
“I know. I just keep thinking you’ll change your mind about that.”
“So I’m coming by later, okay? And remember, this is a total surprise. Not a single word to David about it.”
“I’ll make you a deal: I won’t tell David if I don’t have to come to the party.”
“Clay, he would be crushed.”
“You know I’m just there to boost your numbers, fill in the empty space.”
“True. But you’re still coming. And not a word. I’ll see you later.”
She hung up and Clay raised his hand toward the light. It had finally stopped bleeding. He put a Band-Aid on and started mopping up the blood droplets all over the floor.
It was a lesson every person learned one time or another in their lives—never cross paths with barbed wire.
“Look at that, would you? Look at it!” Amber let go of the steering wheel with both hands and put her knee underneath
to keep it steady. She gestured, glancing at Mr. Joe. “Nobody gets this. I realize that. I do. But see how the road winds, and then off it goes, through the trees? You don’t really know what’s around the bend, see?”
Amber put her hands back on the steering wheel, then gave Mr. Joe a quick scratch behind the ears. She’d temporarily let him out of his carrier, though he tended to get carsick if left out too long. “You’re unimpressed, as usual. But there’s something beautiful about roads. They’re so full of possibilities. . . . Of course, you can always die in a horrific crash, too. But mostly, it’s just about going somewhere. Anywhere. It’s about what’s around that bend, Mr. Joe. What’s there?”
Amber’s Jeep whizzed around the curve, clearing the trees as the road straightened. Her windows were down, the wind tearing through her hair so fiercely that it was going to take a good hour to comb it out, but she didn’t care. She turned the music up. “Lovely Day” was on the radio, and she nudged her cat like he might sing along with her.
Then she saw it. “Whoa.” She slowed and craned her neck out the window for a better view. “Mr. Joe, look at that!” Large stone buildings seemed to rise right out of the earth, sprawled across several acres. White concrete sidewalks disappeared into rolling hills and hazy light illuminated the branches of all the trees, like a scene out of some kind of fairy tale. The entrance read Bolivar University, but it looked like medieval England.
She leaned toward Mr. Joe and gave him a wink. “Apparently we’ve stumbled across Camelot. I told you I knew what I was doing when we hung a left back there.”
Mr. Joe meowed in agreement.
As she drove on, Amber squeezed the fingers on her right hand. Her wrist was starting to throb, probably due to the cast more than the injury. It should’ve healed up fine by now. On the top of the cast was Misty’s name, scrawled in red with little hearts.
She focused her attention back on the road. She couldn’t spend emotional energy missing those friends left behind. But as she passed Camelot, she had to admit, it was always hard not to glance in the rearview mirror.
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