The Myth of Perpetual Summer
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PRAISE FOR AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR SUSAN CRANDALL
WHISTLING PAST THE GRAVEYARD
A National Bestseller
“A coming-of-age story as well as a luminous portrait of courage and the bonds of friendship. . . . Susan Crandall tells young Starla’s story with pitch-perfect tone, evoking 1963 Mississippi and its struggles with a deft hand. Like Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird and Kathryn Stockett’s The Help, Whistling Past the Graveyard is destined to become a classic.”
—New York Times bestselling author Karen White
“Crandall delivers big with a coming-of-age story set in Mississippi in 1963 and narrated by a precocious nine-year-old. Young Starla is an endearing character whose spirited observations propel this nicely crafted story.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A delightfully complex story about defying the odds to find the gifts we have tucked inside us.”
—Shelf Awareness
“Crandall threads historical detail throughout the book as the struggles of the civil rights movement are vividly portrayed. . . . Crandall’s young narrator captures the reader’s heart.”
—Library Journal
“Whistling Past the Graveyard is a multilayered saga that can be enjoyed by teens and adults alike. It has a cinematic quality that will make readers wish for a screen version. And you can’t say better than that.”
—BookReporter.com
“This is a work of imagination in the mind of a nine-year-old child that might remind you of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird or Kathryn Stockett’s The Help. . . . It’s a real winner!”
—Liz Smith, The Chicago Tribune
“A luminous portrait of courage and the bonds of friendship, this coming-of-age story is as endearing and spirited as they come.”
—Shape
“I would recommend this book to those who enjoyed The Secret Life of Bees, The Help, and Saving CeeCee Honeycutt.”
—Teacher’s Choice
THE FLYING CIRCUS
“Crandall’s The Flying Circus is a fascinating story of love and loss set against the colorful background of barnstorming 1920s America. Every detail sings, and every character will touch your heart in this rip-roaring tale of three daredevils on the run, each with something to hide, drawn together by a desire to conquer the skies as well as their own demons.”
—Melanie Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of The Aviator’s Wife
“Exciting adventures abound when three unlikely misfits take to the skies. Friendships are challenged, lives are risked, and dark secrets threaten to tear the trio apart as they barnstorm across America’s heartland. A spirited, bighearted tale.”
—Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Looking for Me
“An engaging road saga.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“An exhilarating, memorable flight into the world of barnstorming in the 1920s, with all the twists and turns of an aerial acrobat. Compelling characters and a fascinating setting make this journey a sheer joyride. Satisfying and delightful!”
—Lynn Cullen, national bestselling author of Mrs. Poe and Twain’s End
“The Flying Circus is Susan Crandall at her best—a colorful, rich, and historical tale of the early years of flight. Heroes and villains and an achingly sweet romance will pull at the reader’s heart long after the last page is turned. I loved this book!”
—New York Times bestselling author Karen White
“Crandall has crafted a wonderfully charming, memorable and thought-provoking read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Deeply moving. A richly drawn story of love, loss, and redemption with characters as finely tuned as the planes they fly.”
—Wendy Wax, USA Today bestselling author of A Week at the Lake
“Historical fiction with appeal to both romance and adventure fans.”
—Booklist
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In memory of my mother, Margie Beaver Zinn
Finishing a book isn’t the same without you
PROLOGUE
August 1972
San Francisco, California
I kneel in front of the small black-and-white television, my face close to the screen, breathless at the newscaster’s words. A mug shot appears. Blood rushes hot, and my head goes fuzzy. Now grown and far too thin, that face still holds a distinct echo of the boy I so loved. My brother Walden . . . lost to me for years, now labeled a killer.
Memories as thick as the air and mud and secrets of our Mississippi childhood sit heavy on my skin. Even though my three siblings are scattered, miles away and years out of mind, they dwell in a place as deep inside me as my own heart. Perhaps our extraordinary bond comes from the strain of madness that runs in our blood, the love and hate tangling until they’re braided into an unbreakable rope, a lifeline and a noose.
As far as I have run, as many times as I have reinvented myself, my childhood has snaked through time and wrapped around my throat.
Have I been a fool to hope that at least one of us survived unscathed?
It’s time to admit that, perhaps, the blood that knotted love and hate may have, in the end, made murderers of us all.
1
August 1972
New Orleans, Louisiana
I delude myself into thinking I am where I am today because of clear choices and controlled decisions. In the chaos of my childhood, that’s all I dreamed about, power over my own life. But in the dark of night, when I lie alone in my apartment in Pacific Heights, shrouded by mist and distant foghorns, I’m forced to admit I am only a seed. At first blown to Los Angeles on the wind of someone else’s dream, and then rooting in San Francisco, where I was dropped by a different someone. But I have rooted well. That, at least, is my doing.
Yesterday, after the newscast that named my brother a murderer, I called my boss at the Buckman Foundation. I’m in charge of public relations; a position gained by tenacity, dedication, and, admittedly, the fact that Mr. Capstone likes me. That job is my whole life—and I’m not using it as a turn of phrase.
The Buckmans are old money. Even in the progressive atmosphere of California, old money is just as prideful and unbending as it was in the South. Fortunately, James is a common last name, so Mr. Capstone, who never misses a morning or evening news broadcast, didn’t make the connection when I requested time off for a family emergency. His tone was concern laced with what sounded like surprise that I even have a family. He assured me Keith and Stan are happy to step up while I’m gone. Which is not a comfort. They both believe a woman has as much business being an executive, junior or otherwise, as a monkey. They’re continually looking for ways to kick the ladder out from under me and leave me hanging by my fingernails.
My life, perfect and organized just yesterday morning, is now a tangle of worry and uncertainty. On the flight, I made a list in my current sketchbook of the scarce, yet disturbing, details I’ve discovered about Walden’s situation. As I walk through the New Orleans airport, a group of three shaved-head, white-robed Hare Krishna step in front of me, flowers and pamphlets extended in their pale, bony hands. Even though my home city is full of such groups, I’ve never paused to really study those selling street-corner prophecies. Now that Wa
lden’s name has been linked with the Scholars of Humanity—a group with a leader being investigated by a now-murdered journalist and a compound deep in the Louisiana swamps—I pause to look into their eyes, searching for what ignites their doubtless devotion. But all I see are lost children who consider themselves enlightened, saved and saving others.
I empathize, I do. After all, I was a lost child, too.
Then I think about Sharon Tate. Although I met her only once, the news of Manson’s butcherers shook me to the core. The girls who did the killing, delusional and brainwashed, devoted to a madman, singing like children and dressing like schoolgirls throughout their trial.
And now my own brother is accused of a crime nearly as monstrous.
I don’t know how he could be capable of such a thing.
But you do know, don’t you? Just like they say back home, blood always tells.
* * *
Even under the canopy of ancient trees, the heat is oppressive in the historic Garden District of New Orleans. The stately old houses with their deep porches and floor-to-ceiling double-hung windows are closed up, no doubt cool and serene on the inside. I hear the soft burble of a splashing fountain in one of the gardens concealed behind an aged brick wall and wrought iron gate, creating an illusion of relief from the heat. In defiance of appearing weak and ordinary, even the wisteria refuses to wilt.
The irony isn’t lost on me as I stand in front of the ironwork double-gate in front of Ross Saenger’s home seeking his family’s wealth and power to save my brother. The wealth and power I resented—as I’d resented Ross himself—so deeply and for so long. My sketchbook listing the meager facts is tucked in my tote, and a much longer list of appeals and entreaties piles up in my head. I am ready to beg. On my knees if necessary.
I do not look forward to this reunion. But this is about what Walden needs, not my wounds and grudges. Truth be, I cannot blame Mrs. Saenger for what happened in ’63. It was her kindness that saved our family—right before it tore us apart.
I feel a little faint and wish I’d pulled my hair into a long ponytail at the nape of my neck. I’d forgotten how Southern air coats the skin and weighs the lungs, how the stillness carries its own mass. I regret my polyester double-knit vested pantsuit and long for the yellow cotton sundress of my youth. Nausea grips my empty stomach and I want to turn away. But this is Walden’s best hope.
The grandeur of this house stands out, even in this neighborhood, two-and-a-half stories of brick solidity and symmetry tucked behind an iron fence and a tall, carefully sculpted hedge. Porches span the front of the house on both floors, trimmed in turned posts and filigreed ironwork. Marshaling myself, I open the gate, cross the walk, and climb the marble steps. I stare at the black door and study the beautiful leaded glass transom over it. I set down my suitcase beside a shiny black ceramic pot filled with red geraniums and ring the bell, desperate to get out of the heat. It hits me, stupidly and belatedly, that Mrs. Saenger might not be home. The street is quiet, the only sound the ever-present whirr of cicadas in the ancient trees. I regret my haste in letting the cab go.
As I wait, the drumbeat of my desperate heart scatters my carefully laid-out words like starlings from a wire. I must slow down my thoughts or else babble like a madwoman when Mrs. Saenger appears.
But when the door swings open, it isn’t Mrs. Saenger. It’s Ross. And thought ceases altogether.
“Good—” His arresting blue eyes are pleasantly expectant, as if he’s anticipating a neighbor or a friend. He’s even taller and broader-shouldered than when I last saw him in ’63, his light brown hair longer.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m fourteen and tongue-tied. I’m sixteen and broken.
His expression slowly morphs into surprise. “Tallulah James? Oh my God, is that you?”
“Hello, Ross.” My vision is getting gray around the edges.
“You’re alive!”
He thought I was dead?
“I . . . there’s been . . .” I feel myself listing to one side, the grayness pushing deeper into my vision. I’d prepared myself to face Mrs. Saenger. Not him.
My knees wobble.
He reaches out and takes my elbow. “Come in out of the heat.” He plucks my gold suitcase off the porch and guides me inside. “You look like you could use something cold to drink. Have a seat in the living room and I’ll bring something. Coke? Tea?” He lets go of my elbow in careful stages, as if he’s afraid I’ll collapse.
“Just water, please.” I barely feel my feet as I move into a room that screams old money: crystal chandelier, matching chintz sofas (tastefully worn and inviting), oil portraits of ancestors, carved marble fireplace, gleaming silver on the bar cart, and fine, thick area rugs underfoot. This place is just as I’d imagined it when I was hating my older brother, Griff, for abandoning me to live here. A perfect life. A movie set. Not with me where he’d promised to be.
When Ross returns with the glasses of water, I practically down mine in one gulp.
He sits on the sofa opposite me and settles his elbows on his knees, linking his hands between them. I have trouble looking directly at him. He’s a man now, but I can still see the boy I pined over. And I feel that old burn of resentment.
He says, “For the past nine years, I’ve imagined the worst. It’s quite a relief to see you alive and well.” The note of judgment in his tone raises my hackles.
I take a slow breath. “I am quite well, thank you. I’ve made a good life for myself.” Alone. On my own. No thanks to you or Griff or my grandmother.
“You could have called to let us know you were okay. Griff was out of his mind with worry,” Ross says.
Griff made his choice. Just as Granny James made hers. Only Margo’s abandonment wasn’t a surprise; she just lived up to expectations. “I left a note so no one would think I’d been abducted by aliens or alligator poachers.” The look on his face tells me my attempt at lightening the mood fell flat. “Honestly, I’m surprised Griff even knew I was gone. Besides, he’s hardly in a position to complain about someone disappearing.” I’m a little shocked at my own counterproductive childishness.
“He didn’t disappear,” Ross says. “He was right here. And you knew it.”
“So, where is he now?” I imagine him all Ivy League–educated on the Saengers’ charity, living well, with a wife and adoring children. He can probably help Walden better than I.
Ross holds my gaze. “I have no idea where he is.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans forward, his shoulders holding the set of bad news. “He was never the same after everything that happened in Lamoyne—your dad, the accusations. After his high school graduation in ’65 he packed his things and left in the middle of the night. Broke my mom’s heart.”
Cold fear creeps up my spine. All this time, I imagined him in the loving arms and stability of the Saengers, part of a happy family. “You have no idea where he went? He never contacted you?”
“No. Must be a James family trait.” There is bitterness in his voice.
“Hey! I might owe Walden and Dharma, but I’m not going to apologize to you for the choices I made!”
He raises his palms to me. “Fair enough.”
I remind myself I’m here as a beggar. “I actually came to see your mother. Is she here?”
“No.”
I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Will she be home soon?”
“No. She and Dad died three years ago. Car accident.”
“Oh, Ross. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” I’ve kept everything about home frozen in time. And, I realize, I’ve been deliberately not thinking of the possibility that some people may be gone. What about Gran? My beloved Maisie?
“Of course you didn’t. Because you didn’t let anyone know where you were.”
“I came to ask her—now you, I suppose—for help.” He stiffens slightly, so I’m quick to add, “Not for me. For Walden. He’s in serious trouble. I didn’t know where else to turn—”
“Do you think your mother’s cousin Sam will be willing to help? He did so much for Griff. Or maybe he can recommend another lawyer? I don’t want Walden left in the hands of . . . of a—” Suddenly, I smell my little brother’s baby shampoo, feel his hand in mine, recall the trusting way he looked at me. “A c-court-appointed lawyer.”
I feel clammy. I reach for the glass of water, only to discover it’s empty.
Ross stands and hands me his. “Here. I haven’t touched it.”
As I take a grateful drink, the obvious occurs to me. “I suppose you can recommend someone, being a lawyer yourself.” Please don’t let him offer to take the case. Who knows what the fallout would be?
He gives me a smile that tickles a memory of the way he used to make me feel. “I’m not a lawyer.”
“I thought it was a foregone conclusion.” The phrase springs from the past.
His eyes soften. “Good memory. As it turns out, I bucked the family expectations and became a psychiatrist.”
“Didn’t know you were even interested in psychiatry.”
“Circumstances spurred it.”
“Oh.” I shift uncomfortably, suddenly feeling as if I’m under a microscope. “Sam, then? Do you think he’ll help?”
“I already called him. His calendar is full, and Walden’s case will be time-consuming. But his daughter Amelia is willing.” He must see the concern on my face because he adds, “Unlike me, she’s always wanted to be a lawyer. She’s a barracuda.”
I have reservations. And I’m ashamed to admit one of them is that she’s a woman. I know firsthand how preconceived notions create an uphill battle. And this is the South, where women are still supposed to be wearing pearls and aprons and going to the beauty shop twice a week. What if we get a male chauvinist pig for a judge?
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” I say. “But maybe I should look for someone with more experience. I’m not asking for a handout. I intend to pay.”