Letters From Becca
A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel
By
Margaret Ferguson
Cover Design and Layout
Alex Tsatsos
Editing & Proofreading
Cathy Moeschet
Ashley Vance
Jeanette Norton
Marcia Rebrovich
EBook and Print Formatting
Kat Kramer
Technical Consultants
Bobby Adair
Kat Kramer
Other works available on e-book and in paperback from Margaret Ferguson
Meeting Melissa
Julie doesn’t know she needs a little miracle in her life until she meets Melissa…
Melissa believes in miracles because she is one. Born with HIV and orphaned at birth during a time when just the mention of the immune disorder still scared many people, the precocious twelve-year-old never gives up hope. As Julie and Melissa begin a new life together, they don’t need anything or anyone, except each other.
Peter is a middle-aged country western singer who needs a little miracle in his life. His marriage is crumbling, his career waning and he has to be sobered up before every performance. After one last stint in rehab, he’s alone and lost. Until he meets Melissa and her foster mom.
How can one young girl change so many lives? Meeting Melissa is a fun, sassy romance filled with first kisses and first true loves; a sweet mix of romantic interludes that will make you laugh and cry. Isn’t it time you met Melissa?
(see excerpts from Meeting Melissa at the end of Letters From Becca)
And Coming Soon! Destiny by Chance
For my Grandma, Marie Sien Halpenny—
Thank you for planting in me the seed for a love of reading, the desire to be a storyteller, and to write…
Preface
I’ve dreamed of being a published writer since I was eighteen years old. Just like my first published novel, Meeting Melissa, this story was originally written in the mid-1990s. The characters’ lives unfold in a one-day trip through a series of letters from the main character, Becca, to her first love and best friend, John. I specifically selected this story for my second release because it has been the one nearest to my heart all these years. It’s a story of love and heartache, of loss and healing. To date, it’s the first and only story I’ve written told from a male perspective.
I’m a letter writer. Anyone who knows me knows I’m long-winded, so writing a book isn’t a stretch, since my texts and e-mails can take on the same context. The inspiration for this book comes from writing to a dear friend of mine by the same name as the main character in the book. I thought, hmm… “Dear John…” and the inspiration was born. The original title for the novel was Dear John, but because there was another novel by the same name written by one of my favorite authors, I struggled for years to find an appropriate new title.
John, the main character, is a man who experienced and survived family violence in his life. He is an outsider, an outcast who is used to making his own way. His whole life is about Becca because they grew up together. He watched out for her and protected her. They were each other’s first kiss, first love. They understood each other.
Becca is a country girl like myself—simple, naïve, but courageous. She believes in putting others first, especially those she loves. She believes in goodness and happily-ever-after, but craves acceptance and stability. She is all of us, struggling to balance responsibilities and relationships.
David was my grandfather’s name, so it was appropriate I gave a key character his proud name. David is a compilation of most men I know; stoic, keeping their emotions buried deep (to a fault), while still being loyal and strong.
Marissa was a complicated character to write. Every time I write a novel one character seems to stand out, creating his or her own personality through my pen. Marissa originally had a small but significant role. At some point, she simply took over her own character development, and in many respects became a better character once I let her have her way. She began as the shy wallflower who blossomed and grew into her own. Though her own life is a mess, she’s the glue that holds many of the characters together. She’s brazen and fun, and I know you’ll enjoy her. Thanks to her, the ending was a surprise, even to me!
Many scenes are drawn from childhood memories: my grandparents’ ranch in Helotes, Texas, the Pedernales River, Brackenridge Park, and the San Antonio Zoo. These places are comfortable for me. I could touch the chipped paint on the windowsills of my grandparents’ ranch house, I could hear the water flowing over the stones of the Pedernales, I remembered swinging in the cattle stalls of my grandparents’ barn, and the cluster of three oak trees that grew together beside the back porch on our ranch. I fed Poncho the hippo at the zoo and rode those same rides at Kiddie Park. These memories felt like a homecoming for me.
I am a very visual person, and struggle sometimes with portraying what I’m thinking or visualizing. I frequently use music when constructing scenes and sometimes, writing conversations. Every novel plays like a movie in my head, and I feel much more creative when inspired by a particular musical piece. In this novel, more than any of the others I’ve written to date, I reference particular artists or songs. They directly influenced me as I wrote, helping set the tone of certain scenes and the mood for my characters. I listen to a song sometimes dozens of times as I’m writing a scene to assure the rhythm of character conversations or a scene flows the way I intend. Feel free to pull up iTunes or Pandora and see for yourself!
Writing is my passion, right behind serving God and playing with my grandkids, and I am so excited to be able to finally share this part of my life with you. I hope you laugh and I hope you cry. I hope you love the characters in this book as much as I do. I hope you will read to the end because not all of their stories end there.
— Margaret Ferguson, November 2015
The way to get started is to quit talking, and begin doing.
—Walt Disney
Prologue
July 5, 1948
The soft hues of the morning embraced the two small children as they played on the rocky banks of the Pedernales River. The small girl, her white dress tattered and yellowed with time, cautiously slid her feet across the massive smooth stone in the cool water. The young boy, his faded blue oversized overalls rolled up unevenly to his knees, walked quickly over the smaller stones in the falls just a foot below where she attempted her crossing. It was a race to see who could get across first. A small mixed-breed pup whimpered and bounced on the banks, unsure of the bubbling water running past.
The young girl, seeing the boy was ahead, quickened the pace, her tiny feet splashing as she ran the rest of the way. He met the challenge, rushing faster to find sure footing in the clear water.
“C’mon Taffy,” he called over his shoulder. The puppy bravely jumped in and scampered behind him, scattering minnows and tadpoles in every direction.
The young girl had arrived just moments before him, perching on the stony banks on the opposite side. The rock escarpment was still cool, not yet warmed by the day’s sun. The young boy jumped his last step to the stone just below the ledge on which she stood. He looked up to her and smiled.
“You win this time, Becca,” he said, leaving the challenge hanging in the air for their trip back. He picked up a stone and chucked it into the flowing waters as Taffy shook the water from his ragged coat.
Becca brushed back her matted, golden trusses. She was a year younger than him, and almost six inches shorter. Her momma told her she was born too early and was a miracle in these part
s, seeing as there was only one doctor within thirty miles, and he arrived five minutes after she had pushed her out. Her momma told her she’d always be small and that she was lucky to be alive. Becca looked at him and smiled triumphantly. “You can’t beat me, John. I’m too fast!”
“What are you looking so smug about?” he asked her.
“You’re bigger than me, and you can’t even keep up,” she retorted proudly.
“Hrrmmpphh,” he growled and climbed the small ledge to where Becca stood.
“You’re awful sassy for being so little,” he chided.
She smiled at him. He nudged her with his shoulder as a smile crept onto his lips. Taffy jumped up, pawing at his pant leg, whimpering and whining to be picked up.
The wind blew silently around them until it reached the trees just beyond the rocks, making itself known in the rustling of the leaves dried from the three-month drought. But the wind carried another sound, and the children stopped suddenly and turned to each other. It was a terrifyingly familiar sound. They both raced back across the river, not caring who arrived first, the puppy splashing on their heels. They raced toward the old weatherworn house on a small hill but stopped suddenly beside, then stepped behind, a set of massive hundred-year-old oak trees that obscured their view.
John peeked around the corner, then turned back, out of breath. “Stay here,” he instructed.
Becca nodded, kneeling beside him.
The louder his father yelled, the more intense the crying became. John turned to Becca, but only for a moment. Her hands flew to her ears as she hugged herself tighter into a ball, crouched against the grooved wood of the ancient oaks. He turned away, resolute, then took a deep breath and ran the last twenty feet to the window. He ducked beside the house, its paint peeling and flaking under his fingertips as he cautiously touched the green sill. He carefully peered in. The warm wind blew the sheer curtains through the open window, reminding him of his mother’s laundry drying on the line out back. Had the wind been blowing the other direction, John would have smelled his father’s approach.
He ducked out of sight as the tall, unshaven man stood just feet away, his sharp tongue attacking the waif of a woman he dragged with him. She, like her daughter, wore clothes that were at least two sizes too big. She cringed before him, her shoulders stooped in defeat under his barrage of obscenities. John cringed as his father struck her, flat-palmed in the face, sending her flying to the floor. John’s fists slowly clenched in anger. How many times had he felt that same wrath, the same unprovoked rage? He called her a ‘lazy cow,’ among other things, belittling her repeatedly. He pulled her up by the arm just to slap her again, letting her go so she would receive the full impact of the fall.
John gasped out loud, causing his father to turn his direction. John, realizing his mistake, put himself flat against the wall. The man slowly walked toward the window; John’s only saving grace the large table inside by the window that prevented his father from seeing him.
“Is that you, Johnny?” came the frighteningly familiar voice. “You come on in here, boy,” he said angrily, looking both directions, but not seeing anything from his vantage point.
John heard his father walking across the wooden floor, the sound mixed with the sobs of the beaten woman. He ran as fast as possible to the tree, then wrapped himself around Becca. They huddled behind the oaks, hoping the three towering trees that had grown from one trunk were enough to hide their presence. They heard hinge springs squeal from stretching and then the screen door slam shut on the front porch. Becca stayed silent and immobile under his body.
“Where are you, Johnny?” the man called out, slurring his words.
“Be quiet,” John whispered. “He can’t see us here.”
“Johnny, you’d better be doin’ your chores, boy,” he ranted. “You’d better be doin’ your chores,” he repeated, more to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow. After looking around for almost a minute and satisfied that he had been mistaken, he walked back to the door and swung it open so hard it hit the front porch window sill before slamming shut behind him. John felt Becca sobbing beneath him, her small body trembling with fear. He moved to peek around the tree, but Becca grabbed his arm and pulled him tighter to her.
“Please don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“Shh,” he said, “I’m right here, Becca. I’m not going anywhere.” He held her close, rocking her gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
August 13, 1951
Taffy chased John and Becca around the old oak and pecan trees in the expansive barnyard, toward the chicken coop and then into the red barn. Most days his father’s pickup truck would be parked by the old milking barn. But this evening it was gone, usually signifying an early departure to work or to the local tavern, which always meant that they could play unhindered, without fear of being accosted randomly—at least until he returned. His father had become more violent in the past few years, having even broken John’s arm once by twisting it too hard when he didn’t close the door to the chicken coop.
Becca’s mom bore weekly evidence of his drunken tirades. He would make excuses for his behavior, usually saying work was so hard to find that he was frustrated. John didn’t know how his dad held a job as often as he drank, but what did he know? He was only eleven. Last night the screams were louder, the hitting more violent. They had not been the victims of his anger that night. They had only escaped it because Becca’s mom was the first person he saw when he arrived home, the first person to question where he had been. The first person to call him a liar.
Becca stopped, out of breath just inside the door to the old milking area. The barn that used to house dozens of cattle at one time and bring income to Becca’s grandparents now sat empty, except for a few bales of hay and the nests of their laying hens. It used to be a working farm with milking cows, egg-laying chickens and hogs raised for slaughter. After Becca’s grandfather died, her mother (with the help of her older brother), sold off some of the land and most of the milk cows to pay off the mortgage on the property. Becca’s Uncle Ben made sure they had enough cows and chickens to bring their mother a reasonable income. It helped that Becca’s grandmother and her mother were seamstresses and regularly sewed for a few of the wealthy German townsfolk of Fredericksburg.
Becca’s father had worked in one of the many local orchards since arriving in the area in 1936. He was in charge of planting and maintaining the peach trees, since he was knowledgeable, having worked in other orchards prior to that. Becca’s father was a handsome man, six-foot-one with dark hair and dark eyes. She didn’t remember him, but her mother kept a picture of him in her jewelry box. He wasn’t of German descent like her mother’s family, but having been around the culture all his life, his parents made sure he learned the language. His father, Becca’s grandfather, had moved there from San Antonio when the town was chartered to work on the railroad joining Fredericksburg to San Antonio. Becca’s father never admitted to Mexican blood, but he had a darker complexion and spoke with just a hint of an accent. Although the Mexicans had settled here once, it was German country now.
Becca’s mother used to tell her the story of how they met, of falling in love with her father. Louis Martin was his name, though there were rumors that his real name was Luis Martinez. Since no one ever saw a birth certificate, they called him Louis, nevertheless. It was a romantic tale, or at least it was to Becca. Her mother had been delivering three new dresses to the boutique in town when her car broke down next to the orchard. Louis had been checking the fruit on the trees by the road when he saw her and offered assistance. Her mother told Becca it was love at first sight. He drove her to town in his truck, then brought back one of his friends who was a mechanic to help get hers started again.
Louis made sure he was at that same place every day so that he would see her when she passed by with deliveries. He wooed her for months, until her parents conceded and allowed them to be married. Becca would learn much later from her moth
er’s sister, her Aunt Betty, that the tale was far less romantic. Sometimes it’s better to leave children with their dreams of reality, even if they weren’t true, versus spoiling their fantasy of it. She would never know her father because he died within a year of her birth from acute respiratory failure caused by pesticide poisoning, though no one would admit that was the reason until years later.
Becca climbed through the stanchions separating the feeding troughs and through the tall narrow windows above and hung out of them as though she were going to fly. John caught up with her, grabbing her from behind.
“Careful!” he yelled.
“You worry too much,” she said, allowing him to pull her back in. Taffy yelped and whined because he couldn’t reach them. “I’m not a baby,” she whined.
“No, you’re not,” he agreed. “But if anything happens to you, I’ll get in trouble,” he explained.
Becca climbed back into the trough, ran to the end and leaned into the cattle stalls. “Last one to the house is a rotten egg!” she challenged, climbing the rungs that held the cows’ necks in place and jumping onto the concrete barn floor.
John dropped into the trough from the windowsill, swung across the wood stall beams and raced after her, Taffy on his heels. He caught her at the barn door and tugged her back so as to pull ahead of her. They raced together, laughing as they turned the corner to the house. Then they stopped.
The noise was a clap or more like a slap. Even Taffy stopped at the suddenness of it. They looked at each other, then slowly walked toward the house. The sun was setting in their eyes, so there was nothing but glare before them. The glare and the mist of the dirt they had kicked up floated in the air, shimmering in the setting light. They walked slowly at first, and then faster when they saw the body crumpled in the doorway. At the porch steps, Becca screamed out loud, “No!”
John grabbed her, trying to hold her back, but he couldn’t. She kicked and screamed and cried until he finally released her, and she fell at her mother’s side. He stared at the gun on the porch by her body and for a moment contemplated taking it. For a moment he contemplated using it. His father had killed her, as sure as if he’d pulled the trigger himself. He turned Becca around and hugged her tight.
Letters from Becca: A Contemporary Romance Fiction Novel Page 1