Copyright
Entrusted
© 2014 Julie Arduini
ISBN-13: 978-1-938092-74-9
ISBN-10: 1938092740
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people and/or events is purely coincidental.
Scriptures 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
Published by Write Integrity Press, P.O. Box 35, Holly Springs, GA 30142.
www.WriteIntegrity.com
Acknowledgments
The McComb family’s hospitality and friendship brought me to the real Speculator in the Adirondack Mountains. My appreciation to them and Jonathan Lane at Charlie Johns. I loved that store the moment I first stepped foot in it. JB’s is my tip of the hat to Charlie Johns.
My parents believed in me by sacrificing much and gifting me in ways I don’t have space to share. Thanks, Mom, for still reading every little thing I write.
Since the day I surrendered my fear of rejection and promised God I would write for Him, I’ve had a team of women covering me in prayer. They have changed names over the years, but every single woman has my deepest thanks and sincerest prayer they be blessed a thousand times over for being obedient to pray. Cheryl and Holly, you have prayed the longest and hardest prayers. Love you both.
Stephen and Janet Bly were my mentors with the Christian Writers Guild. I’ll never forget the time, encouragement and wisdom they were so gracious to share.
Kristin Billerbeck confirmed to me through Ashley Stockingdale that a sassy heroine was as fun to read as to write. Susan May Warren and Rachel Hauck through their My Book Therapy resources showed me how. FaithWriters and JournEzine gave me a place to start testing the writing waters. Jasmine’s Place continues to invite me to write for them. I appreciate the confidence.
The members through the years have changed and I don’t want to forget anyone but American Christian Fiction Writers Scribes 215 and 221, thank you for the time you spent going through draft after draft of Entrusted. For being honest about first person, present tense.
My appreciation goes to Janice Thompson and Vicki Hinze for consistently saying it wasn’t if I would be published, but when.
Julie Brown, Holly Hrywnak and Aaron Paul Lazar served as Beta readers while Eric Reed was kind enough to help me with the business side of things. Thank you.
Fay Lamb had the discernment to give me direction and Tracy Ruckman the faith to take this chocolate-loving writer and her stories on. I can’t thank you both enough.
Matt, Mandy, Randy, Crista and Landon have been enthusiastic about my crazy writing life while Brian and Hannah remained forgiving and patient as writing at times consumed what we consider normal around the house.
He doesn’t remember saying this but Tom changed my life once again the day he declared whether my writing made two cents or two million dollars, he supported me 100%. It’s crazy, hard, full of unpredictable moments and runs to the store for chocolate but Tom, you rock. Thank you for asking me to be your wife. Don’t ever change. I love you.
And to the One who set me free from fear and so much more, thank You for creating me with this imagination and heart to have others find the same freedom through surrender in Christ. Every word is for Your glory.
Author’s Note
Speculator Falls and everything in it, including JB’s, is a fictional village based on the real Speculator and Charlie Johns. Any discrepancies between the two are by my hand and imagination.
Chapter One
Less than five minutes inside Speculator Falls village limits and the whirl of police lights invade my rearview mirror. Great. Just how I wanted to start my new life—with law enforcement tapping on my driver window. I push the button and form a strategy as the glass partition disappears.
“Officer, it’s not my fault.” My stubby index finger points to the GPS on the dashboard. “The GPS made me do it.”
The woman with sunglasses and a ponytail eyes the interior of my Chevy Cobalt and then rests her stare on me. “I’m not an officer. I’m the sheriff. Did that flower box do something to make you crash into it and split it into pieces?”
I attempt to hand my license and registration to the good sheriff.
She blocks my hand and shakes her head before pushing the documents back my way. “Oh, I know who you are.”
Is that a smirk?
“So, Ohio. GPS devices don’t work well in the Adirondacks. It’s too rural to pick up a signal. Even so, your attention needs to be on the road. You just reached Speculator Falls, and I’m already on the scene for property damage.”
I’m pretty sure she’s trying to hide a grin.
We both turn our gazes to the flower box ruins on Route 8. Purple and yellow pansy remnants scatter past the debris. I’m thankful that’s all I hit.
Glancing over to the shiny badge that reads C. Rowling, her attempts to be tough appear as successful as my goal to arrive looking like I belong. Instead the sheriff gets a messy glimpse of the truth—I’m a city girl without a clue how to navigate the mountains.
“I’m sorry, I feel awful about this. My name is—”
She surrenders to a full smile, takes the sunglasses off, and faces me. “Jenna Anderson from Youngstown, Ohio. Sara Bivins told me you were moving here today.”
My shoulders relax, I’m pretty sure this woman in a bland uniform isn’t going to haul me off to jail over the cracked flower box. “That’s me, new girl ready to put roots down in Speculator Falls—”
A black four-by four-truck squeals into place next to the squad car. A door slams and within seconds a well-built man who looks about thirty jogs from his truck to us. Half a minute later my car has the whiff of woodsy cologne that follows him.
“Carla, Howard Wheaton told me someone plowed through my grandfather’s handiwork. I presume this is your perpetrator?” He commandeers our conversation. His face is so red it resembles my Ohio State sweatshirt.
The sheriff pivots to the angry but tantalizing smelling man. “Hello, Ben. The situation is under control.”
He almost loses his fading New York Giants baseball cap before he finally stands still. He has enough beard stubble to cover a chin dimple, but not enough to hide a bobbing Adam’s apple. “Really? Because this mess of flowers says otherwise.”
She hesitates. “Ben, this is Jenna Anderson, the new senior center director. She lost control while she tried to figure out what was going on with her GPS. I looked at the box, and I think it’s repairable. You love doing that sort of thing, so how about you fix it?”
Thank you, Sheriff Carla Rowling.
I can’t help it, but I smile. I think this woman might be my first new friend.
Ben whips off the hat and twists it until his knuckles bulge. “I’m sorry, destroying property is funny to you?”
I want to say something brilliant. More than eight hours on the road leaves me a little lost, GPS ineffectiveness aside. “At least I hit his box. Not him.”
His Adam’s apple movement seems to escalate. “My grandpa is dead.” He points the hat at me to emphasize each word. “You better hope this box isn’t.” He turns back to the sheriff. “Carla, I’ll repair it.” Then, directs his milk chocolate colored eyes toward me. “You, city girl, watch where you’re going. The people who
belong here don’t need a GPS.” He pivots in his tattered sneakers and heads to the injured flower box. As fast as he comes on the scene, he leaves.
Carla offers her hand. “Welcome to Speculator Falls.”
Carla insists on escorting me to my new home, where my landlady, Sara Bivins, is waiting for me. My Cobalt makes discouraging coughs and gags up the steep rock incline before finally resting behind a white Suburban.
Home. I’m pulling into my new rural place.
A white-haired woman with a Mrs. Claus look about her steps behind the car, her arms wide open. “You made it. I was wondering if you got lost. Welcome, dear. Your moving here and agreeing to be the new senior center director is an answer to prayer.”
Ben’s snit about me not fitting in diminishes to a whisper in my mind as Sara speaks.
“I helped her out.” Carla walks into the hug that I’m sure is meant for me. I stretch, stiff from driving over eight hours. My escort exits the hug, and Sara wraps me in an embrace. Her strength rivals a professional wrestler. My five-foot Mrs. Claus analogy suddenly takes a spunky turn.
“About that—meeting Carla. See, I… ” Before I can confess my little accident, Carla looks at me and points. “Your hair! I can’t believe I didn’t notice the color when I pulled you over.”
Sara gasps after the mention of Carla meeting me on official business, letting me out of the bear hug.
I slide my fingers through my short, texturized cut filled with red and chocolate lowlights. “I’m much better maintaining my hair than working a GPS.”
Carla takes her uniform hat off and reveals straw-colored hair pulled back. Her hair needs a good cut, conditioning, and style.
I’m not about to hurt the feelings of someone who didn’t write me a ticket. “I’m sure the stylist around here can keep up with my hair as much as they do everyone else in town.”
Carla puts her hat back on. “Um, I’m the stylist. When I’m not doing the whole sheriff thing.”
Sara pats the moonlighting hair salon worker on her arm and smiles. “You two are going to get along great. Sounds like your first meeting is quite a story.”
Phew. We’re done talking about country hair-dos. “Mrs. Bivins, I met Carla because I got lost and wasn’t paying attention. I hit a flower box on the side of Route 8 and split it in two. She was nice about it. But this guy named Ben came flying in and yelled at me.”
The two exchange a look and break into laughter.
Sara squeezes my arm. “Call me Sara, I insist. And Ben? That’s my grandson.”
Chapter Two
Fifteen minutes after escorting me to my log cabin, Carla waves from inside the squad car.
“Okay, sounds good. Thanks for not arresting me.” I clear my throat and watch the squad car drive away.
Sara reaches for the crook of my arm and leads me up the deck to the back door. “What do you say, Jenna? Ready for a tour of your new home?”
We start at the breakfast nook. The knotty pine déjà vu gives me a stomach tickle. “It’s so surreal; it was only three weeks ago I looked at this table online.” I trace the grain in the wood with my finger and then take in my new rustic environment.
“You’re going to love it, dear. My husband and Ben made all the furniture. Everything here is local, right down to the sweet maple liquid in the pantry. Lovely family up the road makes Oak Hill Adirondack syrup. It’s the best around. ”
Even the air smells different than my former Ohio surroundings. I take a deep breath and savor the mountain environment. The balsam fragrance is prevalent enough that it wraps around me like an invisible hug. “Sara, this is a perfect home for me. Everything is so cozy from the quilted bedspread to the chirping bird clock in the living room. I can’t wait to unpack my cappuccino maker and enjoy a cup at the nook.”
“I’m so glad. This just confirms that my going behind the town council’s back and hiring you was the right thing to do.”
I turn with a dropped jaw to my landlord, about to ask her to say that last sentence one more time when I hear a knock on the door.
“Hello there—-neighbor here to help.”
Sara and I turn to the open front door.
A man giving an air-door knock bows and tips his orange hunting hat. “Hey, Sara. This must be Jenna.”
The spunky senior citizen walks to the door and motions the man further inside. “Will, come on in. You’re just in time.”
The thirty-something man towers over Sara, but when her arms reach out, I know the guy decked out in bright hunting gear is going to get a death-squeeze hug. Sure enough, she goes in for the cuddly kill.
Sara releases the big man from her strong embrace. “Jenna Anderson, this is Will Marshall. He lives three houses down and takes care of maintenance issues, like plowing the driveway and fixing leaky pipes. He also drives a food service truck and delivers lunches to the senior center.” Sara pauses, giving him her full attention. “Will, help Jenna unload her boxes, please, and then take her to the senior center. I’m sure she’s too tired for a full-blown Speculator Falls tour, but at least she can see her workplace.”
“Will do.” He snorts and slaps his knee. “Get it, Jenna? I’m kind of a jokester around here.”
So far I know a sheriff who creates lackluster hair and a corny comedian truck driver. “Right—your name is Will. Got it.”
Will nods and heads back outside. He and I take turns bringing in boxes I had crammed into every available space. He looks at my car exterior and shakes his head. More than once.
We make our last trip inside when he speaks. “You have another car, right?”
“No.” I put the boxes down and rest my hands on my hips. “Why?” My Ohio-manufactured Cobalt is my lifeline, has been since college.
Will scratches his goatee and points through the living room bay windows at the car. “Between the snow and the mud, I think I’ll be towing that little thing a lot. Everyone around here has a four-by-four or an all-wheel drive that can handle Adirondack weather.”
I bite my lip. Where am I going to find the money for a new car?
Sara and Will look as if they are waiting for my sensible response.
That would be three of us. “I’m not worried. I’ll just unpack my laptop, e-mail AAA and make sure I’m covered in case I ever get stuck.”
Will puts the box marked as my cappuccino maker on the kitchen table. “Sara doesn’t have cable in this cabin—-and she sure doesn’t have wireless. The only Internet available is at the library.”
I long for the contents in the cappuccino box as Will continues to share. “It’s a funny sight at night. Most of us townspeople pack up our laptops and drive to the library parking lot, where we get Wi-Fi signals after business hours. And most don’t have auto club coverage. The few that do—-don’t get a quick response. I’m your best bet when it comes to towing. Trust me.” He points toward the window. “Getting stuck in that car is going to happen. Sorry.”
I nod, not recalling Sara mentioning the lack of home Internet when I accepted the job and her cabin rental. Oh, Ohio State mug, I wish you were full of coffee, whipped cream, and caramel syrup.
Forty-five minutes later, Will boosts me into what looks like a monster truck rally contender, promising me Speculator Falls tourist highlights as he drives me to the senior center. My neighbor begins with Maple Lake Road, taking us into the village limits—-a generous term, explaining the local reference to the “Four Corners,” where Routes 8 and 30 intersect. When Will drives past the scene of the broken box crime, he stays silent.
I’m glad.
The Hamilton County Senior Center stands two miles from Speculator Falls on the way to Piseco Lake. The brick building has an engraved wooden sign hanging to the right of the storm door entry.
“Here’s a perk of being your food service delivery driver.” Will digs in his pocket. “If I get to my run early, I can keep them in coolers and have your meals delivered before the center opens. The other director, Trish Maxwell, didn’t like me
sneaking around—-that’s what she called my early-morning deliveries—-so I made the senior center my fourth stop of the morning.” He pulls out a skeleton key. “I’m sure Sara has your set.” He winks, revealing mint green eyes overshadowed by his orange hunter visor.
Will unlocks the doors and flips on the lights, revealing a bad seventies decorating job. Cheap paneling everywhere. Chipped wooden tables and an array of folding chairs. Tattered curtains a yellow so faded I have to hold them close to realize they aren’t beige.
What have I gotten myself into? The condition and musty smell give the impression the place has been closed for years.
“Need some fresh air in here,” Will says. “You’ll probably want to open some windows once you start cleaning. As soon as Trish left last September, the council shut the building down. Sara was furious. They did it while she was in Florida. I’m glad she went behind their backs and hired you. I have a feeling you’re going to really perk up the place.”
Will’s chatty revelations, combined with the mildew scent, leave me dizzy.
“Wow. I don’t know what to say.” I exhale.
Will heads to the back. “I’ll be a minute. Going to check on the state of the restrooms.”
I stand in the middle of my small office and lament the reality of mountain life. Old building. My lowlights are going to suffer a death faster than the flowerbox I hit. Sara gave me a job the village didn’t know about.
What is that squeak?
I walk toward the front door to locate the source of the screeching. A recurring nightmare stands before my new threshold.
“You again? You’re trespassing.” Ben pushes the door with such force it bungee bounces and bangs like a gunshot against the wall. He remains on the other side.
Will hears the commotion and returns before I can respond. He looks over and gestures for Ben to join us. “It’s okay, I’m showing her around. Your grandmother told me to.”
Entrusted (Adirondack Surrender Series Book 1) Page 1