by Sally John
THE WINDING
ROAD HOME
SALLY
JOHN
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The New English Bible, © Oxford University Press and Cambridge University Press 1961, 1970. All rights reserved.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
THE WINDING ROAD HOME
Copyright © 2003 by Sally John
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-2094-0
ISBN-10: 0-7369-2094-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally D., 1951-
The winding road home / Sally John.
p.cm.—(The other way home series ; bk. 4)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-1170-2
ISBN-10: 0-7369-1170-7
1. Women—Middle West—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Middle West—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3560.O323W56 2003
813'.54—dc21
2003001832
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 / LB-CF / 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
About the Author
Acknowledgments
As always, the writing has been a collaborative effort. My thanks go to those who have been a part of The Winding Road Home:
Kristi Ruud for pottery lessons and her real-life model of Adele’s home studio.
Mindy Carls for her example of spirit I’ve instilled in Kate and Rusty, who by no means resemble the Orion Gazette’s managing editor in any other way.
Tracy John for her unflagging, enthusiastic help as my “other editor.”
Elizabeth John for her technical assistance and constant support.
Christopher John for caring.
Michael Skelton for drawing the map.
Trudy Watson for her Volkswagen expertise and gracious research.
Sally Weckel for jumping in with both feet as “press agent.”
Kim Moore of Harvest House for generally being everything one could ask for in an editor.
And Tim…for taking care of everything else along the way.
For those who follow:
Elizabeth, Tracy, and Christopher John;
Cassie Carlson; Joshua Watson;
Emilee, Nathan, Brendan, Matthew, Kyle, and Justin John
As you travel your journey,
May the winding road Home be made straight,
May it rise up to meet you,
May the wind always be at your back,
And may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
Prologue
Wait quietly for the LORD,
Be patient till he comes…
—Psalm 37:7
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The jaunty emcee spoke in a deep radio announcer’s voice. He stood on the stage between two preteen girls, a microphone in his hand. “Let’s congratulate this year’s winner of the countywide spelling bee, who now advances to the state competition, and from there, we hope, on to nationals!”
The sparse crowd in the school auditorium applauded politely. As family members of the participants, they were naturally inclined to exhibit more enthusiasm for their own child. By the time the winner was announced, only one group of relatives held any genuine interest in the program.
The girl who knew how to spell “metamorphosis” smiled politely in return. As the host lauded the runner-up, the county’s best 12-year-old speller waited as if she were quite at home taking first place.
The girl who had not known 30 seconds ago how to spell “metamorphosis” took a trembling breath, smiling sweetly through tears. There was a slight increase in the level of applause. Blonde and blue-eyed, she had won over the audience with her display of anxiety at each word aimed her way and unabashed joy with each correct spelling.
The host congratulated the winner now, shaking her hand. Shorter than average, she lifted her chin, looked him straight in the eye, and thanked him, clearly mature beyond her 12 years. Her straight, reddish hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had played the game well. Intensely. Focused. Never hesitant.
“Tell us,” the emcee said, “what would you like to do when you grow up?”
“I’d like to be a White House correspondent. A Helen Thomas for the twenty-first century.”
Laughter rippled through the audience.
Though it easily could have been construed as being aimed at her, the girl didn’t seem to mind. She gazed at the cluster of people in the front row still cheering for her. Why would she need the crowd’s approval? She had a loving family and a plan for her life.
A young woman sat huddled in a pew, a large bulging knapsack beside her. Groups of people were scattered throughout the sanctuary. The wind rattled the stained-glass windows.
Another woman, somewhat older in appearance, walked along the pew before hers and sat down, facing her. “The snowstorm isn’t letting up. We should leave now. Your bus won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “The highways are closed down. Please, I’ve food and plenty of space for you.”
“I’ll just stay here.” There was a stony edge to her tone. Hard, resolute.
“It’s too uncomfortable and drafty. I think enough townsfolk have shown up to take all the stranded travelers home for the night.”
The young woman blinked. Her curly hair hung about her shoulders, matted. “Why would you take me home?”
The other woman smiled. “Someone took me home once. It’s my turn.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know you need a place to sleep.”
“I’m pregnant
. Nineteen. Single. No means of support. People react to me as if I were a leper.”
The older woman bowed her head for a moment, her forehead against the back of the pew. When she raised it, tears glistened in her eyes. “Sweetheart, I was there. My daughter is eleven now. She’s always wanted a baby sister. Or brother.” Holding out her hand to the other, she stood. “Let’s go home.”
One
Seventeen years later
No dictionary contained the precise word to describe the scene unfolding before Kate Kilpatrick.
Oh, there were plenty of words all right. Peculiar. Sweet. Bizarre. Touching. Unreal. Heartwarming. Hokey. Sensational.
But not one of them fit, not exactly.
Worse yet, there was no way on earth she knew how to incorporate the indescribable, personal scene into a news article. Her notepad and pen dangled at her side in a mitten-covered hand. The camera, its strap slung over her shoulder, rested against her hip, adding dead weight to the already heavy jacket. Like steam in a kettle curling toward its whistling hole, pressure mounted in her chest. With a loud puff that jiggled her lips and fanned her bangs, she released it. Welcome to the big time, Kilpatrick, she thought ruefully.
Kate stood inside the Valley Oaks High School in an area which just that morning she learned was referred to as the commons. The term was new to her. Though the place was large and airy, the dominant odor was distinctly school, as if its walls were made of books and paper and pencils and cafeteria food and gym shoes. Evidently all doorways led to the commons. On her way in she had glimpsed a ring of entrances: hallways, gym, glassed-in office, back parking lot. The location also appeared to be the gathering place for unusual events.
Unusual. Poignant. Quaint. Singular events.
An expert in the fine art of elbow-prodding, Kate had pressed her way through a sea of bodies and now stood at its center. The sea was comprised predominantly of adolescents. Quiet adolescents, standing on tiptoes, their faces expectant with O-shaped mouths and raised brows. That in itself would be curious enough, but that wasn’t the main event. The students’ attention was riveted on two adults in the center, surrounded by the crowd. Those two were the main event.
She knew the man was Joel Kingsley, principal of the high school, because he had been the one who called the office. He said that at precisely 8:37 a.m. he would be centrally located in the commons and that he fully expected a newsworthy event to unfold there at that time. It wasn’t only his voice, trim body, and nearly buzzed black hair that hinted at military. A soldierly aura emanated from him even as he smiled during an intense, hushed exchange of what must have been personal words. The aura remained now as he planted a knee into the linoleum.
He held the hand of a woman Kate recognized as Britte Olafsson, girls basketball coach. She looked as if she’d just stepped off the plane from Scandinavia, from her height to her blonde hair to the slightly shell-shocked appearance about her eyes that anyone would exhibit after a ten-hour flight. Kate suspected her dazed expression wasn’t due to jet lag. The man had just proclaimed in a voice for all to hear, “Miss O, I’d like your permission to court you.”
The red-faced coach glanced about, maybe in search of a hole to climb into. At last she cried out, “All right! Yes, you have my permission!”
The crowd of quiet adolescents burst apart at the seams, whooping and hollering. If Kate closed her eyes, she would believe herself inside a gym at a sporting event. But she wasn’t. She wished she were because that she would know how to describe. But this… This was a public display of pure romance. Tender, but incomprehensible on an early Monday morning in a rural high school two days before Valentine’s Day.
The man stood now, clutching the woman’s hands between his against his chest.
Kate felt a nudge against her arm and turned. A guy, more mature-looking than the students, pointed at her camera. The cheering drowned out his voice. She read his lips asking, “Take a picture?”
She could not realign her face into anything other than a blank stare. What did he think? They were witnessing news?
He held his hand out, palm up, toward her shoulder. In a glance she took in his expensive, ecru cable-stitched sweater, likely hand-knit in Ireland. He had the build of a husky fisherman, but his olive skin tone, dark eyes, and wavy black hair grazing the top of the sweater’s neckline declared his ancestors didn’t fish off the coast of Ireland. More plausibly it would have been in the Mediterranean.
Kate shrugged the camera strap off into his waiting hand and thought, Go for it, buddy.
She turned back to the main attraction, where an intense but inaudible conversation flowed between the couple. Kate predicted the scene had to end in a kiss because two people could not look at each other in that way without giving physical expression to their love. Even if they were being watched by roughly 400 pairs of eyes.
Tanner Carlucci removed the camera’s lens cap and grinned to himself. Britte, the fire-breathing varsity coach and no-nonsense math teacher, was blushing. Joel, the ex-Marine and by-the-book high school principal, had knelt on bended knee. It was a priceless moment, and the woman with the camera had stood stock-still and missed it! Well, he’d snap a shot of the kiss that no doubt was coming to seal whatever it was they were discussing now about courtship.
He aimed the camera, noting with approval that it was a manual focus. The woman had nice taste.
She was a stranger to the school. Though Tanner was only a substitute teacher and freshmen girls basketball coach, he would have noticed her before now. She was by far the quirkiest character he had ever seen in real life.
First off was her red hair. Not flaming, not orangey, not purplish nor dark. Just a nice shade of shiny copper penny red that resembled a mop head caught up in a clip, its ends sticking out every which way. She was small, but she had easily hustled her way through a rampart of hearty teenage boys and whispering girls. She wore rectangular, tortoiseshell glasses; a bulky, deep green jacket three sizes too large; a long skirt; clunky boots; and one mitten.
He had no idea what she was doing there, but she carried a camera that he felt could be put to better use than to decorate her shoulder. He clicked a shot now of the principal and coach, their heads close together, hands clasped, their expressions absorbed in each other. He clicked another shot, catching their emerging smiles.
Joel called for attention, though his eyes never left Britte’s face. The noise abated some, and in that commanding voice of his he said, “What you are about to witness is inappropriate behavior for students in the halls.”
Tanner had the camera ready. The kiss was gentle, brief. He captured it only once.
The kids erupted again, but Tanner knew that with Joel Kingsley in charge things were under control. He turned to the redhead. There was a pained expression on her face as if she couldn’t process what she was witnessing. He understood the feeling. She must be new to Valley Oaks.
He looked again at Joel, who was now raising his arms and directing everyone back to class, his broad grin not in the least diminishing his effectiveness. Tanner couldn’t help but chuckle at Britte. Always-in-control Miss O looked dazed and confused. He took one last snapshot and turned.
The redhead was gone. Tanner peered between the blabbering students as they slowly departed from the center of the commons. He saw her through the glass doors of the entryway. She was already climbing into an old model, light blue Volkswagen parked at the curb.
He shrugged. She would remember her camera eventually.
Kate parked her Bug on Second Avenue outside the tiny Valley Oaks Weekly Times office. Despite the fact that the Pizza Parlor next door was closed on Mondays, the aroma of garlic hovered. It always hovered, defying the physics of old brick walls, concrete sidewalks, and arctic breezes. It was the best advertising going. Why did the owners bother to take out an ad in the weekly? She’d been in town 17 days and eaten there a total of 13 times. And that wasn’t counting coffee breaks. Her stomach rumbled.
A cowbell clank
ed above her head as she opened the Times’ front door. She lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, allowing a cloud of cigarette smoke to escape. The office consisted of one room that was just large enough for a counter, two desks, and a worktable. A faint glimmer of winter sunlight filtered through dirty venetian blinds covering the lone window.
At the far back corner desk, the managing editor pecked away at an electric typewriter, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. Kate knew the woman was finishing up an in-depth study of the sewer system for tomorrow’s deadline and hadn’t even heard the cowbell. Still, they needed to talk. “Rusty?”
No response.
Kate hung her coat on one of the wooden pegs attached to the front wall. She walked around the counter to her desk, rolled her creaky wooden chair over near the other desk, and plopped into it. “Rusty?”
“Yeah, kid?” It was the older woman’s way. Sixty-two with short, straight, iron gray hair, she resembled a news reporter from the original black-and-white Superman television series. Clark Kent’s boss, not Lois Lane. She had the personality down flat. She only needed a 1950s-style man’s hat, gray suit coat, and narrow tie.
“Rusty, you have got to be kidding.”
The woman’s chuckle was a gravelly rumble that more often than not deteriorated into a cough. It did so now as she swiveled away from the typewriter to face Kate, removing the unfiltered cigarette from her mouth. She nearly managed to get it to the ashtray before the ash fell onto the floor.
Kate sighed inwardly. She prayed daily for the woman’s health as well as her own.
Rusty found her voice, as low and gravelly as the chuckle. “What’s that Marine up to now?”
Marine. That validated her hunch about the principal. “He just—in front of the entire school population—asked Britte Olafsson for permission to court her.”
Rusty roared like a lion with bronchitis.
“It’s not news.”
“Welcome to Valley Oaks, kid.”
“It’s not news!”
Still chuckling, Rusty took a drag on her cigarette. “Then make it news, kid. It’s what’s happening in town this week. It’s a big deal. Joel Kingsley has turned that high school on its ear with a slew of policy changes. And he’s got the hutzpah to enforce them. A lot of folks don’t like it. This could be one more nail in his coffin. Was Bruce Waverly there?”