by Lisa Wingate
Deputy Jim clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Women.”
His partner laughed again. “You haven’t been down here long enough to know how things are. Stuff like that might not matter much up in Boston, but it sure enough matters in Fairhope. Believe me, if they could’ve found anybody—and I mean anybody else who knew how to play that old pipe organ over to the church, they would’ve. That’s half the reason my mama pushed for that new band director at the high school in Buxton a few years ago; he said he could play a pipe organ. I never saw the church ladies so happy as the week the band director took over at Sunday services and they sent Iola Poole packing.”
“Okay, Selmer, we might as well get the right people out here to wrap this up.” Deputy Jim ended the discussion. “Looks pretty cut-and-dried. She have any family we should call?”
“None that I’d know how to find. And that’s a can of worms you don’t wanna open either, by the way, Jim.”
“No next of kin… .” The older man drew the words out, probably writing them down at the same time.
Sadness slid over me like a heavy wool blanket, making the air too stale and thick. I stood gazing through the blue room to the tall bay windows of the turret. Outside, a rock dove flitted along the veranda railing. What had Iola Poole done, I wondered, to have ended up this way, alone in this big house, laid out in her flowered dress, dead for who knew how long, and nobody cared? Did she realize this was how things would turn out? Was this what she’d pictured when she placed herself there on the bed, closed her eyes, and let the life seep out of her?
The dove fluttered to the windowsill, then hopped back and forth, its shadow sliding over the gray marble top of the writing desk. A yellowed Thom McAn shoe box sat on the edge, the lid ajar, a piece of gold rickrack trailing from the corner. On the windowsill, half a dozen scraps of ribbon lay strewn about. As the dove’s shadow passed again, I noticed something else. Little specks of gold shimmered in the dust on the sill. I wanted to walk into the room and look closer, but there wasn’t time. The deputies were headed to the door.
Hugging my arms tightly, I followed the men downstairs and onto the front porch. It wasn’t until we’d reached the driveway that I looked at the cottage and my stomach began churning for a different reason. With Iola gone, it would only be a matter of time before Alice Faye Tucker came to evict us. I had less than fifty dollars left, and that was from the last thing I could find to pawn—a sterling watch that Trammel had given me. The watch was only in my suitcase by accident—left behind after a trip to a horse event somewhere, undoubtedly in better times. If Trammel knew I still had it, he would have taken it away, along with everything else of value. He made sure I never had access to enough money to get out.
What were the kids and I going to do now?
The question gained weight and muscle as the afternoon passed. The coroner’s van had just left when Zoey and J.T. came in from school. I didn’t even tell them our new landlady had died. They’d find out soon enough. At nine years old, J.T. might not make the connections, but at fourteen-going-on-thirty, Zoey would know that the loss of the cottage spelled disaster for us. The minute we reemerged on the grid—credit card payment at a motel, job application with actual references provided, visit to a bank for cash—Trammel Clarke would find us.
I slipped into bed at twelve thirty, boneless and weary, guilt ridden for not being honest with the kids, even though it was nothing new. Outside, the water teased the shores of the sedges, and a slow-rising Hatteras moon climbed the roof of Iola’s house, hanging above the turret like a scoop of vanilla ice cream on an upside-down cone.
How could someone who owned an estate like this one end up alone in her room, gone from this world without a soul to cry at her bedside?
The image of Iola as a young woman taunted my thoughts. I imagined her walking the veranda in a milky-white dress. The moon shadows shifted and danced among the live oaks and the loblolly pines, and I felt the old house calling to me, whispering the secrets of the long and mysterious life of Iola Anne Poole.
Discussion Questions
As the story opens, Whitney finds herself facing the death of her dream. Have you ever experienced the loss of something you desperately wanted? How did the experience change you? Do you believe the disappointments in our lives happen for a reason? What can we learn from adverse circumstances or unfair treatment?
Whitney has spent her adult life traveling around, never forming close associations with people. Why do you think she has chosen this? Are you one to get involved or to keep your distance?
On Roanoke Island, Whitney is confronted with memories she isn’t prepared for. Have you ever returned to a childhood place and experienced memories you didn’t realize you had? Is there a place that harbors the ancestral history of your family?
Whitney is surprised to learn more about her mother’s relationship with Clyde. Why do you think her mother never told her the truth? Have you ever uncovered a secret that rewrote family history? Were you better off knowing or not knowing?
In Alice’s letters, Whitney discovers the broken sister-bond between Ziltha and Alice. Why do you think Ziltha destroyed the letters? Was this a justified response? How do you think the young Ziltha was different from the woman Whitney knew?
Alice seems to view her new position with the Federal Writers’ Project as an opportunity to break the cycle of grief that has held her prisoner. Have you ever found yourself trapped in one place in life, seeming to go nowhere? How did you break out?
In her journey, Alice visits people she would never have spent time with, had her life not taken an unexpected turn. Has a change of circumstances ever thrown you into unexpected company? How did you react? Do you think Alice reacts well to the people she meets? Is she naive, or hopeful, or both?
Why does Whitney have such a difficult time trusting Mark and forming close friendships? How do our pasts dictate our futures? Do we always judge new people in light of past wounds? Do you think we’re doomed to act based on past wounds, or can we be made new? How?
Alice is confronted with cruelty and prejudice in the mountains. Have you experienced these things? Are we called to act, even if the injustice doesn’t directly affect us? In what ways?
Have you ever spent time with someone who lived through the Great Depression? Did their morals, values, and habits differ from your own? What can we learn from those who have suffered through sparse times?
Whitney sets out with one goal in mind—to get what she thinks she needs—yet in the end, she discovers that happiness lies in a completely different direction. Has life ever surprised you in a similar way?
Do you know your family stories? What’s one of your favorites, or the one that most defines you? How did you learn it? What’s your favorite way to share stories with the next generation?
About the Author
Selected among Booklist’s Top 10 for two consecutive years, Lisa Wingate skillfully weaves lyrical writing and unforgettable settings with elements of traditional Southern storytelling, history, and mystery to create novels that Publishers Weekly calls “masterful” and Library Journal refers to as “a good option for fans of Nicholas Sparks and Mary Alice Monroe.”
Lisa is a journalist, an inspirational speaker, and the author of twenty-five novels. She is a seven-time ACFW Carol Award nominee, a multiple Christy Award nominee, a two-time Carol Award winner, and a 2015 RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice award winner for mystery/suspense. Recently, the group Americans for More Civility, a kindness watchdog organization, selected Lisa along with Bill Ford, Camille Cosby, and six others as recipients of the National Civies Award, which celebrates public figures who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life. Booklist summed up her work by saying, “Lisa Wingate is, quite simply, a master storyteller.”
Lisa was inspired to become a writer by a first-grade teacher who said she expected to see Lisa’s name in a magazine one day. Lisa also entertained childhood dreams of being an Olympic gymnast
and winning the National Finals Rodeo but was stalled by a mental block against backflips on the balance beam and by parents who stubbornly refused to finance a rodeo career. She was lucky enough to marry into a big family of Southern tall tale tellers who would inspire any lover of story. Of all the things she treasures about being a writer, she enjoys connecting with people, both real and imaginary, the most. More information about her novels can be found at www.lisawingate.com.
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