When Light Breaks
Page 1
a cognizant original v5 release october 08 2010
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Praise for the Novels of Patti Callahan Henry
When Light Breaks
“Not just a beautiful story, but an important one as well. It’s about all the things that make us worthy as human beings—integrity, honesty, and living the life you are meant to live. And perhaps most importantly, it shows us what brings genuine happiness. When Light Breaks is a triumph!”
—Dorothea Benton Frank, New York Times bestselling author of Pawleys Island
“A passionate, unforgettable novel of self-discovery, regret, and the illuminating power of love. Patti Callahan Henry’s writing is as lush and magical as the Lowcountry she loves. Once caught in the emotional currents of her story, you’ll not be released until the last, satisfying page.”
—Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author of Sweetgrass
Where the River Runs
“Books about the journey to self-realization often make us contemplate our own lives and choices. You travel with the character through joy, heartache, and redemption, and when it’s over, you have laughed and cried. This book proves no exception….Descriptive language, paired with heartfelt characters, accentuates the story, which is peppered with Lowcountry culture and customs....After reading this tale, cherishing family and home becomes the reader’s own mantra.”—Southern Living magazine
“Quietly reflective and softly compelling, this tale of a Lowcountry woman’s reblossoming will touch your heart and make you wonder about long-forgotten possibilities waiting to be rediscovered in your own family and soul.”—The Charleston Post and Courier (SC)
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
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“A melodious, encouraging tale that upholds memories, friendship, and family.”—Atlanta Woman Magazine
“Where the River Runs is an expression of love between author and story. Readers will instantly fall for Patti Callahan Henry’s unique voice and lyrical writing style in this satisfying story of a secret revealed.”
—Topsail Magazine
“A poignant tale. . . . Fans of Anne Rivers Siddons will want to read Patti Callahan Henry’s deep character study.”—The Best Reviews
“As in Henry’s debut, Losing the Moon, and this beautifully written story, the sheer lyricism of the author’s voice transports the reader. Fans of such books as Mary Alice Monroe’s Skyward, also about the Gullah, and Patricia Gaffney’s Flight Lessons will add this book to their list of favorites.”
—Booklist
“Where the River Runs is a novel not so much about what you do as who you are. Which seems just about right for a day of doing nothing much.”
—Creative Loafing (Atlanta)
“This poignant story of a woman reclaiming her life touched me in a way a book hasn’t in quite a long time. The powerful message is translated through Meridy’s eyes and has an added impact being written in the first person. . . . With exceptional storytelling skills, newcomer Patti Callahan Henry conveys pure, potent emotions sure to reach out to every reader.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“Well crafted . . . Where the River Runs is the perfect pick for an easygoing sunny day on a Lowcountry beach—and a good substitute for chocolate.”
—The Beaufort Gazette (SC)
“A plot [that] would make a great country-and-western hit.”
—The Knoxville News-Sentinel
“Patti Callahan Henry writes this story from her heart and creates characters who reach out to us as we read. . . . Southern writers have a sweet melancholy inside them. It permeates every story they tell. Terry Kay has it. Anne Rivers Siddons has it. Pat Conroy definitely has it. It has become the defining trait of the great Southern storytellers. Patti Callahan Henry has it. . . . Meridy’s story will affect you and entertain you. It will touch your heart with its sweet melancholy, and it may just hold up a mirror to your own forgotten used-to-be you.”—Rockdale Citizen (GA.)
Losing the Moon
“Henry’s beautifully written debut romance is meant to be savored, with its poetic descriptions and settings deftly mirroring the emotions of the characters. Readers who enjoy the lyrical voices of Patricia Gaffney and Mary Alice Monroe will also be drawn to this talented newcomer.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Patti Callahan Henry joins the ranks of Anne Rivers Siddons and Pat Conroy with this debut novel. Losing the Moon is lyrical, sensual, and as delicate as a seashell. Lovely and poignant.”
—New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith
“I loved Losing the Moon! Patti Callahan Henry’s engaging story and compelling characters captured my heart from page one, and stayed with me long after the final, satisfying conclusion. Don’t miss this wonderful book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Haywood Smith
“A dazzling example of the new style of fiction writing to come out of the South. Chosen as the first book in the Margaret Mitchell House and Museum’s Emerging Writers’ program, Henry has been hailed as being included first in the ranks of important Southern writers such as Pat Conroy and Anne Rivers Siddons. If this debut novel is any indication of what we can expect from Patti Callahan Henry, we can look forward to many years of reading enjoyment to come.”—Chance Times Record News (TX)
ALSO BY PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
Losing the Moon
Where the River Runs
NAL Accent
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by NAL Accent, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, May 2006
Copyright © Patti Callahan Henry, 2006
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Henry, Patti Callahan.
When light breaks/Patti Callahan Henry.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-11805-4
1. Older women—Fiction. 2. Golfers—Fiction. 3. Reminiscing in old
age—Fiction. 4. Southern States—Fiction. 5. Marriage—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.E578W46 2006
813’.6—dc22 2005030147
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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I dedicate this book to my sweet Meagan.
I thought of you as I wrote every page of this novel,
and I pray that you will always hear
God’s still, small whisper in your heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had always hoped that I would bring something of worth to the writing, but I soon discovered that it was the other way around—writing has enriched my world in many ways, and one of the most beautiful of these ways is the heart-expanding friendships I’ve discovered along this journey of publication. This story is more complete because of many friends, family members and colleagues, and I am indebted to every single one of them.
First I must express my gratitude to those integral in the formation of this novel. Kimberly Whalen is beyond an agent. She is a genius in storytelling and thematic structure; this novel is richer, deeper and cleaner because of her understanding of the story’s heart. Ellen Edwards is an editor of such immense patience, acuity and thoughtful, cohesive editing that I express my esteem with a humble heart. I want to thank Laura Zidar of the PGA TOUR for her expertise and kindness while answering my numerous questions about the golf tour; if I have made any mistakes describing the tour, they are my fault alone. I am, as always, grateful to Sandee O for being willing to share her expert knowledge about cameras and photography.
I want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to those who have entered my life through this wonderful world of writing, and therefore enriched my writing with their friendship and insight. To Mary Alice Monroe, lyrical, gentle in spirit and wisdom—I am honored to call you friend; to Marjory Heath Wentworth, South Carolina Poet Laureate, who can light a room with her very presence; to Dorothea Benton Frank, a wild Irish soul whose very words can lift a spirit to greater heights; to Annabelle Robertson, whose wit and genuine warmth has brought raucous laughter to many a dreary day; to Jackie K. Cooper whose generosity and authentic heart know no bounds; to Gracie Bergeron at the Margaret Mitchell House, I am grateful for your joy in life, even in the harder times—you are an example of a courageous woman; to Mary Kay Andrews, who makes me laugh—and what is better than that?; to Haywood Smith who always, above all things, has an awe-inspiring faith. All of you encourage and inspire me.
To those at Penguin Group (USA) and New American Library who support my work, I am continually thankful. To Kara Welsh, Leslie Gelbman, Claire Zion, public relations extraordinaire, Carolyn Birbiglia, and members of the sales, art, and marketing departments who make sure these stories reach readers—although words are not enough, I am extremely thankful.
My family is the solid ground upon which everything else works and I love you with everything I have: Pat, Meagan, Thomas and Rusk, I couldn’t do any of this without you. To Anna Henry—your courage has been an inspiration to keep going when the going gets tough.
And, of course, this novel would not exist without the support of the readers, librarians and booksellers who read and believe in my work. I will never know all your names, but please know I am infinitely grateful for your support. To all those who came to signings and readings, to those who threw parties and events, to those who reviewed and wrote articles about the previous books—thank you.
My longtime friends are generous, kind, warm, funny and supportive. What more could a girl want? I wish I could thank every single one of you by name—you keep me sane and I love all of you.
May stillness be upon your thoughts and
silence upon your tongue!
For I tell you a tale that was told at the
beginning
. . . . the one story worth the telling. . . .
—A TRADITIONAL IRISH STORYTELLER’S OPENING
All the words that I utter
And all the words that I write
Must spread out their wings untiring
And never rest in their flight.
—WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
CHAPTER ONE
I was surrounded by water just as I was surrounded by mem ories. I was born here in the South Carolina Lowcountry, raised first by both my parents, then by just my daddy. My hometown, Palmetto Pointe, was a place encircled by river, estuary, marsh, and ocean all at once; bodies of water cushioning us like the earth’s pillow.
One silver dawn in early March, I stood on the dock overlooking the river shrouded in early-morning mist; the hummocks and spartina blended together in the gray-silver dawn. The oyster shell mounds glowed in the rising sun like pearlized and ragged pieces of earth outlining the river. I’d come earlier than usual for my morning run. The sound of my older sister’s crying had come through the bedroom wall of our family home to join my own spinning and twisting thoughts, and sleep was as elusive as the no-see-ums—the almost invisible biting bugs—I swatted at during a summer day.
I’d been able to hear Deirdre cry through the walls since I was nine years old, since Mama died. I don’t think she ever understood I could hear her, not even now that she was grown and had come home to escape another too lonely night apart from her husband, Bill, from whom she’d separated. Our family, the Larsons, had learned to hide such emotional displays—they were not for public show like the family portraits or the Waterford Lismore collection. Our feelings were as well hidden as the family silver during the War of Northern Aggression.
I extended my arms over my head, then leaned down to stretch my hamstrings in anticipation of running my usual three miles. A school of menhaden fluttered below the surface of the water like butterflies under silk fabric. The tide was low, yet rushing in from the ocean to cover the mud banks, to give shelter to the crabs scurrying in the morning dawn. The ebb and flow of my memories weren’t nearly as reliable as these tides. On some days I was flooded with remembering, and on others I was as empty as the marsh at extreme low tide. But that morning, like the flotsam that rises to the top of the waves and is flung onto the beach after a storm, a very particular day returned to me. The sun broke free fr
om behind a low, flat cloud, and my heart opened to an old memory.
I was thirteen years old.
It had been almost four years since Mama—the angelic Margarite Larson—had died. She’d willingly stopped treatment for her cancer and had left us. She’d chosen death over family.
So I’d run away from home. I’d packed my purple suitcase, walked across the front lawn to the Sullivans’ house next door, then stood on the front porch. I set my bag down, knocked on the door with all the assurance a thirteen-year-old could muster on a blistering August afternoon, with sweat dripping down my forehead. Mrs. Sullivan answered the door and smiled at me. “Hey there, Ms. Kara. How are you this summer day?” Her smile lit up the entire front porch like a million fireflies.
I patted my suitcase, lifted my chin. “You’re my new family,” I said, and nodded for an exclamation point.
Mrs. Sullivan took me in her arms, wrapped me tight and allowed me to believe my proclamation with her pure acceptance. The sharp scent of paint thinner filled my nose, and I knew she’d been working on her oil paintings. She led me into the house, put up her paintbrushes, and cooked me a grilled-cheese sandwich dripping in butter. Then she brushed my hair and sang me a song about a bridge over troubled waters.