Potter Springs
Page 1
Praise for
POTTER SPRINGS
“With simplicity and sensitivity, Coleman brings readers into the wounded hearts of winsomely imperfect characters. This debut novel sparkles with engrossing dialogue and deft touches of humor.”
—Romantic Times, ****½
“[An] adept portrayal of memorable characters … a beautifully told tale. A truly American slice-of-slice story.”
—Tulsa World
“Britta Coleman’s fresh, sparkling new voice waltzes off the pages of her Texas story.”
—Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author of Widows of Wichita County
“Coleman shows an innate ability to craft a compact story and build flawed but sweet characters. Coleman is indeed a promising new talent.”
—Denton Record-Chronicle
“[A] compelling story [that] makes us appreciate those we love.”
—San Angelo Standard-Times
“A … heartwarming tale, with a welcome seasoning of humor.”
—Fort Worth Business Press more…
“Britta Coleman’s story of love and loss, mistakes and forgiveness, resonates with true-to-life characters and the quirkiness of small-town life. POTTER SPRINGS is a touching and powerful debut.”
—Jennifer Archer, author of Sandwiched and The Me I Used to Be
“Britta Coleman’s charming story illustrates how love prevails despite our flaws and where we have been.”
—Kimberly Willis Holt, National Book Award-winning author of When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
“The kind of story that does everything right, filled with vivid characters and images that leap off the page. Britta Coleman’s writing sparkles with faith, hope, love, and the healing power of friendship. POTTER SPRINGS will stay with you long after you turn the last page.”
—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of Tending Roses
“The writing is lyrical and the characters as real as the neighbors next door. I thoroughly enjoyed this story.”
—Sharon Baldacci, author of A Sundog Moment
“Amanda and Mark are utterly engaging, two flawed but loving people struggling to hang on to their faith and each other in a world filled with everyday troubles and small but shining triumphs. POTTER SPRINGS is a standout, rich with heart and muscle, spirit and imagination.”
—Marsha Moyer, author of The Second Coming of Lucy Hatch and The Last of the Honky-tonk Angels
Copyright
Copyright © 2005 by Britta Coleman
Reading Group Guide copyright © 2006 by Hachette Book Group USA
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-1-59995-324-3
Contents
Praise for POTTER SPRINGS
Copyright
prologue
CHAPTER 1: brown penny
CHAPTER 2: test
CHAPTER 3: progression
CHAPTER 4: rotisserie
CHAPTER 5: click
CHAPTER 6: split
CHAPTER 7: god’s green earth
CHAPTER 8: wise men
CHAPTER 9: goliath
CHAPTER 10: potter springs
CHAPTER 11: brother’s keeper
CHAPTER 12: the price is right
CHAPTER 13: shady springs
CHAPTER 14: getting to know you
CHAPTER 15: more mashing
CHAPTER 16: what i need
CHAPTER 17: retreat
CHAPTER 18: a big surprise
CHAPTER 19: welcome home
CHAPTER 20: minutes on the hour
CHAPTER 21: wonderland
CHAPTER 22: wrong turn
CHAPTER 23: the number
CHAPTER 24: crossing over
CHAPTER 25: shadow man
CHAPTER 26: tether
CHAPTER 27: take backs
CHAPTER 28: for the roses
CHAPTER 29: eyeballs
CHAPTER 30: shall we dance?
CHAPTER 31: eating crow
CHAPTER 32: the craziest notion
CHAPTER 33: racket
CHAPTER 34: buns
CHAPTER 35: ill advised
CHAPTER 36: disturbance
CHAPTER 37: the garden
CHAPTER 38: grace
epilogue
acknowledgments
reading group guide DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
For Kern
prologue
Mirages glistened on the steaming pavement of South Texas as Mark Reynolds gripped the steering wheel, fighting to keep his eyes from glazing over. The tires made a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, and mile signs waved like familiar friends.
Closer, they told him. You’re getting closer.
Mr. Chesters’ cries from the backseat subsided, sleep finally conquering the cat’s frenzy.
Mark stretched his neck to either side, thankful for the silence. It had been a long ride, and they still had a ways to go.
Zooming by lonely pumpkin stands and a few skinny dogs, he turned up the radio and let his foot fall heavier on the pedal.Time and distance passed while good old boys discussed farm subsidies and the price of oil.
A light flashed in his rearview mirror, bright as the sun on someone’s chrome, but a quick glance told him otherwise.
The cops.
As he pulled over to the shoulder, the tires shot pebbles like angry hail. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Ungodly November heat coated his skin with a fine sheen. A scratch drew a line across his cheek and his left eye ballooned in shades of black and blue.
The patrolman’s boots crunched on the loose asphalt.
Mark rolled down the window and his palm slipped on the handle. “Yes? What’s the problem?” He hadn’t been pulled over since college, nearly a decade ago.
“See your license and insurance, sir.” The policeman pulled out a notebook.
“Absolutely. Sorry about that.” Mark dug in the glove compartment. Thank God he’d remembered the paperwork. He’d need it for the border crossing. “Was I speeding?”
Officer Martinez, according to the engraved bar, tipped his tan Stetson in answer. “Where you headed?”
“South.”
“Not much south of here except Mexico,” Martinez said. “Big storm headed that way. You crossing over?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“Looking for someone.” Mark stared straight ahead.
“Who’s that?”
Fear and frustration burned in his throat as he uttered the truth. “My wife.”
The officer’s mouth twitched. “Stay put, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
More gravel crunched, and Martinez left Mark to himself.
Inside the car, a fly buzzed against the windshield. It made circles and struck the glass, relentless in its efforts to escape. Just an inch from freedom. Cupping his hand, Mark ushered the insect to the window, where it looped away, stunned and sluggish.
He wondered how it ever lasted through summer without getting squashed.
Martinez returned and passed the credentials through the window. “Potter Springs? That’s the Panhandle, isn’t it? You’re a far way from home.”
Mark no
dded, his image a warped jester in Martinez’s mirrored lenses.
“What do you do up there in Potter?”
“Minister.”
Martinez removed the shades and squinted. Taking in Mark’s muscular build, beat-up face and wrinkled clothes. A neon logo painted his T-shirt-SUN YOUR BUNS!-over a photo of four women in thong bathing suits. “You don’t look like any preacher I’ve ever seen.”
Mark didn’t argue. The car idled in the heat.
“Well.” Martinez thumped the metal roof. “I’ll let you go with a warning this time. Do me a favor and slow it down.”
“I plan to.” He adjusted his seat belt. “Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth”-Martinez took a step back, holding Mark’s gaze-“I hope you find her.”
Merging into traffic, the officer’s black-and-white faded into the distance.
I hope you find her.
The blessing stirred Mark’s memories. To the time before the losing began. Before the whirlwind and the changes and the wide, open spaces.
CHAPTER 1
brown penny
Months Earlier
Mark watched the Houston traffic snake around his building like a lazy, lethal predator. Smog drifted outside the wall-to-wall window, the glass impenetrable and sterile.
Turning to the velvet box on his desk, he opened the lid and a marquise diamond flashed at him. The gem was small, but flawless. He’d paid high dollar to make sure no internal flaws, no yellowish hue, marked the stone.
Amanda deserved at least that much.
A discreet knock sounded at the door. Mark palmed the jewel box just as James Montclair poked his salt-and-pepper head inside the office.
“Show time,” James announced. “Ready, buddy?”
“Sure thing.” Mark gathered his jacket and slid the treasure into an inside pocket, tapping it once for security.
Downstairs, he greeted a thousand faces. Perfumes and colognes and mothballs stained the air. The fine whir of silk and wool defined movements. Sit, rise, stand and sing.
Lights dimmed and the pews filled like a Broadway theater, anticipation broken by muffled coughs. Ten-thousand-dollar screens lowered to highlight PowerPoint images and cue the congregants to the next hymnal page.
Mark approached the stage with grace. He strode toward the podium and adjusted his tie microphone. “Good morning, everyone. Welcome. I’m Mark Reynolds, associate pastor here at Pleasant Valley Baptist Church and your host for today’s services.”
Morning worship ran smoothly, a well-oiled machine orchestrated to perfection. James Montclair, senior pastor, spoke from the pulpit like a middle-aged Billy Graham. Poised, beautiful even. His sermon on grace, punctuated with a guest testimonial from a former drug addict, jerked plenty of tears.
“Well done,” attendees praised afterward, shaking James’s hand as they withdrew in elegant fashion.
“Excellent devotion this morning,” one matron complimented Mark. “You’ll be taking over before long, I imagine.”
“That’s the plan.” James chucked Mark on the shoulder. “I’ll have to retire someday. We’ve got a fine runner-up here.”
The praise flushed Mark’s cheeks and made him feel even taller. To be James’s successor, to helm this kind of megachurch, the biggest and fastest growing in Houston, had been his heart’s desire since the day he entered seminary.
To actually work with a man like James Montclair, multipublished and nationally known, had been more than he could have hoped for.
When the last convert from the altar call slipped away, still sniffling into wadded tissues, James and Mark headed for the elevator to the executive-level offices.
“I meant that, you know,” James said. “About you taking over. With the last book doing so well, they’ve mentioned more speaking engagements. Makes it tough to be here Sundays.”
Emotion clogged Mark’s vocal cords. “When?”
“It’s all conjecture right now, and we’re still a couple years out. But I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Course the board will have to approve.”
“Of course,” Mark said.
“But between you and me”-James grinned-“you’re the man. Providing that you want it.”
“You know I do.”
“All right, then.” The elevator shot upward, lit numbers dinging a faint rhythm. Muzak piped in through the speakers, instrumentals of the latest Christian pop.
Mark dreamed of future Sundays. He would helm the pulpit, and fill James’s shoes to capacity. Maybe even better. The congregation would love him. The board would adore him. And his wife, his future wife, Amanda, would stand beside him.
He felt the ring in his pocket. His future started today.
“Where’s Amanda?” James asked, as if reading Mark’s thoughts. “Didn’t see her this morning.”
“Not sure,” Mark said. Though Amanda made it a point to attend Pleasant Valley, her Presbyterian upbringing gave her full freedom to play hooky every now and then, guilt free. He almost envied that in her. “We’re supposed to have lunch.”
“Want to go with us? Sarah should have the kids wrestled into the van by now.” Watching his reflection, James loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt.
“No, but thanks. I better check on Amanda.”
Back in his office, he autodialed her phone number. No answer.
Not at church, not home at her apartment, sick. Where?
The park. Watching people from her bench in Memorial Park, scribbling in that journal of hers. On a day like today, sunny and still cool for spring, she probably hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of a morning outdoors.
He’d have to find her. He couldn’t wait one more day. Not one more hour.
He’d waited too long already.
At the park, Mark slung his jacket over his shoulder and surveyed the grounds. Streams of sweaty joggers clogged the trails. Going against the flow, his size worked to his advantage, unpadded shoulders slicing through their disgruntled waves.
Then he saw her. In her favorite spot, away from the path next to a lush, landscaped area. He slowed, enjoying the chance to catch her unaware. Her copper hair shielded her face. Sunlight echoed off the waves in amber sparks. Legs tucked underneath her, she wrote furiously in the black book on her lap.
Amanda Thompson had the worst handwriting in the world. Mark often teased her that she had the laugh of a child, the lips of a goddess and the penmanship of a serial killer.
He inched through the grass, oxfords glinting in the dew. How close could he get before she noticed? “Mandy.”
Startled, she slashed her pen stroke, running over the scrawls. “Oh. Mark.” She sat straight, pushing her feet into the gravel. Pink polish sparkled against green flip-flops.
His girlfriend never wore socks, but kept an impeccable pedicure in five-dollar sandals.
“Hey, you.” He brushed the concrete next to her and sat down. Her head still only reached his shoulder. “Where you been?”
“Here.” She shifted, touching knees to his and pulled the hair away from her face.
Freckles winked up at him from her nose. He’d memorized their pattern, spread out over her cheekbones, frail and high. He traced them now, the sweetness of the curve.
Her eyes fluttered closed, dark lashes against her cheeks, letting his hands love her this way.
“Missed you this morning,” he whispered.
“Sorry.” Her blue eyes shone like hot glass. The corner of her lips tugged up for a half second, then disappeared. “I’m glad you came.” She squeezed his hands. “I figured you would find me.”
Such strength, in those little hands. He loved the passion within her. How she laughed loud and cried hard and joked with him. She’d never hurt him, and her pure kindness wrapped around him until everything about her sang in his veins and made him alive and whole.
Belonging. She made him belong.
Two 10-speeds clicked by on the path. A car backfired on the busy road just over the
bridge and a siren sounded in the distance.
Not exactly the piano serenade he’d planned in the upscale restaurant. But this spot was her oasis. The place she ran to. She’d read him a poem here one afternoon, from one of her ever-present books. Clear honey, her voice poured over him. Because he loved her, he hid his hatred of poetry and simply watched her as she read. Craving her nearness while he casually discarded the words.
Yet, one day, from a skinny volume of Yeats, the lines surprised him. They took life and crept inside his apathy, inscribed themselves into his heart.
I whispered, “I am too young,”
And then, “I am old enough”;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
“Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.”
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
She finished the last part theatrically, twirling her curls at him. Then she’d tossed the book aside, slapped her hands together and dug in the picnic basket. “What’s for lunch?”
While his heart, invisible, lay twisted at her feet.
Now the Tightness of it clicked inside him. Her oasis, he thought. Brown Penny. This was the right spot. The perfect spot. He should have trusted she would lead him to it.
“I’ve got something I want to ask you.” He closed his hand around the box in his pocket. The box he’d hidden in his sock drawer for months. Bought and paid for. Ready.
Fear had kept him from giving it to her. Fear had kept him waiting for the right moment. Fear had paralyzed him. That she might say no. That she didn’t love him enough to marry him, not enough to step down from her rich family to be a preacher’s wife.
But today was the day. He knew it in his soul. I am too young. He pushed the whispers aside. I am old enough. He grasped her hand and felt no fear. To find out if I might love.
“Mandy.” He set his face, his game face from a thousand football fields, and tossed the penny like he tossed the ball, far and sure and spiraling. “Will you …”
His hope shot forward with all the power he possessed, swirling high and perfect. The sun crisp on his shoulders, the roar in his ears the roar of the crowds. Confidence surged through him, he’d timed it just right and she’d catch his heart and make him whole….