Promises to Keep

Ann Tatlock

Description

Eleven-year-old Roz (Rosalind) Anthony and her family have just moved to Mills River, Illinois, to escape an abusive situation. Only days after settling into their new home, they are surprised to find the previous owner, Tillie Monroe, on their front porch reading the newspaper. Though her sons have sold the house and sent her to a facility for the aged, she is determined to die in the place she lived her life, and somehow manages to find her way "home" day after day. Feeling sympathy for the elderly woman, Roz's mother allows Tillie to move back in. Mara Nightingale becomes Roz's first friend in Mills River. In spite of their many differences, the girls discover they have something in common that binds them together--both are hiding secrets. So they make a promise--"cross my heart and hope to die"--never to tell anyone else.When danger stalks the Anthonys, Tillie exhibits unimaginable courage and selfless love in her determination to protect the family she has adopted as her own.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 février 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441214744
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

© 2011 by Ann Tatlock
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan. www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 01.27.2017
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, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC
ISBN 978-1-4412-1474-4
Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum
Cover photography by Getty Images

Praise for Ann Tatlock and
PROMISES TO KEEP
“Poignant story of a young girl troubled by complex family relationships. Brilliantly perceived, masterfully written.”
— Donn Taylor, author of Rhapsody in Red and The Lazarus File.
“In Promises to Keep, Ann Tatlock takes the ordinary theme of what and where home is and creates an extraordinary entertaining story of unforgettable characters, and has produced another literary masterpiece.”
—Yyvonne Lehman, author of 48 novels and director of Blue Ridge Novelists Retreat
“Just when I thought Ann Tatlock’s work could not get any better, she pulls another one out of that magnificent imagination of hers! Promises to Keep is a trip back in time to a place of innocence and war, love and the delusion of love, childhood friendships and pinky-promises. Just when I thought I knew what the story was about, it shifted to something so deep and rich, I was forced to close my eyes and allow my heart to drink it in. Every page is a “turner,” and every word important to the plot’s goal. This is Tatlock storytelling at its best!”
—Eva Marie Everson, author of This Fine Life
“Promises to Keep, told in a pitch-perfect voice and well-rooted in its 1960s setting, wraps you tighter around its literary finger with every page you read. This was the first book by Ann Tatlock that I’d ever read—but definitely not the last. I very highly recommend it.”
—Alison Strobel, author of The Weight of Shadows and Reinventing Rachel
“Ann Tatlock’s Promises to Keep is filled with quiet emotion and heart-tugging family drama, the whole of it seasoned with grace and small-town charm. Highly recommended!”
—Ray Blackston, author of Flabbergasted
“Ann Tatlock wields her characteristic exquisite writing, taking us to an eleven-year-old girl’s world in 1967 middle-America. A wonderful read, Promises to Keep reminds us what makes for an authentic family. The story threatens to break our heart with its velvet hammer truth, but sacrificial love triumphs!”
—Rusty Whitener, author of A Season of Miracles, award-winning screenwriter
“In Promises to Keep, Ann Tatlock spins the kind of warm and tender coming-of-age story I’ve come to expect from a novel with her name on the cover. The final chapters kept me on the edge of my seat, wondering how the story’s dilemmas could possibly be unraveled, but Tatlock did not disappoint.”
––Deborah Raney, author of Forever After and the Clayburn novels
“Like eleven-year-old Roz, most of us have struggled with loss. Do we give up and let go, or do we fight to recapture our past? In Promises to Keep, Ann Tatlock wrestles with these weighty issues through the charming eyes of a child whose innocence is lost and lost again.”
—Bette Nordberg, author of Genoa Bay
THE RETURNING
“Stellar writing sets Tatlock apart from her peers.”
—Romantic Times
“In this beautifully written novel of second chances, Tatlock applies her considerable skill as a novelist to paint an unconventional poignant story of a family’s rebirth.”
—Library Journal starred review
Also selected by Library Journal as one of Christian ­fiction’s Best Books of 2009
To Mike and Kris Sullivan Who have blessed me more than I can say
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
chapter 45
chapter 46
chapter 47
epilogue
discussion questions
About the Author
Other Books by Ann Tatlock
Back Cover
chapter 1
We hadn’t lived in the house on McDowell Street for even a week when we found a stranger on the porch, reading the morning paper. Wally saw her first, since it was his job to fetch the newspaper from the low-lying branches of the blue spruce, where the paper boy always tossed it. I was in the kitchen setting the table, and from there I could see Wally—tall and lanky and bare-chested in the summer heat—move down the hall toward the front door. He was grumbling about the rain as the soles of his feet slapped against the hardwood floor. He reached for the doorknob, then stopped abruptly. In the next moment he hollered back toward the kitchen, “Mom, there’s an old lady out on the porch.”
Mom was frying bacon at the stove. She jabbed at the sizzling pan with a spatula and hollered back, “What’s she want? Is she selling something?”
“I don’t think so,” Wally said. “She’s just sitting there reading the paper.”
“ Our paper?”
“Well, yeah. I think it’s our paper.”
“What now?” Mom muttered as she moved the frying pan off the burner and untied her apron. When she turned around, I saw the flash of fear in her eyes. It was a look I was used to; it showed up on Mom’s face whenever she didn’t know what was coming next, which happened a lot in our old house in Minnesota. But not because of strangers.
Mom laid the apron over a chair, smoothed back her blond hair, and ran the palms of her hands over the wrinkles in her housedress. At the same time she tried to smooth the wrinkles in her brow enough to look confident. I followed her from the kitchen to the front door, where Wally stood so close to the window the tip of his nose touched the glass. “Can you believe it?” he said quietly. “She’s just sitting there like she owns the place or something.”
Mom raised one hand to her lips in quiet hesitation. Meanwhile, I slipped to the living room window and peered out from behind the curtain, finding myself only inches from our uninvited guest. At first glance she was one huge floral-print dress straining the straps of the folding lawn chair on the porch. Her legs were propped up on the railing, and her bulky black tie shoes dangled like dead weight over the lilac bush below. I couldn’t see much of her face, just a small slice of fleshy cheek and the bulbous end of a generous nose, a pair of gray-rimmed glasses and a mass of white hair knotted at the back of her head. She was reading the Sunday comics, and something must have tickled her because she laughed out loud.
That howl of glee sent enough of a jolt through Mom to get her going. She gently pulled Wally away from the door and swung it open. She pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. I saw the old woman’s head bob once, as though to acknowledge Mom’s presence.
“Can I help you?” Mom asked. Her voice was strained, the way it sounded when she was trying not to yell at one of us kids. She waited a few seconds. Then, a little more exasperated, she repeated, “Can I help you with something?”
The stranger folded the paper and settled it in her lap. “No, dear, I don’t think so.” The corner of her mouth turned up in a small smile. “But thank you just the same.”
Mom stiffened at that, and all her features seemed to move toward the center of her face. “Well,” she said, “may I ask what you’re doing on my porch?”
“Just sitting awhile,” the old woman said, as though she’d been found passing the time of day on a public bench. “Anyway,” she went on, “it’s not your porch. It’s mine.”
“Uh-oh,” Wally whispered in my direction. “She’s one of those crazies. You’d better go keep an eye on Valerie.”
But I didn’t want to go keep an eye on Valerie. I wanted to stay right where I was and watch Mom talk with the crazy lady.
Mom looked off toward the street like she was hoping someone would walk by and help her, but it was early Sunday morning and the streets were quiet, save for one lone soot-colored cat slinking along the sidewalk in the misty rain.
Finally Mom turned back to the stranger and said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, and if you don’t, I will call the police.”
The old lady pulled her feet off the railing, and I thought maybe she was going to stand up and leave, but she didn’t. Instead, she said quietly, “Well now, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t give me any choice. You’re trespassing on private property.”
“I might say the same for you.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?”
“The law might say you own this house, but it’ll always be mine.”
“Mom,” Wally hollered though the screen, “you want me to call the cops?”
Mom latched her hands together at her waist and squeezed her fingers together. “Not yet, Wally. Just hold on.” To the woman, she said, “I want to give you the chance to leave peacefully.”
The old woman wasn’t looking at Mom anymore. Now she was looking out at the street, but I had the feeling she wasn’t seeing the street but something else altogether.
When she spoke, her voice was low and even. “My husband built this house for me in 1917. Built it with his own hands. And you see these two hands here?”