This Fine Life

Marie Everson Eva

Description

It is the summer of 1959 and Mariette Puttnam has just graduated from boarding school. When she returns to her privileged life at home, she isn't sure where life will take her. More schooling? A job? Marriage? Nothing feels right. How could she know that the answer is waiting for her within the narrow stairwell of her father's apparel factory, exactly between the third and fourth floors? In this unique and tender story of an unlikely romance, popular author Eva Marie Everson takes readers on a journey through the heart of a young woman bound for the unknown. Readers will experience the joys of new love, the perseverance of true friendship, and the gift of forgiveness that comes from a truly fine life.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 mai 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441211811
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

© 2010 by Eva Marie Everson
Published by Revell a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 04.15.2016 (VBN), 10.13.2019
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—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—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 978-1-4412-1181-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To the man who has made this life just fine for me! My husband, Dennis. I love you. —Snookums
And in memory of Mr. David Lipscomb and Mr. Tom Grantz, for lives well-lived.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part 1 Friendly Persuasion
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Part 2 Wings of a Dove
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part 3 “Sugar Shack”
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Part 4 Baby Love
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
Part 5 Return to Me
36
About the Author
Other Books by Eva Marie Everson
Back Ads
Back Cover
Acknowledgments
If you’ve heard the song “Washed by the Water,” sung by NeedToBreathe, you might think this story was inspired by the song. It wasn’t.
This story was inspired by a song, however, though probably not one you’d guess.
Several years ago, while I was out working in the “real world,” my employer popped a Frank Sinatra CD in to the office CD player. (He knew how much I love “Old Blue Eyes.”) And, as creative people do, while Francis crooned his tune “When I Was Seventeen,” I immediately began to build the story of a young man who grows up in the forties and fifties with two brothers on a farm, then moves to a city, where he meets a young girl, falls in love, marries, and then . . .
And then, nothing. I had no more story.
Years later, while at a writers’ conference, several other writers and I sat in front porch rockers and, in the cool afternoon air, “shot the breeze.” One of those “rockers” was my good friend, Alton Gansky. Al is not only an excellent writer, he is also a retired pastor. As Al entertained us with his true-life stories, my mind began to file some of them away (another method of fiction writers, so be careful what you say around us).
Later, I heard “When I Was Seventeen” again. The story I’d created while at work (when I should have been working!) blended with some of Al’s stories. After that, I went in search of stories from preachers about their first year in ministry. All I spoke to or received emails from were quite generous with their time and history. I wish I could thank them all personally, but many of their stories came in second- or even third-hand. I would, however, like to thank Reverend C. Mike Benson of First United Methodist Church in Sylvania, Georgia (my hometown), who entertained me one summer afternoon with a number of stories rich with humor and poignancy. Between Frank and Al and Mike and all those who offered stories in between, I eventually developed the character and the life of Thayne Scott.
I also learned that not everything about the first year of being a pastor can be regarded as funny, even though many years may have passed. Some things haunt God’s called for as long as they live.
Still, when we do what God calls us to do and go where God calls us to go, we are blessed with a fine life. A very fine life indeed. That’s what this story is designed to do, to share with you, the reader, that our steps are ordered by God, but, in the end, we have to take those steps. And if we just trust him during the journey, we are blessed.
There are a few others to thank. My mother, who was a young bride in the mid to late fifties and a young mother in the late fifties and early sixties. She regaled me with stories and methods and reminded me of the way things were “back in the day.” Another thank you to Cynthia Schnereger, my “reader,” but more importantly, my friend. Thank you, Cyn, for reading every word, sometimes twice, and making sure I stayed true to my craft and my characters. Thank you to Vicki Crumpton (I love working with you!) and Kristin Kornoelje (I love working with you too!!), two incredible editors. Thank you to all the members of my Baker family who have believed in my ability to share a little Southern truth with a little Southern fiction. You’re all right for Northerners.
Prologue
June 1964
The sporadic pain came initially from the center of my lower back. It wrapped itself around my middle until it peaked at my navel. I flinched, then shifted my weight so I was lying completely flat. I stretched, pointed my toes, then flexed my feet until I felt the expected—and needed—pull along the muscles of my calves. I took a deep breath, blew it out, pulled my arm out from under the bedcovers, and glanced at my watch.
It was 2:35.
Outside the window of the bedroom, the afternoon sun flickered through the branches and leaves of the old magnolia that stood like a soldier, welcoming me back from a brief nap. “I’m just tired,” I’d told my mother shortly after lunch. I handed her a cloth I’d used to dry the few dishes we’d dirtied, and attempted a smile. The expression on her face—of late nothing but an etching of concern and worry—didn’t change with my words. I kissed her cheek as I’d always done to pacify her. “Really, Mama. I’m just tired.” I forced my voice to a level of reassurance that was both hopeful and imaginary.
But that had been two hours ago, and the nap had left me feeling even more tired than before. I took another deep breath, arched my shoulders against the soft mattress, and exhaled, all the while keeping my gaze on the slats along the bed’s canopy, as though I were searching for something to concentrate on. Without them, I thought, the gentle sloping of the princess pink material would sink in the middle.
There would be nothing attractive about that. A décor nightmare.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and surveyed the room of my childhood. It had been Mama’s to decorate as she pleased until I turned sweet sixteen. Then, with Mama’s persistent guidance, I was given the honor of making it my own. Of giving it my signature. The wallpaper was of bouquets of baby pink roses, their stems tied off with dark pink ribbons that seemed to sway along on a white satin background. They were pretty to look at, weren’t they? So then why could I feel myself frowning?
Because everything in the room was pink and white and in perfect order. There were no accent colors, no pieces out of place, no dirty underwear on the floor. Just pink and white and perfect. No wonder Thayne had nearly balked at being in here. Living in here.
Had it been that long ago that we’d fought over it?
I leaned to the right as I extended my left hand and studied it. The line of veins, the long fingers, the short, self-manicured nails. The ruby that winked at me, the band of gold that mocked me. “Thayne,” I whispered. “What have I done?”
I got out of bed, pulled the thick eyelet cover back into place, fluffed the pillow imprinted by the weight of my head, and then walked to my old desk, where I’d once pored over high school studies and—later—Thayne had read his Bible, taking meticulous notes in a steno pad while cross-referencing his seemingly limitless number of Bible dictionaries, commentaries, and encyclopedias. The desk I’d kept tidy in my youth had, in the days Thayne lived here, become cluttered and chaotic. When I’d tried to right the mess, Thayne had stopped me. “No, Mariette, don’t touch it,” he’d said, both pleading and firm at the same time. “Don’t try to straighten it for me.” He gave me his best dimpled smile that came and went too quickly. “And for Pete’s sake, tell Daisy not to dust the books.”
“She’s just trying to help,” I argued.
“I know she is, sweetheart, and I appreciate her for it, but sometimes her dusting causes the little slivers of paper between the pages to come out, and then I lose my place.”
“Then why don’t you use bookmarks? Real bookmarks and not ‘little slivers of paper’?” I used my index fingers to form quotation marks in the air.
It was a good question, a fair question, but he’d only shrugged, looking more boy than man, more college student than husband. “I dunno, Mariette. I just don’t.”
Now I sat at the desk, which was neat once more, and opened the center drawer. I pulled out my diary, the one I’d left behind so long ago, the one with notations about hanging out with friends and meeting with Sister Teresa Anthony after classes to talk and laugh and . . . listen while the sister prayed. . . . I searched for a fountain pen, found one, and then jotted a note.
2:35.
I waited, resting against the ladder-back chair for a moment, then reached for the knob on the transistor radio—white, of course—that sat perfectly straight on the right back corner of the desk. I flipped it on. Brief static was replaced by the clear voice of Connie Francis cooing “Who’s Sorry Now?”
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I switched the radio off. “Oh, Lord, help me.” I whispered a prayer. “If I’ve ever meant anything to you at all, help me.”
I stood without waiting for a divine answer, walked over to the window, and peered down to the thick carpet of grass stretching from the white frame of the house to the sidewalk out front and driveway to the right, where my brother Tommy was washing an old jalopy he’d purchased with the money he’d earned as an usher down at the Liberty movie theater. I looked past my own reflection—the dark blonde hair pulled taut, the ghost of a face in