A Thousand Voices

Book 5: Tending Roses

by Lisa Wingate

Genres: Family Life; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Adopted at thirteen, Dell Jordan was loved, mentored, and encouraged to pursue her passion for music. Now, at twenty, after a year abroad with a traveling symphony, a scholarship to Julliard is within reach. But underneath Dell's smoothly polished surface lurk mysteries from the past. Why did her mother abandon her? Who was her father? Are there faces somewhere that look like hers—blood relatives she's never met?

Determined to find answers, Dell sets off on a secret journey into Oklahoma's Kiamichi Mountains, drawn by the only remaining link to her origins—a father's Native American name on her birth certificate. In the voices of her Choctaw ancestors, she'll discover the keys to a future unlike anything she could have imagined.

Release date: September 11, 2018

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

The old Choctaws say that a man who walks away from his past will wander lost forever. If he takes root in a soil that is not his own, the tree of his life will struggle for breath, and water, and nourishment. In dry seasons, the leaves die easily because his roots are shallow. We are meant to be grown in ground that is rich with the bones, and the blood, and the voices of our ancestors. In 1831, the first of the Choctaw were forced from their lands in Mississippi and moved to reservations in Oklahoma. They took with them their language, their customs, their stories of the old times-and they took soil. The women ground the bones of the ancestors and sewed the dust and soil into the hems of their clothing. As they left their homes, they touched the leaves, and the grasses, and the waters of the streams, saying good-bye to the old places. They marched in the bitter cold of an early winter, carrying the young, the old, and the sick, yet they did not pour out the soil and the bones along the trail. In open fields, with only blankets for protection from the snow and the wind, they huddled together. Death, it is said, was hourly among them, claiming nearly one-third of their number, yet those who remained carried the stories and the soil. They spread it in a new place and watered it with their tears, and the tree began to grow again.

The Choctaw are a wise people. They know that ancestor bones nourish all who come after, and so they keep the past alive. If not for that fact, I might have wandered forever. The summer I found the Choctaw was the summer I found myself. Until that time, I'd never even wondered about my real father and his Choctaw heritage. He was a faceless shadow in my mind, the reason my skin was dark and my eyes were brown, not blue like Mama's. He was the reason folks in town looked at me like I was dirt, and the reason UUncle ncle BobbBobby called y called me me little brlittle nigger girown girll when  when he starhe started ted comingcoming around Granny's house after Mama died. Uncle Bobby said I was just darned lucky Granny kept me on at her house, because who else would want a little brown-skinned, knobby-legged butthead like me hanging around?

Old Mrs. Vongortler, the lady who owned the farm across the river from Granny's house, said I shouldn't listen to talk like that. She said every bird in the air came from a thought of God, and so did I. I'd never imagined God thinking about me. It's a powerful thing to realize you were put in this world on purpose. It changes the way you feel about everything afterward. It changed the way I felt about Mrs. Vongortler. After that, she became Grandma Rose to me. She loved me in a way my real granny didn't, in a way no-body else ever had. Grandma Rose and I understood each other. When she died, I wanted to lie down on that bed and die right along with her.

Even after she was gone, Grandma Rose took care of me. Her granddaughter and grandson-in-law, Karen and James Sommerfield, adopted me at twelve years old and gave me the family I'd always wanted. I left the little paper-thin house on the river and moved into a life that was both foreign and frightening, and filled with possibili-ties. I buried the past in the grave with my real granny, and tried to forget it ever happened.

The old Choctaws would say I had poured out the soil and the bones, and that everything that came afterward-a life in Kansas City with James and Karen, an education at an arts high school where I could pursue my love of music, concert opportunities, and chances to travel-would be shallow-rooted. The past, even if you don't talk about it, still exists, and no matter how hard you try to turn your back, no matter how dangerous it is to look at, part of you cries out to understand it. You move through life like a person balancing on a log fallen over a river, waiting for the moment the wood will crack and you'll sink into all the dark things you can still see below.

I could never tell James and Karen, my new parents who loved me, that somewhere inside there was the scared, silent little girl from the tiny house in the tall grass above Mulberry Creek. That girl was filled with questions, and even years later, she was still wandering the world, in search of answers.

When I graduated from high school, I traveled as far away from her as I could-to Europe for a year in a student musical exchange orchestra, and then to Ukraine for a term of teaching English and music in a mission project for orphaned children. My commission there was over too soon, and it was time to go home. College was waiting, and life was waiting, and my family was waiting.

Barry was waiting, too, even though he wasn't supposed to be. Barry and I had dated since my first year at Harrington Academy, when he befriended me, tutored me, and rescued me from teenage oblivion. When I left for Europe, we'd decided it was time for both of us to move on. Still, Barry kept the cards and e-mails coming, telling me about the music department at Missouri State. He talked about college life and dorm rooms, fraternity houses and apartments, things that seemed a million miles away to me. When I came home, he dropped everything and met me at the airport.

"Hey, D," he said, just like no time had passed. At some point in our history together, Barry had shortened my name to D. He gave nicknames to everyone and everything he cared about. Even his saxo-phone, Puff.

I turned from the luggage carousel, surprised by the sound of his voice. It was deeper than I remembered, different from on the phone. "Hey, Bear-bear." I paused to study him. He looked older, his chin more square and his baby-faced cheeks slightly hollowed out. He'd let his brown hair grow longer and put brassy highlights in it. "You look different," I said, and he grinned, seeming pleased.

"Got highlights." Grabbing a strand of hair, he held it out for inspection. "Like it?" His eyebrows rose hopefully, and I couldn't help smiling. Same old Barry. He could never be cool about anything.

"I do." I motioned to the hair. "I really do."

Stepping back, he inspected me slowly. "Gosh, Dell, you look great." He blinked like he couldn't quite take in the picture. "I mean, really great. You do." He leaned slightly closer, as if he thought he might kiss me.

"Thanks." It was hard to know how to respond, and I shifted away uncomfortably. The compliment was sincere. Everything about Barry was sincere, which was what had always made our relation-ship so hard. He sincerely loved me, and I sincerely needed him as a friend, and that isn't the same thing.

Stretching out his arms, he grabbed me in an impulsive bear hug, and as usual, I went stiff. I'd never been good at hugs and things like that-Barry knew that about me, and he didn't mind. He understood that those feelings came from long before I met him. When Mama was messed up, she used to hug me until I felt like I'd smother. All I could smell was weed and sweat and the faint scent of VO5 shampoo as we staggered back and forth in a painful embrace.

Barry let go and reached for something on the luggage carousel. "That yours?" he asked, grabbing the battered wheelie bag that had been through two continents and over a dozen countries.

"Yeah," I answered, bewildered as he hauled it off the luggage carousel with a grunt, then snagged my bedraggled garment bag. "How'd you know?"

"I bought it for you." His mouth hung open in disbelief. "Remember?"

The memory came rushing back, and I laughed. "How could I forget that?" How, indeed? While all the other high school couples were exchanging promise rings, senior charms, and framed gradua-tion photos with endearments like Yours 4 Ever and True Love Always, Barry bought me luggage.

"You didn't speak to me for a week, remember?" He gestured with his hand, churning up the past.

I hooked my fingers in the belt loops of the Levi's that I could have sold for a small fortune in Ukraine. "That's not true." There had never, ever been a time when Barry and I didn't speak for a week.

"All right, maybe it was a day. But it seemed like a week," he joked, and we laughed together. A woman with a luggage cart bumped into him from behind, and he stumbled forward, then glanced over his shoulder and apologized for being in the way. The woman didn't answer, and Barry shrugged good-naturedly, then started scooping up my suitcases. "Guess we should get out of here. You hungry? Want to get something to eat?"

"No, thanks. They gave us a snack on the plane." Leaving the baggage area, we exited the building near a small flower bed, where a stunted dogwood tree was wilting in the August heat. Not far away, a row of redbuds looked dry, and tired, and ready for winter to come. A maintenance man was mowing grass beside the curb, lacing the air with a scent so strong it eclipsed the odor of damp pavement and exhaust fumes. A rush of memories swirled over me, and for a moment my mind was caught in the illusion that I'd never left. Standing there on the sidewalk, surrounded by the sights and scents of Kansas City, I could have been any age from twelve to eighteen, at the airport to pick up James, who'd just piloted a 747 full of happy travelers home from some faraway locale. If it was summer or a school holiday, Karen and I might have ridden along on family passes to enjoy a short vacation or a music festival during his layover. . . .

I was suddenly aware that I'd stopped on the sidewalk and people were squeezing by. Beside me, Barry patiently balanced my luggage and waited. I was filled with a rush of affection for him that wasn't romantic love, but something deeper.

"What?" Quirking a brow, he hiked my garment bag higher onto his shoulder.

"Nothing." Embarrassed, I reached for one of the suitcases. "It's just good to see you. Here, let me carry something."

He shifted the luggage handles possessively and started walking. "I've got it. You sure you don't want to stop off for something to eat?"

"Only if you're hungry," I said, as we headed toward the parking lot.

"No. I mean, not unless you are." "I'm fine, but if you want to stop, that's good, too." "It's up to you, really." He shrugged, hefting the heavy garment bag higher onto his shoulder again. "You're the world traveler."

"Tell you what." As usual, between the two of us, Barry and I couldn't come up with a decision. "Surprise me. Let's just head to-ward Hindsville, and if you see someplace you feel like stopping, then stop. If not, we'll be at Aunt Kate's farm in time for supper." What I really wanted to do was get to the farm. I hadn't seen anyone in my family since James and Karen had flown to London to watch our final concert almost a year ago. Suddenly that seemed like an eternity. I tried to imagine what it would be like, walking into the family gath-ering at Aunt Kate's place this weekend, surprising them because they thought I wouldn't be home for two months yet.

Barry started up a conversation about college life as we loaded my things and headed south in his new Mustang, a reward for keep-ing a straight-A average at Missouri State. Sitting behind the wheel of the glossy new convertible, Barry looked almost cool, which was a feat, considering that our senior year he'd cruised in his mom's old hatchback wagon.

Outside the window, the scenery turned from urban to rural, the highway slowly leaving the flatlands and winding upward into the foothills of the Ozarks. It began to look more like Hindsville, more like home. Somewhere during Barry's dissertation about dormitory life, his new fraternity house, and algebra class, the road disappeared altogether. . . .

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty." Barry's voice wound into the blackness, pulling me back into the Mustang from someplace far away. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, wake up. We're here."

Opening my eyes, I blinked against the bright afternoon sunlight as the car turned into the farm's gravel driveway. One side of my hand was numb against the glass, and the other side was imprinted into my face, complete with the St. Christopher's ring one of the girls at the orphanage had given me when I left.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, pulling myself upright. "I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. That was rude. You should have poked me or something."

"I was enjoying watching you snore."

"Gross," I muttered, reaching into my purse for a hairbrush. My heart fluttered into my throat as we wound slowly past the farm fields, then uphill through the shade of Grandma Rose's old silver maple trees. On the bluff above the river, the big white house loomed imposingly, its dormer windows watching our approach. My entire family would be gathered there, all of them having come to see my cousin, Jenilee's, new baby. The first baby to come into the family since Aunt Kate's youngest, Hanna, who was five now. The birth of Jenilee and Caleb's baby was cause for celebration. They'd waited until Jenilee finished medical school to start a family. Now the baby was a week old, and Jenilee and Caleb still hadn't picked out a name. Aunt Kate figured it was time for a family meeting. Karen and James had filled me in on all the drama by e-mail. Of course, they had no idea that I'd actually be there for the family name-brainstorming ses-sion. For just an instant, I had the thought that I should have waited in Kansas City for James and Karen, instead of coming to the farm. My unexpected return would steal the spotlight from Jenilee's new ar-rival. James and Karen might be upset that, after being away so long, I'd asked Barry to meet me at the airport instead of asking them.

My hands shook as I dragged the brush through my hair.

"You look fine." Barry frowned sideways at me.

I rolled my eyes. I could imagine what I looked like after four transfers and two days of planes, trains, and automobiles. "Maybe I should have called them instead of surprising everyone. They-"