After the Rain

Book 0: A Falling Home Novel

by Karen White

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A multiple RITA nominee, Karen White crafts engrossing stories that have found a special place in the hearts of fans nationwide. After The Rain stars freelance photographer Suzanne Paris. On her own since the age of 14, Suzanne has no intention of settling down in tiny Walton, Georgia. But to her surprise, Walton residents have a way of making even reluctant guests feel right at home. And the new connections she builds come in handy when a dark figure from her past returns, determined to ruin her.

Release date: December 31, 2012

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 384

Sample

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.

Visit us online at www.penguin.com.

 

Tides change. So does the moon. With the unfailing constancy of brittle autumn closing in on bright summer, things always changed. If Suzanne had ever had faith in anything, it was in knowing that all things were fleeting. And for good reason. The highway of life was littered with the roadkill of those who didn’t know when to change lanes.

Almost asleep now, Suzanne brushed the pads of her fingers across her forehead, then down the bridge of her nose to the small, pointed bone of her chin. Yes, it was still her. One thousand miles, a quick dye job, and the surgical removal of her life had not completely obliterated her. Just smudged the edges.

The hissing of the bus’s brakes brought Suzanne awake from her almost doze. She pushed herself away from the images of a soft bed and dark Italian suits and opened her eyes wide to stare out at the anonymous highway rolling outside her window. A waxing moon smiled down at her with a crescent grin, and she touched the glass as if to bring it closer. “God’s smile,” she whispered to no one, recalling something her mother had once told her. Absently she let her fingers fall to the charm on the gold chain around her neck, finding comfort in touching the small heart through her shirt.

A sign on the overpass above them beamed at her through the murky glass: WELCOME TO WALTON. WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY. She craned her neck as the bus slid under the overpass, partially obscuring the sign, but wanting to make sure she had read it right. The bus slowed to a stop, and the door opened with a loud gasp. An older woman, wearing red high heels and with hair puffed out in a tight bouffant like a halo, stood at the back of the bus and began walking forward.

The driver followed the woman off the bus, and Suzanne listened as the luggage compartment was opened. With a squeal, the woman greeted somebody who had been waiting. Suzanne listened as a deep male voice, definitely not that of their Hispanic driver, greeted the passenger. His voice carried an accent that would have placed him in rural Georgia no matter what corner of the world he might travel. Suzanne smiled to herself, content not to be so burdened.

The driver seemed to be taking a long time pulling out the woman’s luggage. From the snippets of conversation, Suzanne gathered that there was a piece missing. She rested her head on the back of her seat and continued to listen. She heard the Georgia man speak again, and there was something about his voice that pulled at her, something thick and rich like dark syrup. It soothed and cajoled, as if the voice had had years of practice.

Disturbed by the effect the man’s voice was having on her, she turned away, but only to catch sight of the sign again. WELCOME TO WALTON. WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY. She sat up, watching as the light trained on the sign dimmed, then brightened, flickering at her like a winking eye. With a hand that trembled slightly, she pulled at the chain around her neck until the charm fell on the outside of her T-shirt. Tucking in her chin to see it better, she turned the gold heart over in her hand to read the tiny, engraved words. A LIFE WITHOUT RAIN IS LIKE THE SUN WITHOUT SHADE. With short, unpolished nails, she scraped the charm from her palm and flipped it over. R. MICHAEL JEWELERS. WALTON.

She pressed her forehead against the window, forcing herself to breathe deeply and recalling the woman who had given her the necklace. Walton. The name shifted her jaw, as if moved by her mother’s invisible hand, but she shook her head. It was a million-to-one shot that it was the same town. It would take sheer luck—something that had always run on a parallel with her life, never intersecting.

As she stared out the window, a small shape darted from the grass on the other side of the highway and onto the shoulder of the road. Headlights from an approaching car appeared on the horizon, two pinpoints gradually growing larger. The shape moved into the arc cast by a streetlight, and Suzanne recognized the pointed head and thin, whiplike tail of an opossum.

Pushing her hands against the window in an impotent offer to help, she glanced again at the approaching car, then back at the animal, its quivering nose pointing into the road. Don’t, Suzanne mouthed, but slowly the animal waddled into the lane and stopped, watching as the car bore down on it.

The entire scene was too much like her mother’s fascination with the bottle, complete with Suzanne’s own helplessness, and she shut her eyes on the inevitable, only opening them when she could hear the dying strains of a country song from the radio of the car as it passed. Peering out the glass, she could make out the small animal in the middle of the road, curled into a tight little ball under the crescent moon. It wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t doing anything to prevent another onslaught, either.

Abruptly she stood and announced to no one in particular, “I’m getting off here.”

The driver looked up in surprise as she stepped off the bus, the gravel crunching under the heels of her flip-flops. “Your ticket goes all the way to Atlanta.”

She gave him a half smile. “I’ve changed my mind.” Spotting her one compact piece of baggage sitting on the pavement with the rest of the unloaded luggage, she stooped and picked it up. Holding the oversized canvas bag by her side and adjusting her backpack-style purse over her shoulders, she glanced at the other two people standing with the driver. She recognized the lady with the big hair and nodded briefly. Standing behind her was the man who had to have been the owner of the voice.

He towered over the two people in front of him, standing somewhere around six feet four. He wore a button-down white oxford cloth shirt tucked into wrinkled khakis that looked as if he’d slept in them. A red whiteboard marker and a pencil protruded from his shirt pocket. She raised her eyes to study his face and was surprised to find him staring at her chest.

Shifting her suitcase to her other hand, she sneaked a glance down at her shirt and noticed that she hadn’t tucked her necklace back in and it was now dangling over the mound of her breasts, calling attention to their size. Disgusted, she twisted away from him and turned toward the driver.

“Can you tell me if there’s a place around here to call a cab?”

There was a brief silence before the tall man drawled, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Suzanne frowned up at him, wondering how he knew that about her. She briefly thought about stepping back onto the bus and its cool anonymity. But then she remembered the petrified opossum awaiting its chance to be roadkill, and she ground her heels a little deeper into the gravel.

“No, I’m not. Could you recommend a cab company to call?”

The older woman stepped forward, her perfume reaching Suzanne first. “Sugar, are you visiting somebody in Walton? Joe and I could give you a lift—”

Suzanne cut her off. “No, thank you. I’ll take a cab.” She looked around, spotting a service station across the two-lane highway. She didn’t have a cell phone—too expensive and too easy to trace. Surely there would be a phone at the gas station, and she could call a cab to take her to the nearest hotel. Someplace sterile and impersonal, where she could get her thoughts together and figure out what she would do next. With a brief nod good-bye, she headed across the road, avoiding looking at the opossum and making sure she checked for oncoming traffic first.

As she neared the service station, she stared at the large neon sign stuck on a pole on the edge of the highway. It read BAIT. GAS. CAPPUCCINO. Then, underneath the first line, in different lettering as if it had been added at a later date, the word DIAPERS. She hesitated again, wondering what kind of place this Walton was. She could hear the rumbling of the bus behind her as it waited on the side of the road. It wasn’t too late to get back on and head to Atlanta. A big city would make it easier to disappear. Then again, they’d never think to look for her in a small town stuck in the middle of nowhere. With a deep breath of resolve, she crossed the parking lot.

The tinkling bells over the door as she entered were the last peaceful sounds she heard. A towheaded girl of about four streaked past her wearing only a shirt. Suzanne got a glimpse of the stark-naked behind of the little girl as she darted down an aisle.

“Amanda! You quit it right now or I’m gonna jar your preserves!” A tall teenage girl ran past Suzanne in hot pursuit of the pantless child, forcing Suzanne to press herself against the door so she wouldn’t get run over. The girl held a small boy of about two or three against her hip, who seemed happily oblivious of the pursuit and grinned a drool-filled grin as he flopped by, apparently glad to be along for the ride.

Suzanne stayed where she was, afraid to move as the sound of more running feet approached from the second aisle. Three more children raced by, two girls and a boy, the youngest girl swinging bright red braids down her back.

Suzanne had just managed to move against a tall rack of MoonPies and drop her bag when the procession of half-naked child and pursuing teenager ran by her again. The teen paused for a moment as she spotted Suzanne, then, without preamble, handed the little boy to Suzanne. “Hold him. I can run faster.”

Caught by surprise, Suzanne stuck out her arms and felt the heaviness of the child as he was placed in her hands. He looked as surprised as she was and blinked large blue eyes at her. She kept her arms extended, not knowing where to put him. Never having held a child before, she wondered briefly if it would be the same as holding a puppy. It had something to do with the scruff of the neck, but as she’d never held a puppy, either, it was all pretty vague.

The little boy let out a huge wail and began pedaling his legs as if he were on a tricycle. Just then the front door opened, and the woman from the bus and the man she had called Joe entered the store. They pressed back as the running stream of five children ran past them, the redheaded girl now carrying the pants of the escapee.

Staring after the running children, Suzanne asked, “Don’t they have leash laws in this state?”

At the sound of the jingling bells, the child in her arms stopped screaming and turned his head toward the man and woman. “Daddy!” he shouted, and launched himself into the outstretched arms of the tall man.

With one smooth movement, Joe reached forward and grabbed the arm of the undressed child as she tried to make it down the MoonPie aisle again. In a stern voice he said, “You go put your pants on right this minute, young lady. And don’t give your sister any more trouble, you hear?”

The little girl stopped and looked up at him with somber blue eyes. “Yes, sir,” she mumbled as the redheaded girl caught up and dragged her back to the bathroom.

Joe straightened and looked at Suzanne with eyes that were less than friendly. With a brief “Excuse me, ma’am,” he moved past her down the aisle and toward the counter.

The older woman smiled through her reproachful glance as she followed in the man’s wake.

Suzanne picked up her bag and followed them to the front counter. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know those were your kids.”

The man cut her a sharp look, effectively silencing her. She bit her tongue to hold back a retort. She’d had enough of silent, brooding men to last her a lifetime, but she couldn’t make a scene. Arguing with a stranger in a gas station was not the best way to disappear into the scenery.

Instead, she hung back while she waited for them to settle up at the cash register. The man placed a case of beer, six MoonPies, a six-pack of RC Cola, and a package of diapers on the counter to be rung up. The old man in overalls behind the counter kept sneaking glances at Suzanne as if he should know who she was. She shrank back, trying not to be noticed.

But she couldn’t help staring at the man in front of her. Even with a baby on his hip, there was something in the way he stood and held himself that spoke of a man comfortable in his own skin. He moved easily and with confidence—a man who knew and liked who he saw in the mirror each morning.

But his clothes were a mess, as were the mismatched ensembles of the younger children. For the first time, she looked at what the little boy was wearing—cowboy boots, a swimsuit bottom, and a pajama top with bears on it—and she surprised herself by grinning.

Unexpectedly, she raised her eyes and found the man staring back at her with hazel eyes that were more brown than green. His eyebrows lifted as if he was expecting her to make another remark about children and leash laws.

He accepted his change from the old man, then moved back to put his money in his wallet. Suzanne stepped up to the counter. “I need a cab to take me to the nearest hotel. Can you send me in the right direction?”

The white-haired man blinked bright blue eyes at her as if trying to translate a foreign language, but his smile stayed warm. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

That was the second time in less than an hour somebody had said that to her, and she looked down at her flip-flops and toe ring, then up to her gauze skirt and T-shirt, and wondered what it was that made her seem so different. “No, I’m not. But I need a place to stay and a way to get there, if you could just give me a couple of numbers to call.”

“Well, ma’am . . .” He paused long enough that she wondered if he had forgotten the question. “Let’s see. The nearest hotel is in the town of Monroe. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive, but there’s no local cab service to take you there. Unless you want to ride with Hank Ripple in his truck when he takes his load of peaches. He normally passes through here around five a.m.”

Suzanne smelled the heavy perfume before the woman spoke. “Honey, do you have people in Walton? Maybe somebody we could call to come get you?”

The sound of the bus rumbling past outside the store made them all turn and watch. Looking at what was probably her last chance to escape, Suzanne felt her stomach drop, thinking that maybe she had changed lanes too soon, heading right into the headlights of a Mack truck.

She shook her head. “No. I’m just passing through. Thought I could find a place to stay for a while . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she felt embarrassment as her voice trembled. It must be because she was so tired from running, exhausted from crying, and so damned mad at herself for getting off the bus. And the woman’s voice was so warm and caring, and Suzanne had the most ridiculous impulse to lay her head on that sequin-covered shoulder.

The woman turned to the younger man. “Joe, there’s room in the truck for one more, so we could take her into town. I figure Sam could let her stay in the old Ladue house until he’s got it ready to sell.”

The willowy teenager who had been eyeing Suzanne with interest stepped in front of her father and shouted, “Great idea!” at the same time Joe said, “No way.” Suzanne felt nine pairs of eyes on her, but the hazel ones held her attention. They were neither warm nor inviting, and the scrutiny made her square her shoulders. Sucking in whatever pride she had left after nearly thirty years of changing lanes and saying good-bye, she said, “I’ll pay you. Cash.”

To her utter embarrassment, her lower lip began to tremble. She looked down at her canvas bag, neatly and efficiently packed after years of practice. It reminded her of who she had become and how she had never needed anybody’s help. With a deep breath, she grabbed the strap and lifted her head. “Never mind. I’ll walk.”

She stomped by the cluster of people, clumped together like the caramel popcorn balls sold on a display by the register. Barely hearing the tinkling bell over the door as she pushed through it, she walked out into the parking lot, past the gas pumps, then up the small, grassy rise to the road. She looked for the Walton sign on the overpass and began heading in the opposite direction, staying on the shoulder. As soon as she was out of sight of the people in the store, she’d stop to regroup, but right now she just wanted to disappear and be by herself again.

The sound of tires on loose gravel traveled up to her, but she ignored it and kept walking. A pickup truck sped by, the driver and passenger staring at her with open curiosity through the window. She didn’t look up again until she heard the blow of a car horn. Glancing around, Suzanne spotted a large green SUV, Joe and the older woman in the front seat. The window of the truck eased its way down, and Suzanne recognized Joe’s unsmiling face. She didn’t stop but pushed forward.

His voice hinted of annoyance. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Who says?”

“Well, Monroe’s the other way.”

She stubbed her toe on a large rock and stumbled but kept moving. “Maybe that’s not where I want to go.”

“Are you lost?”

Suzanne stopped then to change her bag into her other hand. “All who wander aren’t lost, you know.”

He pulled the truck to a stop behind her on the side of the road, got out with a loud slam, and began following her. The wailing cries of a small child carried on the deserted stretch of road toward them. His voice definitely had an edge to it. “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and frankly, I don’t care. But I just can’t leave you here on the highway.” She heard him trudge a few more steps in her direction. Then, as if he’d given away too much of himself, he added, “And Aunt Lucinda will not let me rest tonight until I’ve managed to bring you into town and seen to it that you’ve got a roof over your head.”

She didn’t slow down at all but called over her shoulder, “That’s your problem. Now go away. I don’t need your help.”

He jogged to catch up to her and grabbed her suitcase. Reluctantly, she stopped and put her hands on her hips. He sounded as mad as she felt. “The baby’s crying, the rest are hungry, and I’m getting cranky.” He pushed a hand through dark brown hair in a show of frustration. “God’s nightgown, woman, would you just get into the damn truck and let me drive you somewhere?”

She opened her mouth to make a retort but stopped when she realized he was staring at her chest again.

His voice softened. “Where did you get that necklace?”

Realizing her charm had fallen out of her shirt again, she immediately tucked it back in. “Somebody gave it to me. A long time ago. Now can I please have my suitcase so I can be on my way?”

In answer, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the truck. “No. You can have it back when I get you to Walton.”

She jogged after him. “Hey, you can’t do that! Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to accept a ride from a stranger?”

He popped open the back window and threw in her bag. “In case you didn’t notice, you’re the stranger here. Besides, the only danger you’re likely to encounter in my car is insanity from too many potty jokes.” He walked in front of the truck and held open the passenger door, the baby’s crying finally stopped.

Lucinda got out so Suzanne could squeeze into the middle of the front bench seat. Feeling defeated for the second time in as many months, she stepped up on the running board and climbed in.

As they pulled out onto the road, Suzanne caught sight of the opossum. It had unfurled itself but remained in the middle of the road, as if unsure which lane was safest. She pressed forward, watching him as long as she could until the truck pulled away. I know how you feel, she thought, then leaned back in the seat for the remainder of the ride.

The slurping sounds of a small child sucking on a sippy cup filled the quiet interior of the truck. Suzanne sat very still, trying not to touch the man on her left, whose stiffness made it clear he didn’t want her anywhere near him, either. Her nose began to tickle and she sneezed, to the quick response of seven “God bless yous.” Joe didn’t even turn in her direction, so she pointed her thank-you to him.

The woman next to her turned to face Suzanne, the miniature disco balls hanging from her ears doing the hustle in midair. “I’m Lucinda Madison, and this here’s my nephew-in-law, Joe Warner, and his kids.”

She paused, as if expecting Suzanne to follow suit. Reluctantly, she said, “I’m Suzanne.”

Lucinda blinked eyes cradled by false eyelashes, waiting for Suzanne to continue.

“Um, Suzanne L . . . Paris.” The name flew out of her mouth before she had a chance to figure out where it had come from. The fleeting image passed through her head as quickly as the scenery disappeared on the side of the road. It was of a page torn from an ancient magazine, with creases and holes that neatly bisected the picture of the Eiffel Tower. It had once hung on her mother’s refrigerator, until it had been permanently relegated to an inside pocket of Suzanne’s canvas tote, when anything as permanent as a mother or a refrigerator had disappeared from her life.

Lucinda smiled, her eyes warm but not at all guileless. With wisdom born of experience, Suzanne knew this would be a woman to be wary of. She gave the impression of being soft like a feather pillow—a nice place to lay your head. But inside, this Lucinda had a rod of steel for a spine. Her eyes saw the truth through the words, as if she’d had a great deal of experience in pulling out the weeds in the garden of her family.

“That’s such a pretty name, isn’t it, Joe?”

He didn’t even turn his head. “Hrum.”

The oldest, whom Suzanne had heard called Maddie, rested her elbows on the back of the front seat. “Where are you from, Miz Paris?”

Suzanne looked down at her sensible nails, neatly trimmed and filed. “No place in particular. I move around a lot.”

The girl shifted her elbows so she could crane her neck to see Suzanne’s face better in the overhead light that Lucinda had just turned on before ransacking her handbag. “Cool. What kind of job have you got that moves you all over the place?”

Suzanne moved in her seat to see the young girl better. She was pretty, with a narrow face and high, arched brows. Her clear skin was devoid of makeup, and her medium-brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. But it was her eyes that transformed an otherwise average face into something spectacular. They were the color of moss, accentuated by a black line around the iris. They sparkled as if holding back a joke, but there was something else there, too. Something sad and uncertain that didn’t have anything to do with the everyday life of a girl on the verge of womanhood.

“I . . . I take pictures.” Taking a deep breath and realizing that telling the truth about this wouldn’t give anything away, she continued. “I’m a freelance photographer.”

“You’re kidding! Anything I might have seen?”

Suzanne shook her head. “No. I mostly work for regional newspapers and periodicals. Some ad work. But nothing around here.”

Maddie pressed forward over the back of the seat. “Where’s all your equipment?”

There was a long pause when Suzanne tried to figure out how much she could tell, then decided on only a partial lie. “I sold most of it. I kept my Hasselblad, though, and a few lenses to get by, but that’s it. I’m not here on a job.”

“You have a Hasselblad? Wow. I’ve only seen those in photography magazines. Is it digital?”

Suzanne smiled, impressed with the girl’s knowledge. “No, it’s the old V System, and it’s my pride and joy.”

The young girl’s voice sounded incredulous. “Why’d you have to sell all your other stuff?” Something smacked the back window, and Suzanne turned to see the redheaded girl retrieving the empty sippy cup from the seat next to her.

Lucinda’s sharp voice called out a reprimand. “Maddie, I think you’ve forgotten your manners while I’ve been gone. Please apologize to Miz Paris for being so nosy.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Maddie mumbled as she sat back into her own seat.

Joe angled his head toward the back without taking his gaze from the road. “You shouldn’t be leaning over the front seat anyway. Put your seat belt on.”

The baby screamed once before the sound was replaced with loud slurps. Maddie spoke quietly, but her annoyance was clear. “I’m not a little kid anymore, and I don’t need one.”

This time Joe glared directly into the rearview mirror, into the face of his oldest daughter. “As soon as you stop acting like a little kid with ants in her pants, I’ll start treating you like a grown-up. Now you do as I say without arguing. Do you understand?”

Her voice was completely deflated now. “Yes, sir.” Suzanne heard the metallic click of a buckle being slid home.

Suzanne felt the tension in the car like a palpable shroud, and she squirmed in her seat, anxious to be alone again and away from all the complexities of family life that had never had anything to do with her.

Lucinda broke the silence and leaned forward to see Joe as she flipped off the overhead light. “My cousin Earl sent you some of his strawberry wine. I think it’s strong enough to sterilize your toilet, but he seemed right proud of it.” When Joe didn’t answer, she continued. “How have things been here?”

Lucinda turned around to look in the backseat, studying the children for the first time. Suzanne followed her gaze to the little boy in the car seat, one cowboy boot mysteriously absent and his pajama shirt now covered with red drool from a lollipop clutched in a grubby fist. Lucinda turned back around and faced Joe. “I can see you’re pulling from the bottom of the drawers. Did the washing machine get broke?”

Joe stared out the windshield, his shoulders hunched in a defensive posture. “Um, not exactly. We, uh, I ran out of detergent and I kept forgetting to stop by the store to get some.” Straightening, he faced Lucinda, his gaze deliberately overlooking Suzanne in the middle. “I’ve been a little busy. It’s hard working full-time and taking care of six kids.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Lucinda. Then, her eyes widening as if in realization, “But I’ve been gone for two weeks! Please tell me you did laundry at least once while I was gone.”

A small voice piped up from somewhere in the back of the truck. “Daddy said if we turned our underwear inside out they’d be as good as clean.”

A dead silence descended inside the vehicle, and Suzanne did her best to hide a smile. Joe reached over and flipped on the radio, turning up the volume enough to discourage conversation.

Suzanne sat forward in her seat, trying to see more of Walton and wondering distractedly where she was going. There had been so many car trips with unknown destinations for her that it didn’t occur to her to care or worry where they were taking her. It didn’t really matter. She never stayed long enough to make it matter.

They had driven into a residential part of the town, and as they pulled up to a stop sign she noticed a poster tacked to a telephone pole. WARNER IS WALTON, it proclaimed in broad black letters. Underneath was a picture of the man sitting next to her, in the center of six smiling and well-groomed children—none of whom seemed to resem