Bless Her Heart

Book 4: Ellery Novel

by Sally Kilpatrick

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

Synopsis

Laugh-out-loud funny and unabashedly uplifting, with just the right amount of Southern sass, Sally Kilpatrick’s wonderful novel centers on one woman’s journey from an unhappy marriage to a surprising second chance . . . On the day Posey Love discovers that her born-again husband has been ministering to some of his flock a little too eagerly, she also learns that he’s left her broke and homeless. Posey married Chad ten years ago in hopes of finding the stability her hippie mother couldn’t provide. Instead she got all the trappings of security—house, car, seemingly respectable husband—at the price of her freedom. Posey’s mother, Lark, accepts her daughter’s return home with grace, though her sister can’t resist pointing out that being a sweet Southern wife hasn’t worked out as planned. And so, with the Seven Deadly Sins as a guide, Posey decides to let loose for once. Envy is easy to check off the list—Posey only has to look at her best friend’s adorable baby for that. One very drunken night out takes care of gluttony. As for lust—her long-time friend, John, is suddenly becoming much more than a pal. One by one, Posey is bulldozing through her old beliefs about love, family—and what it really means to be good. And she’s finding that breaking a few rules might be the perfect way to heal a heart . . . Praise for Sally Kilpatrick’s Novels “Don't miss this quirky, fun love story. I couldn't put it down.” --Haywood Smith, New York Times bestselling author on Better Get to Livin’ “Kilpatrick mixes loss and devastation with hope and a little bit of Southern charm. She will leave the reader laughing through tears.” — RT Book Reviews on The Happy Hour Choir “A pleasantly engaging take on Romeo and Juliet.” — Library Journal on Bittersweet Creek

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

There were only three words in the English language that I hated with all of my being: bless, your, and heart—specifically in that order. One look through the glass door that led to Love Ministries, and I knew those words were winging my way. Miss Georgette wrestled with the door, pushing when she ought to pull. She came to the little brick building twice every week, but she still had trouble with that door. Today, the older lady wore a knit pantsuit with a cat appliqué on the front. Siamese cat earrings dangled from her ears.

“Why, Posey. Are you still working as a receptionist?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Just as I had for the past five years.

“Well.”

Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

“Bless your heart.”

My entire body relaxed. I’d braced myself for her words as one would brace for bullets when standing in front of a firing squad. She’d said them. It was done.

“You know, I still say you would’ve made a right fine elementary teacher. I was so disappointed when you didn’t take a job after you graduated.”

“I am sorry about that,” I said. Mainly sorry for myself, but sorry nonetheless.

She continued speaking as if she hadn’t heard me. “You were one of my absolute best students when I taught elementary education at the college. I still have some of the games and projects that you made.”

Miss Georgette reminded me of this every time she came through the doors. While flattered that she still had some of my school projects, I wished she wouldn’t remind me that my life hadn’t exactly gone as planned. At thirty-two years old, I was supposed to be almost ten years into a teaching career with at least two children. I had d) none of the above.

“I heard from Lisa who heard from Jackie that Heather Mickens has been put on bed rest so they have a supply position open in first grade. You should apply and see how you like it.”

Here was a first: Miss Georgette actually pushing me in the direction of a teaching job instead of bemoaning the fact I didn’t have one. “Oh, I don’t know. I bet I’ve forgotten everything I once knew. The standards have probably changed, and—”

“Pish-posh. First graders are the same as they ever were.” Miss Georgette waved away my concerns, and the Siamese cats hanging from her ears dangled in time to the motion. “You should apply for the job and at least see what happens. Ellery Elementary won’t find a more upstanding lady than you.”

I looked down at my floral dress with the lace collar. I spent a lot of time cultivating my image as “upstanding” because everyone knew my mother had a bit of a past. Sure, I might dress like an extra on The Golden Girls now, but I was the daughter of the legendary hippie girl who ran away from home and came back pregnant. I was the baby she bore, a girl who’d never known a father. Never mind the fact I had nothing to do with my mother’s actions. They, of course, were all reasons to bless my heart.

I could still hear the voices, the whispered snatches of conversation from the teachers and professors as I made my way through Ellery Elementary, then Yessum High and finally the local college, always doing my best to be invisible.

Her mama makes her clothes out of hemp instead of getting them at the store.

Well, bless her heart.

No clue who her father is. Vonda over at the Health Department saw the birth certificate and said no father was listed.

That’s awful. Bless her heart.

Did you hear her mama’s got pregnant again? Still not married.

Mmm-hmm. Bless her heart.

Now she’s married that Chad Love. He has to be at least ten years older than she is.

Oh, bless her heart.

They’ve been married forever now and still no kids. Think something’s wrong with one of them?

Probably her. Poor thing, bless her heart.

Miss Georgette waved a beefy hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me, Posey?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I remembered some things I have to do.” I made a show of making notes on my planner then looked up. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying you should apply for the supply position, and that I would be happy to put in a good word for you if you did.”

“That’s really kind of you, Miss Georgette.”

The tips of her ears and the tops of her cheeks turned pink. “It would be nothing. My pleasure, really.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” Surprisingly, I did. Aside from the constant heart-blessing, Miss Georgette had always been very good to me.

“Don’t you forget to turn in that application,” she admonished as she started down the hall toward her weekly Bible study.

Unlikely that I would forget. Even more unlikely that I would turn in the application. Chad didn’t want me to work outside the home. When we first married, the plan was for me to stay home and be mother to our children. He promised me at least two even though I wanted four. God, however, had other plans. After ten years of trying to get pregnant, I had nothing to show for the effort. We’d been to a few doctors even though Chad wanted to leave everything to God’s will. The last doctor told me I would never conceive. I tried to mean it when I prayed “thy will be done,” but I couldn’t help but add a plea for motherhood. God had changed his mind once or twice, right?

After the doctor’s pronouncement, I asked Chad about adoption. He said he didn’t feel comfortable having some stranger’s baby in his house. That hurt my heart. Then I asked about teaching again, but he always found a way to talk me out of it. Funny that I, the daughter of Ellery’s most notorious single mom, would allow a man to talk me out of anything, but we’d left the Baptist Church about two years into our marriage to form a ministry that relied on the principle of men being the head of their respective households. Wives, of course, were to be cherished in addition to being submissive. I had to admit it was quite freeing not to have to make any decisions.

Even so, I chafed at having to wait for his blessing—or God’s—to do what I wanted to do.

It can’t hurt to look for an application.

I booted up my computer and searched for the Yessum County School System, the online application taunting me. Since I obviously wouldn’t be having babies any time soon, I could at least teach them. This receptionist job was supposed to have been temporary. Not enough people came through the door to merit my existence anyway. Sometimes I wondered how Chad kept the doors open, but, as head of the household, he handled all of the finances so I took it on faith that he had everything under control. Submission and obedience, as he was fond of reminding me, were more difficult than his position of authority and responsibility.

Down the hall behind me Chad whistled as he approached. I quickly switched tabs to a document before he could see the application. He didn’t like for me to be on the Internet. He said he was afraid I’d stumble upon something impure. To his point, it was the Internet.

“Posey, are all of my Bible study members here?” he asked, leaning over my desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“They’re all here,” I said.

Still he leaned, studying me, so I took a moment to study him. My husband looked more handsome now than he had before: dark hair and brown eyes with crinkles at the edges. Sometimes I wondered how he had ended up with a plain girl like me, but he could talk almost anyone into anything, and I was no exception. He’d sold me on the American dream: nice house and two and a half kids, even joking that he didn’t know how we’d make that half. I suggested a dog instead, but he reminded me he was allergic.

Then he’d sold me on being a submissive wife, pointing out that, without a father, my home life had been less than ideal. He was right about that. Granny and Mom had argued. Often they had no extra money to go around. Thanks to Mom’s less than disciplined behavior, I’d had my heart blessed more times than I could count. I couldn’t argue with him that she would’ve benefited from the discipline that seemingly eluded her until she’d had her third child.

Chad was all about discipline. If I spent too much on groceries, then he took away some of my pin money to remind me to be more frugal. If I overindulged in sweets and my pants got too tight, he hid the cookies. If I got behind with clerical tasks or domestic chores, then he had me stay late an hour at work or had me get up an hour earlier on Saturday to make up for lost time. Sometimes I muttered under my breath at his “suggestions,” but I did have to admit that we stayed on budget, I stayed in my pants, and everything ran smoothly at home and at work. In that way, he’d given me the stability I’d always craved.

At least he’d never actually raised his hand to me even though some of the ministers he communicated with did take the ideas of submissive wives and discipline quite literally.

Well, there was that one time, but I’d made him understand there were two things I wouldn’t tolerate: infidelity and being hit. I’d given him one more chance on the second, but there were no extra chances on the first.

“Posey, dear?”

“Yes?”

“You were daydreaming again,” he said as he chucked my chin. “Would you be a dear and go to the Calais Café to get us lunch today?” He slid his glasses back up his nose.

“Of course,” I said, “Do we have enough money in the checking account, though?”

“Always thinking, you,” he said as he reached for his wallet and took out a couple of twenties. “You know what I like. Be sure to bring back the change, though.”

“I’ll have it by noon.”

He kissed my cheek, then headed down the hall still whistling. How was it possible that he didn’t seem to age at all, but I couldn’t keep the ravages of time at bay? Today would be another day to skip dessert or anything fatty because my shapewear was cutting into me again. He had that dignified sprinkle of gray at his temple, but my dark brown hair threatened to go salt-and-pepper any day now. He still wore the same pant size as when we got married, but my hips kept spreading.

They looked like childbearing hips. Oh, the irony.

While Chad talked to the old ladies down the hall about Revelation for the umpteenth dozenth time, I created a new email address and then filled out the application to be a supply teacher. It felt sneaky to do so, but Chad insisted that we share an email address, and I wasn’t ready to tell him yet. It was worth whatever lecture he might give me to be able to surprise him with something I’d done for the good of our family.

As penance, I determined I would get him dessert even though I wouldn’t be having any. Once at the Calais Café, I knew he wanted the chicken potpie and a slice of pecan pie. Finding something healthy for myself would be more difficult. After looking over the menu, I settled on a chicken Caesar salad with light Italian dressing on the side. They had a pristine chocolate pie in the safe, uncut with mile-high meringue that had browned just so. My mouth watered, but I passed.

Once I returned I thought we might lunch together, but Chad told me he needed to take a working lunch. “Oh, you got me pie, too! How thoughtful of you.”

This earned me a kiss on the lips and a covert pinch on the butt once he was sure no one was looking. Then he took his lunch to the back, and I sat down at my lonely reception desk to convince myself that I did, indeed, like chicken Caesar salad.

My self wasn’t having it that day.

When Amanda Kildare appeared on the other side of the door, teary-eyed and looking both ways, I wasn’t sad about pushing the salad to the side. Amanda and I had gone to school together, but we hadn’t moved in the same circles. She had been popular. Me? Not so much. Even so, she’d started coming to me for advice when she and her husband jumped ship from First Baptist to attend Love Ministries. I didn’t like giving advice, but Chad had told me to say a quick prayer and offer up what words I could because he wasn’t an expert on those things women discussed.

I suppose my staid Golden Girls aesthetic inspired confidence.

Next thing I knew, she stood over my desk wringing her hands. “Everything okay, Amanda?”

“No. Not really. I see you’re eating lunch, but could I talk to you for a few minutes? I need some advice.”

“Sure, but Chad’s just down the hall.”

She hesitated and looked toward his office, as though afraid he would appear. “Really, this is something that needs to be discussed woman-to-woman.”

“It’s not gossip, right?” I was so not in the mood to hear Chad recite the gossip passage from Romans later.

“No, no. This is about me.”

“Well, I’ll help you if I can,” I said.

If I’d been hoping for something quickly discussed over the reception desk, I was destined for disappointment. Amanda went across the little lobby to drag an overstuffed chair behind the desk. It got hung up between the desk and the wall, so she stepped over and sat down, leaning over her knees. She smelled of Chanel Number Five, with every golden hair in place and her sweater set just so. Her tiny little boots tapped on the floor, the perfect shade of brown and the perfect style for her designer jeans. No matter how many times she came through the door, I couldn’t help but marvel at what brought the former Homecoming Queen to me.

Finally, she whispered, “You know that book?”

Heavens. That again? I had a pretty good idea where this was going, but I cautiously asked, “Which book?”

Amanda reached behind her for what had to be a designer handbag and opened it enough for me to see. Sure enough, it was, indeed, that book, the gray one with the tie on the cover.

“I know of the book.”

He eyes gleamed with hope. “Have you read it?”

“No, should I?”

Her shoulders slumped. “You’re going to judge me, too.”

“Amanda, you know I wouldn’t do that. Judge not lest ye be judged.”

She took a deep breath and launched into her story, a variation of which I’d been hearing for months. She’d been curious, wanting to see what all of the fuss was about. She’d asked her husband to try some new things in the bedroom. I mentally placed my bets for who’d upset her: Husband? Friend? Aunt? Sister?

“And then he told his mother!”

I did not see that one coming.

“As if I weren’t already embarrassed enough that he was telling his mother about our sex life, she told me I was going to hell for reading such filth. Do you think I’m going to hell, Posey?”

Ah, the million-dollar question. At least ten different women had been in my office over the past few months, all wanting to know if I thought they were going to hell for reading a book. “Tell me, Amanda, have you killed anyone recently?”

“No,” she said with a sniff.

“Stolen from anyone? Maybe disrespected your parents or coveted your neighbor’s husband?”

“No! Ew.”

“Did this book make you commit adultery?”

“You know it didn’t.”

“Maybe you made a graven image or took up Satanism?”

She gasped, “What has gotten into you?”

Even as she said it, all of my examples dawned on her. “Oh. I get it. You’re saying that I haven’t caused anyone harm so it’s okay.”

I shrugged. “There’s a difference between ‘okay’ and ‘good.’ There’s that whole passage about thinking on what’s pure and lovely and admirable, but I don’t think reading a book is going to send you to hell. Unless it has to do with devil worship.”

She graced me with the Homecoming smile that had launched a thousand votes. “Thank you, Posey. You know, I would feel better, though, if you would read the book and then tell me it’s okay.”

“No, thank you. I don’t really have much time for reading.” Or, more accurately, I didn’t make time for things I didn’t want to read in the first place.

“Well, I’m done with this book, so I’ll leave it here with you.” She took the book in question and put it in my bottom drawer.

“Amanda—”

“No, I trust you to get rid of it,” she said with that beaming smile. “Thank you so much for making me feel better.”

“I didn’t do that much,” I said. “I still think you should’ve spoken with Chad. He’s the preacher.”

She dragged the chair back to where it belonged, and turned to look at me with her expression all scrunched up. “No. He would’ve given me the lecture about asking my husband permission for what I read or something like that. You give better advice because you help people figure things out for themselves rather than just telling them what to do.”

I didn’t have an answer for that, but I wished I had someone who’d help me figure things out without telling me what to do. I opened my mouth to say “You’re welcome,” but Amanda was already gone.

She hadn’t closed the desk drawer all the way, and the book mocked me, tempted me even. I reached for the book just as I heard Chad whistling his way down the hall. I slammed the drawer shut so he wouldn’t see it.

The next day I dressed with care and got up early to make mint brownies.

“Why did you make brownies?” Chad asked once we were seated in the car and on the way to work.

“Because John O’Brien is coming to tune the piano,” I said. “He really likes brownies and he’s tuning the piano at a discount, so it’s the least that I could do.”

“Well, I think you should prayerfully consider whether or not you should share those brownies with him,” Chad said.

“Why?”

“Weren’t you just complaining about how your clothes are getting too tight?”

Shapewear, actually, but ouch.

“Would you like me to save any for you?” I asked.

“You know I prefer blondies,” he said.

It was true that my husband hated chocolate. Often, I’d thought that maybe—just maybe—if I’d hated chocolate, too, then I could’ve been more svelte.

We arrived at Love Ministries quickly, and I took my seat at the reception desk while Chad went down the hall. Even before the computer booted up, Naomi Rawls yanked open the door, wearing a perfectly matched tank top and fitted workout pants. She had to be dressed for the Zumba class she taught down at First Baptist. “Is Chad in?”

“He just got here.” I pointed down the tiny hallway, and she headed in that direction.

Chad had suggested I try Zumba, and I went to two classes, but dancing exercises weren’t for me. I never could get the hang of having my arms do one thing while my legs did another. Either the dancing gene had skipped me or years of growing up in a school system that didn’t allow proms had stunted my rhythmic growth.

I had to admit Naomi looked quite healthy and rosy. Maybe I should give Zumba another go.

No, her eyes had been red-rimmed from crying. I looked curiously down the hall, but I could only hear the soft murmur of voices. Usually, he called me into the office when a woman wanted to see him. He said it was for propriety, but I’d seen the article he read about avoiding law suits.

Oh, Posey, you don’t know. Maybe it’s a really personal matter she doesn’t want to share with just anyone.

As long as she didn’t come in to ask me if reading that book meant she was going to hell, I didn’t care.

I typed up the newsletter that included the month’s happenings as well as a prayer list. The format went out of whack, so I fussed and fiddled with the email until lunchtime. When I went into the break room for lunch, I found Chad’s spaghetti container empty but unwashed in the sink. I rinsed it out while I waited for my spaghetti to heat in the microwave.

I eyed the bottles of Mexican Coke in the fridge. I could resist regular Coke, but the Mexican variety, made with real sugar, tasted better. Granny, in her more lucid moments, spoke with woe of the days of New Coke and how the old recipe simply wasn’t the same as it had been before the Max Headroom fiasco. I’d thought she was crazy until I’d tasted the difference for myself. Granny, as it turned out, was crazy like a fox. Sure, she thought she was living in the fifties and carried a baby doll around with her, but she still knew things.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the fridge and got a glass of water from the sink instead. If only I could lose weight the Chad way: cutting out bread at supper.

I wasn’t even eating real pasta, and still I hadn’t lost a pound. No, my spaghetti sauce rested on spaghetti squash, which all of the Internet articles swore to me would taste exactly like noodles. Such articles reminded me that the Internet lied. Chad had hated the stuff so much, I’d had to boil him some pasta on the spot. I wanted real noodles, but I persevered through the spaghetti squash. It was the principle of the thing, really. After devoting an hour of my time to roasting the gourd, I was going to eat it.

Or at least some of it.

In the end, I scrapped half of the spaghetti-squash concoction into the trash and took up my post at the reception desk. The mint brownies called to me, but I ignored them. Twice I reached behind me to the shelf where I’d put them. Twice I turned around and concentrated on emails and voicemails and snail mail.

At two exactly, John O’Brien showed up. He had no trouble pulling open the door instead of pushing, and, as always, he looked effortlessly gorgeous with his ripped jeans and his blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Chad didn’t like for John to wear the ripped jeans into the church building, but John had worked as a roadie for a semi-famous rock band up until two years ago. I didn’t think he had enough money to replace his wardrobe, not that he seemed inclined to do so.

“Working hard or hardly working?” he asked with a grin that revealed dimples. I’d spent many an eighth grade earth science class contemplating those dimples.

“The second one,” I said, willing my heart to keep its beating rhythmic and normal. Completely normal.

So what if I’d had a crush on John O’Brien since eighth grade? I was a married woman, but I could appreciate the view. As my bestie Liza always said, she might’ve ordered but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look at the menu. Whatever menu he was on, John O’Brien was the best entrée. That much I knew.

“You’re going to make me suffer, aren’t you?’

“Hmm. What?”

“The brownies. Did you forget to make the brownies. . .