Stealing Mr. Smith: A compelling historical fiction family saga

Book 2: The Smith Family Series

by Tanya E Williams

Genres: World War II; Coming of Age; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

She’s desperate to escape misfortune. Her quest may cost her everything…

South Dakota, 1948. Bernice Rosin refuses to settle for anything less than a happily-ever-after. Following the ordeal of caring for her dying mother only to be abandoned at an orphanage, she’s had enough misery to last a lifetime. Heading west for the luxury of the big city, she vows to find someone who can keep her safe and financially secure.

But her reckless search for a suitor only leads to heartbreak and scandal. So when she meets a soft-spoken WWII vet with more to offer than money, she knows she’ll need a whole new set of charms to make it to the altar.

Can Bernice free herself from the past and finally discover a place she belongs?

Stealing Mr. Smith is a stand alone story in a compelling historical fiction family saga. If you like emotional journeys, troubled characters, and thought-provoking dilemmas, then you’ll love Tanya E Williams’ engaging novel.

 

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Release date: September 25, 2018

Publisher: Rippling Effects

Print pages: 242

Sample

AUGUST 1942
Bernice

 

I’ve always deserved better. Nobody ever told me so. It is simply a fact I’ve always known to be true.

I step out from the blackness of the crooked doorframe into the hot August sun. The dusty ground is so dry my feet slash cuts into the bar- ren land. I almost wish a crack big enough to swallow the shack we call home would appear. I rest the back of my hand against my forehead to block the glare and rub at the crusty layer of sweat, the result of time spent boiling cloths over the wood-burning stove.

At nine years old, my height has yet to catch up with my chores. Teetering on tiptoe while I peer into an oversized pot filled with river water and onion-thin cloths is dangerous yet necessary. The cloths are a desperate attempt to boil out the sickness that keeps Mother in the small, stuffy bedroom at the back of the house.

With Alice’s escape to what she called a better life, I am the next oldest girl in line to be burdened. I’m forced to be nursemaid to Mother and mother to my younger sister, Patty. Nobody ever asked me, but I’d have told them that Alice should have married her George and then come back for the rest of us. That is what family is for, to take care of one another, especially in desperate times such as these.

Desperate times is all we’ve ever known. Father works the farm for the man from the city. He does the best he can, but I suspect farming was never his best skill. The two-bedroom, dirt floor house comes with the job, and though he used to talk about fixing it up and adding indoor plumbing, those dreams vanished when Mother fell ill. With little money for doctor’s visits, Mother’s state is sure to worsen. I shake my head as the weight of my life presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

The farm sits five miles from the center of Sioux Falls. The walk is long, only made longer whenever Patty pesters me into letting her tag along. Most days, there is no need to walk to town, and since Alice’s abrupt departure, there is no time for such a journey anyway. During the school months, my brothers, Reggie and Albert, spend a few days at the one-room schoolhouse, their education always interrupted by the demands of the failing piece of farmland.

A scratching sound from beyond the darkened doorway catches my attention. I cock my ear toward the sound and listen. Mother’s cough has gotten worse over the past few days. I both fear and hope for it to end soon. Satisfied the noise is likely a field mouse seeking a piece of shade, I return my attention to the dust bowl that is our front yard. I squint my eyes and take in the shimmering heat on the horizon. I let the mirage of a cool body of water play across my imagination and dream of splashing about in the lake like other girls my age must do. Other girls have proper swimming costumes and ponytails placed high atop their heads. I can almost hear their voices squeal in delight as they play and splash one another, blind to the reality of a life like mine.

Patty’s shadow interrupts my daydream as she emerges from the side of the house, metal watering can in hand. She swings the nearly empty can as she walks toward me, droplets scattering with each step. At six years old, Patty is the spitting image of our father. I see his eyes reflected in hers. She carries his gentle soul too. I used to admire his gentleness. He was a fun loving man who always had time for a game of tag or a romp around the yard. A smile creeps across my face before I shoo the memory away.

“Any hope for peas?” I ask, already dreading the response. I hear my desire for something sweet in the rumble of my stomach.

Patty shrugs and shakes her head no. She places the watering can beside the open door before standing beside me. She takes my hand in hers, a gesture that is becoming more common in the days without Alice or Mother. “Turnips again,” I say as bile churns in my gurgling stomach. Another silent shrug, and Patty turns toward the open door of our little shack. “Momma’s sleeping.” My warning deflates her tiny body, and I watch with a sadness I seldom entertain as she turns and walks toward the barn. Several steps later, her familiar lightness returns as she hops, skips, and jumps, following an imaginary weaving line toward the barn’s faded red doors.

Sweat trickles down the side of my face as Mother’s cough echoes from the blackness behind me. I step over the threshold into the thick, stifling air of the tiny room. The air is cooler in the shade, but I worry the heavy sickness will suffocate even the healthiest of people.

The bedroom door groans as I ease it open, revealing Mother lying in bed. Her head is bent over the bucket I placed there earlier. The familiar smell of vomit rushes to greet me as I step into the room. Sunlight filters through the thin floral curtains, the fabric unable to block the light. Mother’s once-braided hair falls around her face like a veil separating me from the retching that consumes her. I place a boiled cloth on her skin, stretching my arm as far as I can and stepping no closer than necessary. I am careful to keep my distance as a wave of nausea rises in my own body.

Once she settles back in bed, I dip the cloth into the wash basin and wring it out with all the strength I can muster. I sit on the edge of her bed and dream of being anywhere but here. I wipe her face, beginning with her forehead. A small sigh escapes her chapped lips as her eyes flutter, watching me as I move the cloth across her cheek.

Mother grips my arm with both hands. “Bernice, I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”

I dip the cloth into the basin again. “We can thank Alice for that.” I blurt out the comment before I bite my lip, remembering that Father warned me not to complain to Mother about Alice or, well, about Mother.

A strangled laugh emerges as a weak smile spreads across her raw, colorless lips. “Oh, Bernice. You’ve never been one to mince words. Don’t you see how alike you and Alice are? My two oldest girls, so similar yet so convinced that they are nothing alike.” A ragged cough propels her frail body toward the bucket again. I rub her back as I’ve seen her do for Patty after a bad dream.

Exhaustion wins out, ending all conversation between us. I straighten the bedding over her and reach for the paper fan on the shelf beside her bed. Mother’s darkened eyes close as she drifts back to sleep. I wave the fan, trying to offer her some comfort while keeping the flies away. I am nothing like Alice, I think to myself. Nothing at all like her.