The Sunday Wife

by Cassandra King

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

Synopsis

Married for 20 years to the Reverend Benjamin Lynch, a handsome, ambitious minister of the prestigious Methodist church, Dean Lynch has never quite adjusted her temperament to the demands of the role of a Sunday wife. When her husband is assigned to a larger and more demanding community in the Florida panhandle, Dean becomes fast friends with Augusta Holderfield, a woman whose good looks and extravagant habits immediately entrance her. As their friendship evolves, Augusta challenges Dean to break free from her traditional role as the preacher's wife. Just as Dean is questioning everything she has always valued, a tragedy occurs, providing the catalyst for change in ways she never could have imagined.

Release date: May 29, 2012

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 410

Sample

LEAVING MY LIFE BEHIND me, I follow the sun, blinking against its late-afternoon brightness, my swollen eyes burning. When I turn off Highway 98, the scenic route that spans the Florida Panhandle from Tallahassee to Mobile Bay, my memories close in. I long to turn off the air conditioner and roll the windows down and let the salt air blow back to Crystal Springs, where my memories belong. Stopping at the pedestrian walk in the Victorian village of Seaside, I watch sun-browned tourists cross from the Gulf, loaded down with wet towels, beach bags of sunscreen, bottled water. The driver behind me honks his horn, and, startled out of my daze, I turn into the parking area in front of Modaci’s Market. Supplies, Celeste said—don’t forget to stop at Modaci’s for groceries and stuff, soap, toothpaste, toilet paper. Her place has been closed up, needs restocking. Celeste the fortune-teller, the outcast. The only one I could turn to when my life fell apart. She was the one who put the keys in my hand, who guided me to the car and said, Go. Go to Grayton Beach. No one will look for you there.

The road to Celeste’s beach place is sugar-white sand, spinning the wheels of my car as I turn off the highway. Grayton Beach isn’t like the other resort areas on the Emerald Coast—it’s the real Florida, the locals say. Maddox told me that years ago, when leaving the Miracle Strip of Panama City, you could drive all the way to Grayton and see nothing but the thick scrub that covers north Florida like kudzu covers the rest of the South. Now there’s one development after the other, clear to Mobile Bay. Grayton’s little shops and cottages are tucked away in gnarled pines and stunted oaks, not one condominium blocking the view to the ocean. If the neighboring Seaside is a fairy-tale kingdom, then Grayton Beach is the enchanted forest, hiding the little people.

I drive for half a mile before coming to the trailer park, deep in a grove of pine flatwoods, overgrown with blackberry bushes and scrub. Although I can’t see it, I feel it—the Gulf of Mexico, right behind the moss-hung oaks. I roll the window down, breathing the hot salt air. Open the door of my trailer, Celeste had said, and the ocean is your backyard.

At the end of the road is Celeste’s trailer, hidden in low-hanging magnolia trees, the branches scraping the top of my car when I park. Sea oats wave in the sandy yard like welcoming banners as I make my way up the path overgrown with sticker-burrs. The tiny silver trailer is a doll’s house with zodiac signs painted around the door frame, Aquarius pouring water from a pitcher, Pisces the fish, Scorpio a skeletal crab … emblems of her trade, Celeste’s star signs. Climbing the concrete block steps, I fumble with the key, all of a sudden dead tired.

Everything is as Celeste described inside, the late afternoon sun flooding in as I pull the shades one by one. The front windows are dark, obscured by magnolia branches, but those across the back offer a breathtaking vista of white sand and beach foliage. I wish the sand dunes weren’t so tall, weren’t covered by tangles of sea-grape vines, blocking the view of the ocean, then scoff at my ingratitude. If Celeste hadn’t offered me this place, I’d have nowhere to go, ocean view or not. Moving to the tiny kitchen area, I put away my meager groceries, fruit and bread and cheese. I’d never bought so few things; Ben, the classic meat-and-potatoes man, demanded big meals, a pantry stocked with junk food, groceries the biggest chunk of our budget. From a plastic bag I bring out two bottles of wine, a good bordeaux and a pinot grigio for variety. Augusta’s legacy. In my upbringing, there was no such thing as wine with dinner—my people drank Jim Beam from a brown paper bag in the back of a pickup truck.

I’d bought a pound of fresh shrimp at Modaci’s, gasping when the clerk rang it up. Ten ninety-five. Holding up the checkout line, I went to the back of the store and returned with fishing equipment and bait. Setting up poles and lines and pulling my supper from the sea was something I was born knowing how to do. A country girl can survive. Retrieving the equipment from the car, I walk to the beach. As I top the biggest dune, the emerald splendor is spread out before me, a banquet of blue sky and green sea on a white picnic table. Kicking off my flip-flops, I run to the water with the pole banging against my bare legs. The hot foamy waves cover my feet as I throw my head back to shout: “Yes!” My voice rises and joins the song of seagulls overhead: as far as the eye can see, only the wide expanse of sea and sky, and for a moment, I forget why I’ve run away. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this hideaway, this healing elixir of sea and sun, but I thank God in a prayer snatched from my lips by the sea wind. I thank Him that we don’t always get what we deserve. Sometimes, we get what we need.

Low and pink, the sun hovers over the horizon like an iridescent bubble suspended by a playful angel. I bait the hook of my fishing pole with a gray shrimp and cast the line way out into the waves. After anchoring the pole firmly in wet sand, I walk far enough to see the town of Grayton. Last time I walked those streets, peeping in the little shops and art galleries, Augusta and Gus waited for me in the outdoor café beneath banana trees. The town blurs as my eyes fill with tears, and, remembering, I turn my head away, toward the setting sun. How many sunsets will it take before I can think of them without crying? I guess that’s what I’ve come to Grayton to find out.

I ENDED UP AT Grayton Beach because I came to Crystal Springs first. It was three years ago, the first Wednesday in June, that Ben and I moved to the town of Crystal Springs, across the state of Florida from the Jacksonville area where we’d lived for twenty years. With the moving van a few minutes behind us, we pulled our cars, me following Ben—a metaphor for our life together—into the driveway of our new house. We’d moved before, several times, but this was the most momentous one yet. Ben motioned for me to join him before we walked up the brick walkway to the house. A welcoming committee awaited us inside, and I was nervous. A few weeks before, Ben had met with them and won them over; now it was my turn.

“Dean, listen to me now,” Ben said in a low voice, as we stood next to his blue Buick. “I was thinking on the ride over—a couple of things I forgot to tell you about these folks.” Although I was skittish, worried about making a good impression, Ben was poised and confident. His brown eyes were alight, his dark hair in place. Almost fifty now, Ben looked better than the first day I saw him, standing in the back of the First Methodist Church of Amelia Island. As a young man, he’d been good-looking in a boyish, clean-cut way; as an older man, he was remarkably handsome. Trim and muscular, he always dressed well, impressive in dark suits, starched shirts, silk ties, and fine leather shoes. He was one of those men who became more distinguished with age, his silvered temples giving him an air of authority. A helpful trait in his profession.

I folded my arms and leaned against his car with a sigh. “I don’t know how,” I said, “since you’ve given me every detail of their lives. Bet I know more about them than they do.” Looking around, I saw that the church, next door to the parsonage, was big, much bigger than I expected, with a towering white steeple and stained-glass windows gleaming in the sun like jewels. The saying went, the more stained glass, the higher up the ladder the preacher was. Ben was halfway to heaven here.

“Remember this, because it’s very important,” he said in a whisper, although there was no one around to hear him. “The Administrative Board chairperson is Bob Harris. Bob Harris, president of First Florida bank, a real big shot in town, so be especially nice to him.”

“Bob Harris,” I repeated dutifully, looking away from the church. I didn’t know it would be so big. I longed for the safety of our little church in Lake City, wishing we’d never come here. Earlier on, I’d been as excited as Ben, thrilled with the move, his appointment to Crystal Springs. Now I was just apprehensive.

Ben bent his head close to mine and I smelled his spicy aftershave. “Got everyone’s name right? Bob’s wife’s Collie, I think. Collie something-or-other.”

“Collie dog?”

“Collie Ruth, I believe. No—wait, that’s his sister-in-law. His wife’s Lorraine. Or Loretta. Loretta Harris, that’s it.”

“Which one, Ben?”

“Lorraine, just like I said. You’ve got to pay attention, Dean, or you’ll mess up. Now, remember who the president of the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee is?”

I shook my head and held up a hand, annoyed. “You’re confusing me. Trust me, okay? I’ll get their names right.” Ben had trouble with names, not me. “I’m not the one who stood in the pulpit and introduced the guest soloist Peter Littlejohn as John Littlepeter,” I reminded him.

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?” Cutting his eyes my way, Ben tried not to smile, to maintain his look of piety. It was a look he was good at.

“Never. Anytime you get too self-righteous I’ll be here to remind you,” I told him, smiling. We’d spent twenty years together with me being his foil; he was the esteemed man of God, me the thorn in his side. “I’ll be fine, Ben, don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“You’d better be. Let’s go in, then.” As Ben straightened himself up, I readied myself, too, smoothing down my long denim skirt, reaching under the waistband to tuck in my best white cotton blouse. Licking my fingertips, I smoothed back my hair, tugged on the ponytail at the nape of my neck, fidgeted with the wide barrette that held it in place. But when I retrieved a tube of lipstick from the small purse hanging over my shoulder, Ben took my arm and pulled me forward, his grip firm. “You don’t have time to primp,” he said in a low voice. “They’re peeking out the windows at us! Let’s go.”

As we walked up to the house, I was taken aback by the difference in it and Ben’s description. When he’d returned from meeting with the committee, I’d probed him to describe the town, the church, and the house in minute detail, but he’d been vague. He did okay with the church and town, but all he remembered about the house was that it was big, yellow brick, Colonial in style, and very formal. He’d not told me it was such a fine place, that the front lawn with its lush green grass was so neatly landscaped, abloom with white daisies and orange daylilies. He’d neglected to say that the wide grounds sloped toward the street to a sidewalk shaded with palm trees. Towns with sidewalks seemed more welcoming to me. The brick walkway leading to the front porch of the house was bordered in purple pansies, their sweet faces turned toward us in greeting.

Ben put his hand on my back, steering me forward, and I swallowed nervously as we climbed the brick steps, moving toward our new life, to meet the people who’d decide if we’d make it here or not. I glanced at Ben, praying he’d tell me it would be all right. He ignored me, eyes straight ahead, and I forced down the panic building somewhere deep within, causing my knees to go weak and my heart to thud. I can do this, I repeated to myself, I can do this for Ben.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I married Ben. Had I known, would I have done it? It’s impossible to answer that now. All I know is, when I first laid eyes on the Reverend Ben Lynch, I knew he was the man I’d marry. I’d taken a job right out of college, as pianist of my foster parents’ church on Amelia Island, when the Reverend Ben Lynch was appointed our pastor. It was his second, maybe third, church appointment since he’d gotten out of seminary. His first Sunday, he was standing in the back of the church, greeting the congregation, when I walked into the choir loft to prepare for the morning worship service. I stopped and stared at him. Although not much taller than me, he was well-built and broad-shouldered, with thick brown hair and shining dark eyes, good-looking as a movie star. I pulled the choir director aside and whispered, “Who is that?”

“Our new preacher,” she replied, smiling slyly. “Good-looking, isn’t he? We’re lucky to get him. He’s on his way up.”

He was. Had he not made the career-fatal mistake of marrying me, Ben Lynch would’ve been where he wanted to go, top of the ladder of the United Methodist Church. Almost thirty years old then, the son of a prominent minister, he’d been on his way. To be a successful preacher, however, he needed a wife, and he needed one quick. He was too good-looking, too smooth and charming to stay single; younger women in his churches fell in love with him, and the older ones plotted to marry him off to their daughters. The bishop didn’t like single ministers; there was too much potential for trouble. But Ben had been too preoccupied with getting his doctorate, preparing himself for a life of service in the church, to look for a wife.

Lucky me; I came along at just the right time. Because of my moony-eyed crush on him, the church ladies conspired to marry us off. With no idea that they’d set a trap for him, Ben took me on as a project, educating me in the ways of the church, molding me to be the perfect preacher’s wife. Even though I’d not been raised in the Methodist church—had been a rebellious foster child and an object of charity—Ben was sure he could make me into a worthy mate. Some cynics say all preachers have God complexes, and Dr. Ben Lynch thought himself a miracle worker. Henry Higgins in a clerical collar, maybe. Since I’d not been schooled in the church, grown up with its traditions and modes of behavior, I lacked all the necessary graces to be the kind of preacher’s wife the church expected. So this move was my chance to make a fresh start.

The welcoming committee surrounded Ben and me as soon as we opened the front door, and I was enveloped in hugs and kisses. A quick count told me there were two men and four women. A determined smile on my face, I eyed them warily, my defenses up. I knew from past experiences that this committee would be the one to tell everyone in town about the new preacher and his wife. Before the sun set today, Crystal Springs would know exactly how we dressed, how we acted toward each other, and the contents of every single box we brought in.

“So this lovely lady is your better half, Dr. Lynch,” said the first man to greet us. He had to be Bob Harris, chairman of the Administrative Board, exactly as I pictured him—in his early sixties, with bright silver hair and a politician’s smile and handshake. Standing next to him, his wife wasn’t Lorraine or Loretta but Noreen, and I shot Ben an exasperated look when I called her both before getting it right. Chairwoman of the parsonage committee, Noreen was petite, with beige hair that wouldn’t budge in a hurricane. “Why, Dean, you’re so pretty. And so much younger than we expected,” she said as she kissed my cheek and fluttered her eyelashes at Ben. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and her perfume, gardenias.

The next one to introduce herself was exactly as Ben had described her: Collie Ruth Walker, sister to Noreen and the president of the most powerful organization in the church, the United Methodist Women. Immediately I was drawn to Collie Ruth, a handsome woman in her sixties, tastefully dressed in a silk dress and pearl choker. According to Ben, she was active in community and civic affairs as well as in groups like the Historic Society. I figured she was a widow, wealthy, who lived in a big old house that’d been in the family for years, richly furnished with antiques. The sunlight through the windows of the entrance hall caught the sparkle of diamonds on her fingers.

“Everyone’s been dying to meet you, Dean.” Collie Ruth smiled, hugging me close. Her face was open and friendly, and her brown eyes twinkled youthfully. Somehow I knew she’d be an advocate, which wasn’t always the case. The UMW president often expected a lot of the preacher’s wife: She had to attend all meetings, serve on several committees, always be available to host teas and give programs. The parsonage living room stayed in a state of readiness for such occasions. “Meet Lorraine Bullock, our music director,” Collie Ruth instructed, turning me to face the rest of the committee, “and her husband A.H., chair of the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee. With them’s our talented organist, Sylvia Hinds.”

I told Ben afterward that I smelled trouble with those three right away. Preachers’ wives develop a sort of radar where church people are concerned. A. H. Bullock was easy; both Ben and I soon found out that he was a pompous ass, a troublemaker. His wife, Lorraine, however, was a bit more subtle. I guessed her to be about my age, mid-forties, and she smothered me in a hug, a saccharine-sweet smile on her face. A big-boned woman, slightly overweight, she’d tried to disguise her plump cheeks with blusher, applied to create the illusion of high cheekbones. “We’ve heard all about you, Dean,” she said, eyeing me with mascara-laden, cunning eyes. Everything about her was overdone; she wore too much makeup, too much perfume, and was overdressed in a bright-red pantsuit with several gold necklaces and bracelets. Although I hated myself for smugly assessing new acquaintances, I surmised that Lorraine was an uneducated country girl trying to pass herself off as a member of the country-club set. Something about her didn’t ring true, and I suspected the carefully hidden presence of the redneck South. I always recognized one of my own. As we moved through the house, she stayed close to me and patted my arm, as though to let me know she was on my side. I’d learned to be wary of the church ladies who pretended to be supportive while lying in wait for a crack in my armor. With me, it wasn’t a long wait.

The organist, Sylvia Hinds, I disliked immediately, so much so that I felt guilty and went out of my way to be extra nice to her. Although young, probably in her thirties, she was as dour-faced as an old woman. Unlike Lorraine, Sylvia could have used a trip to the beauty parlor. Besides wearing old-timey black-rimmed glasses, she won the prize for the most unattractive hairdo ever—cut close to her ears, then flaring out like an upside-down mushroom. “I hope you like the house,” she said to me, extending a cold, limp hand, “because we’ve worked ourselves to death getting it ready.” Her high, nasal voice was another charming feature; eventually I’d nickname her Sylvia Whiney-Hiney. I figured that she was the church’s martyr; the woman who had her finger in every pie, yet complained of all the work involved. The church was her only social life, the doors never opened without her—she let everyone know that and expected the same of others. Without a smidgen of joy in her faith, she looked down her thin nose at any activity not church-related. If a book or interesting article was mentioned, she’d let everyone know that she didn’t have time to read. She was much too busy serving the Lord.

Ben and I were walked through the house ceremoniously. I tried not to cringe at the too-formal living room, done up in shades of gold and beige and decorated with velvet and brocade and heavy mahogany furniture. I shouldn’t have been disappointed; parsonages were always stiffly formal, uncomfortable places. In the adjoining dining room, a chandelier was suspended like a crystal spiderweb over a long table so highly polished, it reflected like a mirror. I oohed and ahhed because I had to, even though the whole place had the feel of a funeral home. I expected a brass stand with a placard: The Reverend and Mrs. Ben Lynch. Viewing hours 7–9.

In the rest of the house, Collie Ruth showed me the practical things—the disposal, the linens, storage areas, light switches—while the others delivered a running commentary that provided some insight into the politics of the church. The dynamics of a church could make or break a preacher; he had to know where the power lay, who ran the church, and who only thought they did. “Use the best paste wax on this sideboard, Dean,” Noreen Harris said when we entered the pine-paneled den next to the kitchen. “Bob’s dear mother donated it to the parsonage, and it’s a priceless family heirloom.”

Priceless or not, it was apparent that Bob’s dear mother had dumped it in the parsonage because it was so ugly, she wouldn’t have it. Bob Harris got down on his hands and knees to show Ben how to work the wide brick fireplace. “Gotta be careful here, Preacher,” he said to Ben. “Couple years ago Brother Penfield didn’t open the damper and got a faceful of soot. I called the bishop and told him Crystal Springs wasn’t ready for a black preacher.” Laughing, he slapped Ben on the back, and Ben grabbed the mantel to steady himself, a weak smile on his face.

Since we didn’t have furniture of our own, just personal belongings, the movers had quickly unloaded our boxes and made their departure while we were being shown through the house. A. H. Bullock summoned the church’s maintenance workers, two Hispanic men, their sleeves rolled up and muscles bulging. When no one made a move to introduce them, I stuck out my hand and introduced Ben and myself. They smiled shyly and lowered their eyes, then got busy distributing the boxes. In the master bedroom, the older man put a box marked Kitchen on the floor and A.H. jumped him. “Hey, you, Pedro,” he yelled. “Can’t you read? No-hablo-the-English? Take that box to the kitchen, like it says.”

Ducking his dark head, the man hurried out with the box, red-faced. A.H. looked at Ben and rolled his eyes. “For years we had the best janitor in town, an old colored fellow who worked till he dropped dead at age eighty. Nowadays, you can’t get nobody but the migrants. Can’t speak English, lazy, steal anything that’s not nailed down.” When Ben shook his head sympathetically, I glared at him, wishing I were standing close enough to poke him with my elbow. I glared at A. H. Bullock, too, but he didn’t notice. His wife, Lorraine, did, though, and her eyes narrowed. At least she stopped patting my arm.

“Be careful cleaning this shower, Dean,” Noreen said in one of the guest bedrooms. Her eyes moved over me meaningfully. “The stall’s real little, and one of our preachers’ wives was so—ah—large, she almost got stuck in it once.”

“Poor old Mrs. Ledbetter,” Lorraine said, shaking her head sadly. “Crazy as a bessie bug. By the time they left here, she’d lost her mind completely.”

“Happens to a lot of preachers’ wives,” I said, giggling. Everyone looked at me in horror, and Ben threw me a warning glance, one dark eyebrow raised to his hairline. My face burning, I turned my attention to the guest room. What the good church folks didn’t know was that after they left, I’d fix this room up as my own. Ben and I hadn’t shared a bedroom for years. Except for occasional visits allowed me, he preferred to sleep alone, since he got up all through the night and worked on his sermons. Or worse, practiced them out loud. He insisted I keep my toiletries on the dresser in the master bedroom and a frilly robe hanging behind the door, to keep up appearances.

The church ladies were especially proud of an extra room in the back that they’d converted to a music room for me, furnishing it with a piano once they heard that I gave piano lessons. They watched for my reaction, and I was genuinely touched, in spite of my dismay at the decor. The piano was fine—a small black upright—but the rest of the room was appallingly tacky, overdone with pink lace curtains, an ornate desk, and tiny velvet chairs, surely too fragile for sitting on. I tried not to stare at the wallpaper, which had romanticized seventeenth-century figures dancing the minuet in dizzying circles around the room. My suspicions about Lorraine’s background were confirmed when she leaned over and patted my arm again. “Sylvia and I were thrilled to find the precious border,” she said proudly. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

The wallpaper border appeared to be musical notes on a scale, but on closer inspection, I saw that in each note was a fat cherub, pink mouth opened, singing angelically. “I’ve never seen anything like it, either,” I said with a straight face.

“We hear you play the guitar as well as the piano,” Collie Ruth said to me, her bright eyes curious. “Plan on giving guitar lessons, too?”

“Actually, I play the dulcimer,” I told her.

“Dulcimer!” A. H. Bullock scratched his balding head and frowned. “What on earth’s that?”

“Surely you know what a dulcimer is, A.H.,” Sylvia Hinds hooted.

“One of those doohickeys that you play with hammers, honey,” Lorraine told him.

A.H. gasped. “Hammers like I stock at the hardware store?”

“Actually, it’s a mountain dulcimer,” I said. “It’s strummed instead.”

“Mountain dulcimer, huh? Come from those big mountains y’all have over in east Florida, Preacher?” A.H. said, slapping Ben on the back and laughing heartily at his own humor.

“How … interesting,” Sylvia said, her voice implying the opposite. “How long you been playing it, Dean?”

As he was apt to do, Ben answered for me. “Dean started her music career early. As a child she performed in her family’s bluegrass group.” Ben always worked that information into a conversation, thinking it provided me with just the right touch of respectability, explained my backwoods heritage. He knew the church would have heard I was orphaned at age twelve and taken in by a good old Methodist family as a foster child. As long as no one probed further, he could conveniently omit the true character of my foot-stomping, hard-drinking ancestry.

“How wonderful, Dean!” Collie Ruth smiled. “Anyone we would’ve heard of?”

I shook my head. “No, just a local thing. We called ourselves The Cypress Swamp Band and performed at barn dances, weddings, things like that. It was a long time ago.” I wasn’t about to describe the backwoods juke joints where we performed every Saturday night.

“And you played the dulcimer as a child?” she questioned, her interest making me like her even more.

“That’s right. It was my grandmother’s, and she taught me to play it at age six.” I didn’t tell her the story behind my learning to play, the significance it had in my life. Nor did I tell her that my dulcimer was safely locked away in the trunk of my car since I always moved it myself, not trusting Ben to touch it. In a rural church a few years after we married, I’d played it for a wedding and caused a mild uproar. The preacher’s wife playing a guitar in the Lord’s House—a guitar! Next thing you know, there would be drums and dancing in the aisles. Ben hadn’t liked my dulcimer since, preferring that I stick with the piano. He avoided anything controversial, but it was unlikely to be a problem here. One good thing about larger churches was that they tended to be more liberal.

“Dean’s going to be a good addition to our choir, Brother Ben,” Lorraine Bullock said to Ben, as though I weren’t present.

“Well, ah, Loretta,” Ben said, “Dean was tickled to hear First Methodist had a full-time music director on staff, since she’s been doing the music in my churches for years and is ready for a break. Right, honey?”

“As both pianist and organist,” Sylvia protested, her voice rising, “I’m the one who needs a break.”

“But—Dean can’t do that!” Lorraine said, horrified. “Everybody in Crystal Springs has heard that our new preacher’s wife has a degree in music. What will the Baptists say if she doesn’t join our choir?”

Her husband chimed in, his voice indignant. “A musician like your wife not being in our choir? Ridiculous!” Like his wife, he addressed Ben, ignoring me.

I looked at Ben. He’d promised to help me get off the hook when we moved here. Although I loved music with my body and soul, I’d looked forward to sitting with the congregation, letting the paid staff do it. When Ben avoided my eyes, I knew he’d let me down, and I swallowed the anger that rose like heartburn. Suppressing anger had become an art form, something I’d perfected with a lifetime’s practice.

“Ah, I-I’m sure Dean’ll help out with the music once we get settled,” he muttered. Looking around the room, he rubbed his hands together, smiling. “You ladies did a fine job with this room, Collie Sue. Now, why don’t we go see how the unloading’s coming?”

I didn’t want them helping us unpack our boxes, handling my things, looking at the contents curiously. But they did, and there was nothing I could do, short of ordering them out of the house. Their house, not mine. I watched helplessly as they arranged my dishes in the cabinets, stood by as the boxes were emptied and my life put in order for me. Even the men helped out, Bob and A.H. putting books and whatnots on the shelves in the den as the women readied the kitchen. Bob joked and laughed amiably as he worked, but I caught A.H. eyeing me speculatively.

It was during this time that the Holderfield family was first mentioned. We’d heard about them before we moved, of course; it was impossible to talk about Crystal Springs without mentioning its most well-known residents. It was the Holderf