It's time to get to know the amazing April and Emmett. These characters, this world, this town have me by the heartstrings. I feel like I am this book and this book is me. Not everyone will understand that because I don't always share how my personal experiences influence my writing. But just know...this book is special.
I hope these first two chapters give you and idea of what's to come and make you eager to read the rest of April and Emmett's story--coming July 1st.
Note: This first look is unedited but will be perfected before release. (:
Chapter 1: April
As I whip my school bus turned tiny home through the curvy, tree-lined roads toward the small town of Magnolia, Louisiana, I am reminded of how this all began. No, not the hurricane that ravaged my own small town in Georgia, inspiring a life of rebuilding old, forgotten places. I am reminded of my life’s first tragedy. My mother died in a car accident on a road not so different from this one before I was old enough to truly remember her. What I know of her and her death comes from stories my father told me. Her death was the catalyst that led to me being raised by a single father and all that came with it—a love for construction, an incredible sense of humor, undying optimism, a robust laugh—at least, before it was stolen from me—and the dream we shared.
After practically growing up on a construction site, eager to spend every minute with my dad, the plan was for me to get a degree in business. After I graduated, he and I would travel the country doing just as I am now—breathing new life into old properties and small towns. It was a dream born of loss, love, and hope—the loss of my mother which created an inseparable bond between me and my dad, the loss of our home to Hurricane Emily, a love for small towns, and the hope of happiness my dad refused to let go of despite everything we endured. It was a hope he infused in me. It is that hope that keeps me going and in pursuit of our dream, despite my life’s greatest tragedy—the one that took him and my hearing from me.
I suck in air as I reach an unexpected sharp turn. Biting my lip to the point of tasting blood, I hit the brakes and hook a hard right. The speed limit is thirty-five, so, thankfully, I’m not going fast enough to flip. Try telling that to the anxiety tightening my chest as a small white car suddenly stops in the road ahead to avoid a collision. I exhale as I narrowly squeeze past them.
Welcome to Magnolia, a small sign reads just up ahead. Fittingly, it’s framed by small Magnolia trees and a variety of white flowers. It marks another sharp turn toward the left. Jeez. These streets were not designed with buses in mind. After ten years of traveling through small towns with tight historic districts, you’d think I’d be used to it. Nope. The bus is a necessity rather than a pleasure, especially for someone with driving anxiety. It houses all my tools, and since my work keeps me on the move, it’s cheaper than renting a room for the months each job takes. Some of the places I visit, including Magnolia, don’t have such accommodations. My task here is to create that accommodation.
By turning Magnolia into a destination, rather than a pass-through town, the other small businesses here can thrive. I get a glimpse of them as I hook the left, slowing to a crawl to take in the town’s offerings before continuing to my site.
The town itself appears no larger than two city blocks. Maybe three, if I’m being generous. There are no traffic lights. Just one main road that juts off in a few different directions. The grassy Magnolia Square centers the town and is anchored on the north and south ends by a beautiful, little white church and Fincher’s General Store. Lining the sides of the square are a few other businesses—Myers’ bookstore, Magnolia Blooms flower shop—how fitting—Gallaspy’s antique gallery, a bakery and coffee shop, Luke’s Diner , and more.
There are nods to the state’s French history in the antique streetlamps scattered about, in the pastel paint colors chosen by some business owners, and in the antique brick comprising the structures. Similar to the French Quarter in New Orleans, all the buildings connect and share walls aside from the church and General Store. Unlike the French Quarter, they embody the country aesthetic commonly found in farming towns like this one. I love it.
Truthfully, there are more trees and flowers than buildings. Magnolias, of course, larger pine trees, a few oaks. The town looks like a little gem hidden amongst the hills and forests of North Louisiana. It’s so small, it’s as if we’re not even supposed to be here, and it’s far enough off the main road that you’d never find it unless you were looking for it. And yet, the moment you discover it, it has a calm energy you wish you could live in forever. At least, that’s what courses through me, settling my lingering anxiety.
Everything feels so quaint and relaxed—quiet. And while sometimes, for me, the quiet can be suffocating. I find it even more disorienting to be in congested, fast-paced environments. With so much life buzzing around me, so many conversations being had that I’m not a part of, bigger cities make me feel left out. I suppose that’s a feeling I had even before losing my hearing.
I’ve always been an introvert, quiet, shy. Coming from a small town, it was common to spend most of your time with your family. But I never really found a way to branch out in college. I had few friends and went on fewer dates. Now, with this communication barrier, it’s even harder to make connections. I can’t help but wish I would’ve found my voice sooner. Maybe my life would’ve been different if I’d branched out, taken more chances, instead of clinging to my dad and his dream. Maybe I wouldn’t have been in the truck that night. I still would’ve lost him, but I wouldn’t have lost my hearing as the glass around me shattered, invading my ear canal and destroying my eardrums. But even as the bitter taste of regret tinges my tongue, it is brief.
I will never regret the time I spent with my dad. The year of travel and renovations that we had before that tragic night was the best year of my life. And, as much as I wonder, how my life as a thirty-three-year-old woman would be different if I’d never lost my hearing, the truth is, this dream was just as much mine as it was my dad’s. I would still be doing the same thing. I would still exist on the move and on the outskirts of the world. And I would still struggle with making connections. Maybe that acknowledgment is what keeps me from being bitter. The day I lost my dad was the day my world went quiet. But maybe it always was. Maybe it was always meant to be.
Pulling myself from my thoughts, I focus my attention back on the town. I see very few cars and even fewer people walking along the sidewalks. Glancing at my watch, I note the time. Ah! It’s lunchtime. And I know enough about the Southern summer heat to know that midday is not the time anyone wants to be outside. It’s then that two men exit the building with the pastel blue storefront—Luke’s Diner. I can’t help but analyze them.
I studied Magnolia before choosing this as my next job. But pictures and even the architecture only tell half the story of a place. The people? That’s the other half and these two are my first to encounter. At the sight of my bright-purple-painted bus, they both stop and stare. They’re both tall with dark hair, though the one closest to the road is more muscular, with biceps so big they look as if he could crush my head. He becomes the object of my fixation as I slowly pass by. Dressed in a white t-shirt, stained with God only knows what, and dark wash jeans, he looks at me with an intimidating glare. Maybe it’s the sun shining in his eyes. Or, maybe he’s just one of those people who are wary of newcomers or change. Yeah, I’ve encountered a few of those.
The one downside to being a stranger working in small towns where everyone knows everyone is everyone wants to know you. Whether they have good intentions or not, small-town residents like to talk. While it’s still better than the big cities where everyone is talking around you but not to you, the pressure to communicate can sometimes be overwhelming. And I’m not sure if I blame my barrier or my shyness more. Regardless, if the people of Magnolia are anything like my first impression of Mr. Grumpypuss, I’ll plan to keep mostly to myself.
As my watch vibrates on my wrist, alerting me of my upcoming turn, I gasp and, once again, swing a hard left as I nearly miss it. My tires skid as I turn off the paved road onto a gravel one leading out of town toward the woods. My backend nearly collides with the electricity pole as I do. Okay, focus, April. You’re almost there. I give myself an internal pep talk as my heart thumps in my chest and numbness threatens my legs. I nod to myself as I focus on reaching my destination. At this point, car accidents on curvy, country roads seem tethered to my bloodline. Not today, Satan. Not today.
Chapter 2: Emmett
The summer sun beams down, hot and blinding, as Luke and I continue our conversation outside the diner. It seems the thieves and vandals who’ve been terrorizing the towns around us have finally made their way to Magnolia. It’s a shame. Magnolia used to be a place you could leave your doors unlocked at night and your keys in your truck. Crime was something you saw on the news and in movies, not in your backyard. What’s most frustrating is that the people doing this aren’t even from here. Little do they know, we take care of our own. Which is why Luke has given me the warning. He knows I’ll look after not just my sister, mother, and niece but anyone who needs help. These punks will soon learn—Magnolia is not your playground. Although, as a bright purple school bus creeps through town, I suddenly feel like I’m back in school.
“Who the hell or what the hell is that?” I ask, squinting beneath the sun’s glare. Luke turns in the direction of the bus. It’s then that I notice the writing printed onto the purple exterior—Purple Bus Construction. “Well, that explains it.”
“What?” Luke asks. My suspicious gaze follows the bus as the woman driving it nearly wrecks turning onto the road which dead ends at an estate I didn’t even know existed until a month ago.
Small towns like Magnolia are no strangers to secrets and hidden things, but an entire home, abandoned in a part of the woods that hasn’t been accessible for over fifty years? How does something like that go unnoticed? Perhaps it’s not that it went unnoticed, rather ignored. The question is why? And why, suddenly, is this woman hellbent on reviving it? How did she even know about it? Then again, how did my mom?
“You remember I told you my mom asked me to clear off some land?” Luke nods. “Well, it was for her. About three miles from here, deep in the woods, there’s an old house. I say, house. It’s more like an antebellum mansion. And whoever Ms. Purple Bus is is planning on renovating it. At least, that’s what my mom says.”
The more I think about it, the more curious I get. I wasn’t surprised when my mom asked me to clear a way to the property and bushhog the brush surrounding it. Our farmland connects to it. We have the equipment needed and she’s no stranger to a kind gesture. But the question still stands, how did she know about this place? My mom isn’t exactly the Southern social butterfly type.
“Hmm. Well, that’s interesting. And nice. Maybe it’ll be good for the town.”
I shake my head and bite the inside of my cheek. Lots of things would be good for Magnolia, lots of things that will never happen. The biggest of which would be going back in time, back before the bar came about, back before my dad fell in love with alcohol, and before the crash that wrecked not just vehicles but the whole town, taking three lives with it.
“Right, well, she’s going to have her hands full. The place is huge and covered in mildew and vines. Lord knows the roof will need to be replaced. And then what after? Your diner is the busiest place in this sleepy town. I can’t imagine that changing anytime soon.”
Luke pulls the dishtowel from the front pocket of his plaid shirt and smacks me with it. “Maybe you should offer her your services instead of being a killjoy. Put that engineering degree to good use,” he suggests. I smirk and move toward my truck.
“Yeah, I gave up on that dream a long time ago, friend. Take care.”
“You too.”
It’s a short drive from the diner back to the barn, but I take the long way to avoid the cross stamped into the dirt in the crook of a certain curve. My avoidance was once a coping mechanism. Now it’s become a character flaw.
Seventeen years ago, I left Magnolia. That sounds like such a long time ago it makes me feel old. Hell, maybe I am. Though, the reason why I left still feels as fresh on my skin as it did the day my dad slung his fist into my jaw.
I was fifteen when I realized my dad had a problem with alcohol. Though, talks with my mom let me know it existed long before then. When a bar opened just a few miles out of town, his problem only worsened and became harder to hide. But, like the abandoned house in the woods no one speaks of, everyone turned a blind eye to my father’s drinking, including my mother.
As I neared graduation and prepared to leave Magnolia, I feared for her and my sister, Emerson. While he’d never threatened them, I saw the anger and aggression building inside him. It started with kicking a tractor tire. That turned to handling the cattle a little too roughly. Things escalated from there. Perhaps because he and I worked so closely on the family farm, I was primed to notice. Perhaps because I was a man, he chose not to conceal himself as much.
Regardless of the reasons behind his behavior, his drinking, my dad was becoming someone I no longer recognized. And I no longer felt safe leaving my mom and sister in his care. So, at eighteen, I confronted him. I asked him to get help. That was the day his aggression turned toward me. It was a fight that left me with no choice. I couldn’t make my mom divorce him. I couldn’t take my sister away. All I could do was leave. So, I did.
After graduation, I left Magnolia with no plans to return. I got a degree in engineering and began working as a general contractor in a city a couple hours away. But I barely got the foundation of my new life laid before I had no choice but to return.
In my absence, my father’s alcoholism continued unchecked. He was drunk when he crashed into the Boone family, killing a husband and wife and their teen daughter. The sole survivor was their son, a classmate of Emerson’s, who wasn’t in the car.
That was the day our family secret, our family shame became too deadly to ignore. Lives were lost and eyes were opened, not just to our family’s secrets but to the lies behind the facade of Magnolia’s perfection. Suddenly, rumors of infidelity and divorce rates skyrocketed, more kids started getting into trouble, the pastor was caught stealing church funds, a coach was found sleeping with underage girls, and unexpected deaths were suddenly revealed as overdoses and suicides.
All these things had existed right underneath our noses. And, just like my family hid my father’s addiction, it became obvious others had been hiding these atrocities too, because to speak, to hold accountable, to bring the dark to light ruins the facade—the lie we told ourselves. Is that why my mom wouldn’t leave my dad? She didn’t want to ruin the image of a perfect family, of a perfect Magnolia?
I’m thirty-five now and this town hasn’t felt like home in the ten years since I’ve been back. It’s not that people blame us for what my father did. Maybe Noah Boone does, but he left town shortly after—never to be seen or heard from again. It’s just…now that Magnolia is stained, now that so much pain has bled into these streets and into our hearts, it just doesn’t feel the same. I don’t feel the same. I don’t even know what it means to be Emmett Calhoun anymore.
Dust trails behind me and gravel crunches beneath my tires as I reach the barn. It’s just after one in the afternoon and I still have two pastures to rake. It’s going to be a long one, though not unlike any other.
It’s not that I hate my life, my work to maintain the family business, or even Magnolia. I love being a present uncle to my niece, Eleanor. Farm work can be enjoyable and there are still small projects that pop up requiring construction. And I care about this town and keeping it from slipping even further into darkness. That’s why these thugs roaming around piss me off so much. It’s just… I feel disconnected from myself, from my parents, my childhood, my future. Disconnected, stagnant, paralyzed.
I think a part of me died the day my dad hit me, and I was forced to defend myself. Another part shattered when Emerson called me in tears informing me of what he did. In some small way, I felt responsible because I couldn’t stop him or help him. I also felt betrayed, hurt, and ashamed. How could the person I love so much do this? Become this? How could my father love a substance so much he let it steal his entire life from him—his son, his family, and his freedom? It’s a kind of abandonment I don’t think I’ve ever recovered from. And so, the only thing that keeps me grounded, keeps me moving—even if just in a circle—is being the opposite of him.
With that resolve, I hop out and head toward my tractor. The smell of fresh cut hay tickles my nose as the sun beats down on my tanned skin. I’m here because I refuse to abandon my family the way he did. Though, as Luke’s words come to me, I’m reminded of the life I once had, the job I loved—all the thoughts, hopes, and dreams I avoid even more than memories of the past. I won’t abandon my family. But have I abandoned myself?
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