Fences: Smith Mountain Lake Series - Book Three
Fences
A Smith Mountain Lake Novel
Inglath Cooper
Sempre Leggere Press
Fences Kopiereg © 2017
Inhoud
Copyright
Join Inglath Cooper's Mailing List and Get a FREE book!
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
Books by Inglath Cooper
About Inglath Cooper
Get in Touch with Inglath Cooper
Copyright
Published by Sempre Leggere Press
Fence Free Entertainment, LLC
Copyright © 2017 Inglath Cooper
Cooper, Inglath
Fences / Inglath Cooper
ISBN – 978-0-9862825-9-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the e-mail address below.
Fence Free Entertainment, LLC
Fence.free.entertainment.llc@gmail.com
_______________________________
Can true love ever overcome betrayal?
At eighteen, Tate Callahan left Smith Mountain Lake with no intention of ever coming back. The one thing he’d believed in after a lifetime of growing up in foster homes was his love for Jillie Andrews and her love for him. But a single act of jealousy had destroyed all that, and Tate has spent the past eighteen years trying to convince himself what they had was never real. And he’s done a pretty good job of it, until the day someone decides the past isn’t better left alone.
When old accusations are brought to light, Tate believes Jillie is responsible and heads back to Smith Mountain Lake to once and for all prove to himself that she is not the woman of his dreams, but the woman who had destroyed his dreams. What he finds though isn’t at all what he’d expected. And the question he will have to answer is whether the protective fences we build around ourselves can ever be taken down, letting us see not only what might have been, but what can still be.
Join Inglath Cooper's Mailing List and Get a FREE book!
Get a FREE copy of Nashville – Part One – Ready to Reach by joining Inglath Cooper’s newsletter mailing list! Just click here.
______________________
“If you like your romance in New Adult flavor, with plenty of ups and downs, oh-my, oh-yes, oh-no, love at first sight, trouble, happiness, difficulty, and follow-your-dreams, look no further than extraordinary prolific author Inglath Cooper. Ms. Cooper understands that the romance genre deserves good writing, great characterization, and true-to-life settings and situations, no matter the setting. I recommend you turn off the phone and ignore the doorbell, as you’re not going to want to miss a moment of this saga of the girl who headed for Nashville with only a guitar, a hound, and a Dream in her heart.” – Mallory Heart Reviews
“Truths and Roses . . . so sweet and adorable, I didn’t want to stop reading it. I could have put it down and picked it up again in the morning, but I didn’t want to.” – Kirkusreviews.com
On Truths and Roses: “I adored this book…what romance should be, entwined with real feelings, real life and roses blooming. Hats off to the author, best book I have read in a while.” – Rachel Dove, FrustratedYukkyMommyBlog
“I am a sucker for sweet love stories! This is definitely one of those! It was a very easy, well written, book. It was easy to follow, detailed, and didn’t leave me hanging without answers.” – www.layfieldbaby.blogspot.com
“I don’t give it often, but I am giving it here – the sacred 10. Why? Inglath Cooper’s A GIFT OF GRACE mesmerized me; I consumed it in one sitting. When I turned the last page, it was three in the morning.” – MaryGrace Meloche, Contemporary Romance Writers
5 Blue Ribbon Rating! “. . .More a work of art than a story. . .Tragedies affect entire families as well as close loved ones, and this story portrays that beautifully as well as giving the reader hope that somewhere out there is A GIFT OF GRACE for all of us.” — Chrissy Dionne, Romance Junkies 5 Stars
“A warm contemporary family drama, starring likable people coping with tragedy and triumph.” 4 1/2 Stars. — Harriet Klausner
“A GIFT OF GRACE is a beautiful, intense, and superbly written novel about grief and letting go, second chances and coming alive again after devastating adversity. Warning!! A GIFT OF GRACE is a three-hanky read…better make that a BIG box of tissues read! Wowsers, I haven’t cried so much while reading a book in a long long time…Ms. Cooper’s skill makes A GIFT OF GRACE totally believable, totally absorbing…and makes Laney Tucker vibrantly alive. This book will get into your heart and it will NOT let go. A GIFT OF GRACE is simply stunning in every way—brava, Ms. Cooper! Highly, highly recommended!” – 4 1/2 Hearts — Romance Readers Connection
“…A WOMAN WITH SECRETS…a powerful love story laced with treachery, deceit and old wounds that will not heal…enchanting tale…weaved with passion, humor, broken hearts and a commanding love that will have your heart soaring and cheering for a happily-ever-after love. Kate is strong-willed, passionate and suffers a bruised heart. Cole is sexy, stubborn and also suffers a bruised heart…gripping plot. I look forward to reading more of Ms. Cooper’s work!” – www.freshfiction.com
I never expected anyone to take care of me, but in my wildest dreams and juvenile yearnings, I wanted the house with the picket fence . . .
– Maya Angelou
1
Jillie
“JILLIAN!”
The sound of my name grates in my ears like a razor against glass. I stop at the foot of the winding mahogany staircase, hesitating under a sudden rush of rebellion. I consider not answering.
Eighteen years, and my mother-in-law has never once called me by the name I have always gone by. The first time that Jeffrey brought me home to meet his family, Judith had
declared the nickname a quaint, if plebeian, one. Never having heard the word plebian used before, I went home that night and looked it up in the dictionary, my cheeks then burning for days under the slight.
But as quickly as it erupts, the rebellion wilts inside me like a morning glory under noon sun. With resigned steps, I follow the hallway to the library where Judith sits in a leather chair that fans out from behind her shoulders like gargoyle wings. She sips from a porcelain cup of hot tea, her posture Emily Post perfect, her Manolo Blahnik-clad feet neatly crossed at the ankles. The curtains are drawn, blocking out the late afternoon sunlight I am suddenly craving.
Since Jeffrey’s death, Judith has kept the house so dark it feels as if we are living in a tomb, choking on the stale air. I want to yank open the curtains, throw the windows wide with their view of Smith Mountain Lake and fill the old house with fresh air and light, let it breathe as it hasn’t in far too long.
But as much as I hate it, I am fully aware that if anyone deserves to endure the oppressive gloom here, I do.
Dressed in beige linen pants and a navy silk sweater, a slim gold necklace and matching earrings her only jewelry, Judith looks as if she could have been cut out of a Vogue ad for older customers of haute couture. Her blonde hair hangs in a neat pageboy, and her manicured nails are as perfect now as they had been when she’d left the salon at Westlake three days before.
Appearances are everything in the Taylor household, and I’ve never once seen my mother-in-law with a single hair out of place. Even after all these years of living under the same roof, I still feel more like an adolescent in her presence than a thirty-six-year-old woman.
“The day certainly sped by, didn’t it?” Judith glances at her watch, her voice holding the same pseudo-pleasant note she reserves for bank tellers and post office clerks.
I bite my lip to keep from disagreeing. This day has been like too many others, where I wish away the hours between dropping Kala and Corey off at school in the morning and picking them up again in the afternoon.
“Was there something you wanted me to do while I’m out?” I ask, assuming there must be some reason I’ve been summoned.
“Would you mind stopping by the grocery store, Jillian? The Simpsons are coming for dinner tonight, and Lucille said we’re a bit short on greens for the salad.”
I force a smile to my mouth, an effort that feels like stretching metal.
“I’d be happy to.”
“Do be sure to get the arugula and radicchio, won’t you? They make such a nice presentation.”
“Of course,” I say, not missing the subtle reminder of another time years ago when I’d been asked to do the same errand before a dinner party and committed the cardinal sin of arriving home with iceberg lettuce.
Outside the house, I draw in a breath of warm May air, then slide into the black, Mercedes four-wheel drive, putting the vehicle in reverse and rolling down the paved tree-lined driveway that marks the entrance to Stone Meadow. I’ll only be gone for an hour or less, and yet leaving the house gives me a sense of release that makes me nearly lightheaded with relief.
I glance in the rearview mirror at the enormous colonial house, grand in every sense of the word. Stone Meadow had been built in 1870, long before Smith Mountain Lake had come to exist. The parts of it that became lakefront property once the lake was completed only increased its value.
Magnolia trees grace the brick sidewalk that leads to the entrance of the house. White columns support the front porch, and pane windows with century-old glass catch the afternoon sunlight.
As one of the premier hunter-jumper farms in Virginia, Stone Meadow once represented everything I dreamed of having in life. The small, white, A-frame house where I’d grown up as the daughter of the farm manager at Cross Country, Stone Meadow’s local rival, had been a long way from the Taylor mansion in more ways than one.
And yet, there had been countless nights throughout my marriage to the heir of Stone Meadow when I cried myself to sleep, wishing for the comfort of that little white house. Wishing I could figure out how I’d veered from the path I had been so sure would be mine.
But if I know anything by now, it is that there is no starting over.
Accepting the roads I chose is the only option. Because, after all, I have no one to blame for those choices but myself.
2
Jillie
I PULL UP in front of the Herald Country Day School in Moneta at exactly ten minutes past three, turning in my seat so I can see the girls when they erupt out of the Southern-style structure as they do each afternoon.
Next to seeing their faces first thing in the morning, this is the best part of my day. The bell rings, and the front door opens, children pouring from the building in a giggling kaleidoscope of blue and green school uniforms.
I spot Kala and Corey in the first group, and, as always, my heart tightens at the sight of their smiling faces, their blonde ponytails streaming out behind them.
Fourteen now, Kala is taller than her sister by several inches. She is the serious one, smart and sensitive, rarely without a book in her hand. I worry that she is too serious, more quiet and withdrawn than ever since Jeffrey’s death.
Marching along behind her is Corey, at ten, much more carefree than Kala. Every once in a while, she asks if her daddy is in heaven and if he’ll come back here to be with them if he doesn’t like it there. I struggle to find answers that satisfy my daughter without altering her positive outlook on life. Not an easy thing to do when my own outlook has been so irrevocably changed.
Kala opens the door and climbs in the back. “Hi, honey,” I say, smiling the cheerful smile I’ve managed to perfect for my daughters in the year since Jeffrey’s death.
“Hey.” Kala’s greeting is indifferent and as perfected as my own. She props her knees against the seat in front of her and promptly loses herself in a tattered copy of The Scarlet Letter.
“Are you reading that for school, honey?” I ask.
“No,” she answers abruptly. “I just want to.”
Corey crawls into the front seat, a cluster of now drooping dandelions clutched in one fist. I lean across to kiss her cheek and smooth a hand across her hair where a stray strand has slipped free of her gold barrette.
No matter how well-brushed it might be when she leaves for school, Corey’s hair manages to settle into a mass of tangles by the end of the day. The new white tights I laid out for her that morning now have holes in the knees. She is as much a tomboy as I had been at her age. “How was your day, honey?” I ask.
“Good. I picked these for you at lunchtime,” Corey says, holding out the now-wilted flowers. “I gave Miss Crawford some, too. But I saved the best bunch for you.”
I take the dandelions, feeling the sincerity of her gesture imprint on my heart. “They’re beautiful, honey. Thank you.”
I put the car in gear and pull away from the school, guilt for my earlier self-pity stabbing through me. I have no right to that indulgence. On the surface, I have an enviable life. Two beautiful children. A safe and comfortable home in which to raise them.
I often think that if I’d been more appreciative of what I had instead of wishing for something long gone, Jeffrey might have made a different choice in the end. And maybe the nightmare of the past year would never have happened. Maybe I could have found some way to fix what was wrong between us. Maybe my children would still have a father.
3
Jillie
KALA AND COREY want to wait in the car while I run into the grocery store. They have a riding lesson at four, so I hurry to pick out the greens, arugula and radicchio, from the produce department, then head for the express checkout counter.
A man in front of me with a walker struggles to remove the items from his basket. I help him place them on the conveyor belt and then shrug away his surprised gratitude when he begins to thank me, as if it has been a very long time since anyone helped him with anything.
While I’m waiting, I glance at the magazin
es on the rack beside the checkout. A newly acclaimed actress graces the cover of Premiere, an out-of-control pop star the front of People.
A line of tabloids hangs next to the magazines. The one in the center snags my attention. I stare for a moment, and then my arms go suddenly slack, the bags dropping to the floor. I quickly stoop down and pick them up, aware of several curious glances being sent my way from shoppers in the neighboring aisles.
Only one copy of the Revealer remains on the stand. Hit with a sudden wave of dizziness, I grab it and tuck it beneath my plastic produce bags. Maybe I’m mistaken. Seeing ghosts where there simply aren’t any.
I somehow manage to pay the clerk and leave the store, barely aware of pulling the money from my wallet or of crossing the parking lot to the Mercedes until a car sounds its horn, and I realize I’ve stepped out in front of it. I hurry to the car, open the door, get in, and stuff the grocery bag beneath my seat.
“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Corey asks, alarm in her voice. “You’re all pale.”
Kala scoots up in the backseat, a worried frown creasing her forehead. “Didn’t you see that car?” she asks. “It almost hit you.”
“I’m sorry, girls,” I say, trying for a reassuring smile. “I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine. Really.”
I start the Mercedes and put it in gear, silently berating my carelessness. Since Jeffrey’s death, Corey has been terrified of something happening to me. For the first few months, it had been almost impossible to get her to go to school or anywhere at all without me. Only in the past several weeks has she begun to loosen her hold, to believe that I’m not also going to leave her.
Despite the shell she has encased herself in, I know Kala worries too and that she tries her best to hide it.