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A bingdon P ress Fall 2009

Fiction Sampler


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Get Ready to RelaxFall 2009 Fiction from Abingdon Press

Published by Abingdon Press201 Eighth Ave SP.O. Box 801Nashville, Tennessee 37202-0801

All text copyright 2009 Abingdon Press

All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or transmit-ted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical.

First Edition

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

Printed in the United States of America


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Table of Contents

Gone to Green .................................................................... 5 Judy Christie

eye of the god ................................................................... 19 Ariel Allison

The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow .......................................... 31 Joyce Magnin

The Call of Zulina ............................................................ 41Kay Marshall Strom

The Fence My Father Built ................................................ 53Linda S. Clare

One ImPerfect Christmas ................................................. 71Myra Johnson

Surrender the Wind ......................................................... 85Rita Gerlach

Uncorrected Proof


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Gone to Green Judy ChristieCan a big-city journalist change a small southern town

or will the townspeople change her forever?

Lois Barker trades her corporate life at a large paper in theMidwest for the ownership of The Green News-Item, a twice-weekly newspaper in rural North Louisiana. As the not-so-proud new owner, Lois is obliged to keep the paper for at leasta year, despite her doubts and fears.

When she pulls into Green on New Years Day, her expec-tation of a charming little town full of friendly people is

shattered. Instead, she must battle prejudice and financialcorruption, while making friends and enemies with a host of fascinating characters who will change her life. As challengesunfold, her year in Green results in a newfound faith andunexpected blessings.

US $13.99

ISBN 9781426700248FICT / FICTION / CONTEMPORARY WOMEN

ON SALE AUGUST 2009


9/97

Judy Christie left the daily news business to openher consulting firm that works with individuals,churches, and businesses on strategies for meaning- ful life and work. She is the author of theHurryLess, Worry Less series andGoodbye, MurphysLaw. Judy and her husband live in NorthwestLouisiana. This is her debut novel.

www.judychristie.com.


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Gone to Green 10

www . abingdonpress . com / fiction 1.800.251.3320

Look for A bingdon P ress fiction At your LocAL bookseLLer .

Chapter One

Post Media Company announced yesterday that its mul-timedia division will offer newspaper readers informa-tion around-the-clock, relying on the latest technologyand innovation. For more information, see our website. The Dayton Post

Iglanced down at the floorboard and noticed it was

Thursday.Somewhere in the last dozen years or so, I had gotten

into the habit of figuring out what day of the week it was bychecking the number of coffee mugs rolling around. At least Idont keep tuna sandwiches and an ancient typewriter in thebackseat the way a guy in sports does.

Hurrying into the building, I flashed my security badgeat the guard, who reluctantly lifted his head from his Word

Jumble puzzle to glance and nod. Let it never be said he didntget his moneys worth out of the daily paper, especially sincefree papers are one of the perks of working at The DaytonPost. He saw me every day, several times a day, but still hemade me show my badge.

When I hit the front door of the newsroom, I dashed to mydesk. I spend a lot of time dashing, especially in the morningwhen I slide into my cubicle just in time to make eye contactwith my staff before the news planning meeting.

As city editor, I am in the middle of things, right where Ilike to bemost of the time. If it werent for night meetings

and procrastinating reporters, this job wouldnt be half bad.I learned long ago to shape my personal life around

my work. That means only occasionally grumbling aboutthe nights and weekends. I am still a little annoyed about


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Judy Christie 11



Christmas. I always get stuck working because Im the onewithout kids. The schedules already posted for five months

from now, and there I sit: Lois Barker, holiday editor.Hows it shaping up, Scoop?Ed stood in the same spot he stands each morning when

I hit the door, waiting to ask what we have for tomorrowspaper. Hes the managing editor and has been for a decade.His old-fashioned nickname for me helps make up for all theannoying jokes I get about my name being Lois and work-ing on the city desk. Hows Clark Kent? Feeling mild-man-nered today? Seen any speeding bullets?

Ed probably should be the editor by now, but corporatesent in Zach about eighteen months ago. Zachs a young, suitkind of bean-counter editor who spends most of his time inaccounting meetings. Hes a nice enough guy, but he and Ed

dont exactly mesh. Ed thinks Zach is all stick and no carrot.Looking good, Ed. Anything special you want us to

chase?Just make sure you scrape something up with a little juice

to it. And, hey, are you up for some lunch todaymaybe thatsandwich shop down by the library?

My inner radar spiked into the Red Zone. First of all, itwas pork chop day at Buddys, our favorite spot, just aroundthe corner. Next, Ed and I and a handful of other editors atelunch together on a regular basis but never made it this for-mal. Usually we gathered at the back door of the newsroomand walked downtown after the noon news on TV.

To set something up in advance was close to an engraved

invitation. To choose the mediocre sandwich shop meant hewanted to talk in private.I frowned. Sure, Im good for lunch, but whats up?


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Gone to Green 12



Ed glanced around. In a newsroom someone always lurkedwith a question, a joke, or to eavesdrop. Ive got some news,

but itll have to wait.During the news meeting, I watched Ed closely and won-dered what he had on his mind. He had been antsy latelynot happy with changes in the paper.

I dont have anything against corporations owning news-papers, he told me recently, but I dont like it when theystart running newspapers. He was particularly unsettledabout the new focus on the Internet and technology. I didntget into this business to do podcasts.

Ed threw in a couple of good story ideas during the plan-ning discussion to make sure Zach knew he was paying atten-tion. My best friend Marti, the features editor, tried to keepher top reporter from getting pulled off onto a daily story, and

Diane, the business editor, talked in riddles, as though thatwould somehow impress Zach.Diane desperately wants to move up, and knows Zach can

help her get a plum assignment. Thankfully, she hasnt real-ized its actually me Zach plans to move up and out. Hes sup-posedly grooming me to be a top editor, not only because helikes me, but because he gets some sort of company points forhis promotables.

He gets management stars, Marti said when I told herabout my career conversation with Zach a while back. Orhe gets to order a prize out of a catalog with lots of corporatemerchandise in it. Maybe you can talk him out of a baseballcap to show off that ponytail of yours.

Admittedly, Im intrigued by Zachs plans for me. At agethirty-six and still single, its probably time for me to considera change.


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Judy Christie 13



As we finished the news meeting, Ed herded me out of theconference room. Lets beat the lunch crowd. It wasnt even11:30 yet.

Okay, okay, I said. Let me get a couple of reporters goingon their assignments.

Hurry up, he said, distracted.I try to figure things out before people tell me, so of course

I feverishly attempted to decide what Eds news was. As soon as we hit the door, I tossed my ideas at him. Its

the ad director, isnt it? He really did get fired from his lastpaper. Or Tonys applying for that sports desk position in

Atlanta, right? Zachs mad at me about that drowning storywe missed, isnt he?

Ed would not budge and seemed disinterested in myguesses.

Okay! I cant take this any more. Whats up?

Ive got something to tell yousomething big.Youre scaring me, Ed. Spill.Im going to tell you all of it, but first you have to promise

you wont tell anyone, and I mean anyonenot Marti, notyour next-door neighbor, not your aunt in Cleveland. Thishas to stay between us.

Torn between irritation that he seemed to think Iwould put this on the Associated Press wire and worryabout the bomb about to be dropped, I stopped on thesidewalk. For once, I didnt say anything.

He looked at me and smiled big. I did it.Did what?Scoop, I did it! I bought my own newspaper.

Ed! I squealed and gave him a quick hug. Where? When?How? What will I do without you? I peppered him with thestandard journalistic questions and felt that sad, jealous thrillyou get when something exciting happens to a good friend.


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Gone to Green 14



Lets get moving, so I can tell you everything without abunch of ears around.

We started walking, and I tried to smile. Where? Details,

details!The Green News-Item. Green, Louisiana, great little town,

about 7,000 people, lots of potentiala big beautiful lake, acourthouse square downtown, major highway on the draw-ing board.

Louisiana? Youre kidding me. You said youd go to Oregonor Florida or somewhere like that. Have you ever even beento Louisiana? I mean other than that editors convention wewent to in New Orleans that time?

Have now, and I like the feel of the place, Scoop. I real-ized I didnt want one of those cute places we talked about.This place definitely isnt cute. Besides, if it were, I probablywouldnt be able to afford the paper.

He sort of laughed and groaned at the same time. Thisis a family sale. They want to keep Grandpas paper out of the hands of the government and Wall Street. Its a twice-weekly. A twice-weeklybigger than a puny weeklybut anhonest-to-goodness newspaper, circulation 4,930, distributedthroughout the county I mean, parish. You know, they haveparishes in Louisiana. Green, Louisiana. Bouef Parish. SpelledB-o-u-e-f and pronounced Beff, like Jeff. Weird, eh?

He laughed again.I had never seen Ed so excited. They like the looks of me,

and I like the looks of them. Most of the familys out of state,too, so I wont have them breathing down my neck. Itll be mypaper to do whatever I want with.

As he talked, I thought about what this meant to my life. What would I do without Ed? Whose shoulder would I cryon about being thirty-six and unmarried? Ed is my mentor,friend, confidante for every piece of good gossip Ive picked


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Judy Christie 15



up in the past decade and a half. The newsroom without himwould be like the horrible Thanksgiving when I covered thattornado in Preble County and ate my holiday lunch at a gasstation. Lousy. Just plain lousy.

We turned onto Calhoun Boulevard and headed into theSandwich Express. I felt a twinge of shame at my selfishness.Ed had wanted to buy his own paper for years now, saving,always reading Editor & Publisher to see what was on themarket, scouting, working the grapevine. He wanted to put

miles between himself and his ex, and he was unhappy withthe new corporate policies and his thousand extra duties.

A twice-weekly, I said. Busy enough to be a challengebut not the hard work of a daily. In a nice little town. Green,did you say? Sounds like some tree-hugger kind of place. Ibabbled, still trying to collect my thoughts.

Very un-tree-huggerish, Ed said, smiling and shaking hishead. But plenty of nice trees.

Wow. Im shocked. You actually did it, Ed. Then I askedthe hardest question. When?

I plan to tell Zach this afternoon that Ill stay till after prepfootball season and give us time to wrap up the projects wevegot going. I dont know if hell want me around that long,

though. Lame duck and all. I need to get down there beforethe end of the year. Theres a lot of paperwork and stuff to bedone, plus I need to find a place to live.

Till after prep football season? Thats less than two months.Ed, what am I going to do without you?

Youll do great, Lois. Youll be out of here within a yearanyway. Zachs got you pegged to move onward and upward.Id be sitting in my dusty office reading about your successeson some corporate PR website. You can come visit. I may askyou to train my staff all twelve of them. And thats twelve


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Gone to Green 16



in the whole building, by the way, including the maintenanceguy.

My roast beef sandwich sat heavy in my gut, a reminder Ineed to eat healthier if Im going to keep the trim figure Im soproud of. I asked Ed for one of his antacids. He gobbled themby the truckload and complained about losing his appetite inhis old age. Between the coffee and the cigarettes, his heart-burn was legendary.

Ed, you know Im happy for you. I really am. Im going to

miss you, though. We headed back to the newsroom and theofficial news of the day. Suddenly, my cubicle seemed a littletoo small and a little too cluttered. The stack of special proj-ects I was most proud of looked yellow and smelled musty.The ivy had more brown leaves than green. My office coffeecup had a new layer of mold.

Two fresh memos from Zach sat in my mailbox. Please tellyour reporters to quit parking in the visitor lot, and The citydesk needs to increase the number of stories geared to youngerreaders. As I studied the second note, it pained me to realizeI was no longer in the coveted younger reader category.

J J J

Ed took the next week off to handle details. Gone fish-ing, he wrote on a note, posting it on his office door. Backsoon.

I moped around. Must be a stomach bug, I told Marti,who couldnt figure out what was wrong with me. I hated tomislead her, but theres always a bug going around the news-room, so it was a fail-safe excuse.

When Ed returned, he hit the highlights of his week overa cup of coffee in the break room.


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Judy Christie 17



I made a quick trip to Green and sealed the deal withthe owners, he said. The sale remains confidential until Iofficially take ownership in ninety days. Then the current

ownersMcCuller is their namewill make some sort of official announcement.

That would be one of those announcements that newspa-pers hate when other people make, but love when they do. Irolled my eyes, oddly annoyed.

I used some investment money and that little inheritancefrom my folks, he said, to get things going. And then I tookout a whopping line of credit at the local bank. I have a yearto start paying for this baby or bail out. Kind of scary, huh?

Sounds exciting, I said, trying to encourage him, eventhough it sounded scary to me.

Well, theres lots of paperwork. I met with my lawyer herein Dayton and my CPA and got all the particulars taken care

of and filed for my retirement pay. I hope Zach will cut meloosewith pay, of course. He laughed. Im ready to let mynew life begin.

Those were the last words Ed spoke before he passed out. Within two months, he left the newsroom all right. My

gruff, sloppy, smart, hand-holding friend died of leukemia.Not one of us saw it coming.

The weeks of his illness were excruciating for all of us,filled with sadness for our friend and fear for ourselves athow quickly life could turn. I stopped by to see him as oftenas I could, ashamed that my visits were mostly hit-and-runefforts.

Hey, how are things down in Green? I asked one day, but

he changed the subject. I didnt have the heart to try again,and ignored the copies of the paper by his couch.I was among a handful of people, including Zach, that

spoke at the funeral. Somehow I felt Zach had earned that


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Gone to Green 18



privilege, even though Marti and a few others grumbled abouta corporate newcomer charging into a private time. When itmattered most, Zach had treated Ed right.

My comments seemed a bit lightweight, corny stories likethe time Ed put a banana on my telephone and called me, soI would pick the fruit up, thinking it was the receiver. I keptmy comments short.

No cry fest and no super hero stuff, Ed told me in one of my final visits with him.

At the service, I surprised myself and several other peopleby saying a short prayer. Thank you, God, for the impact of Eds life. Have mercy on all of us in the days ahead that wemight be the people we were meant to be. Amen.

My colleagues and I awkwardly walked away from thegrave. We were good at writing about emotion, but we didntquite know how to handle it in first-person form.

I cried all the way back to the newsroom, having desig-nated myself the editor to make sure the Sunday paper gotout. Sadness washed over me. Ed had not gotten a chance tolive his new adventure, to try out his newspaper, to get out of Dayton and into Green, Louisiana.

His obit had missed the lead, going on and on about hisdistinguished career in journalism, how he was nearing retire-ment and loved to fish. He was not wrapping up a career. Hewas about to embark on a Louisiana journey.

Looking up as I hit send on a story, I saw Zach strollingtoward me. Since he usually only called in on Saturdays, hisappearance surprised me. Sitting on the corner of my desk,he chitchatted about the next days edition and picked up a

paper clip, moving it back and forth between his fingers.I appreciate what you said at the funeral, Lois, he said,laying the paper clip down. I really wish I had known Edbetter, like you did. You did a great job of capturing his per-


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Judy Christie 19



sonality made me wish I had taken more time to knowwhat made him tick.

Zach absently rummaged through my candy jar. Moving

around like I have these past few years, he said, I just haventgotten to know people deeply, the way you knew Ed.

Embarrassed and feeling like I might cry again, I keptlooking at my computer screen, deleting old e-mails and gen-erally avoiding eye contact.

You know, Ed thought the world of you, told me oftenhow talented you are, how you would be running your ownpaper one day, Zach said. You know that, right?

I sort of laughed, self-conscious and a little proud. Oh, Edliked me because we had worked together forever. He taughtme so much.

Well, I agree with Ed. I want to offer you his job. Themanaging editor job. My eyes widened. I closed my com-

puter screen and slowly rolled my chair back. I beg yourpardon?

I plan for you to be the next M.E. Ive already run it bycorporate and gotten an okay.

Rumors had swirled in the newsroom about who wouldtake Eds place, but this had been one game I had not letmyself get drawn into, mostly because I knew it would meanEd was truly gone.

Part of me was excited at the idea of a promotion. Theother part was annoyed that Zachs plans were in motionwithout having talked to methat corporate was signing off on my life before I did.

Well? Zach said. Is that a yes?

I realized I had not said anything. I picked up my pen-cil and doodled on my ever-present reporters notebook. Theambition in me fought with the fatigue and uncertainty thesepast weeks had unleashed. Ambition won.


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Gone to Green 20



Thanks, Zach. That sounds great. Thanks. Sure. Id loveto be the M.E. I tried to make my voice sound enthusiastic.

Fantastic! He got up off my desk and moved over to shake

my hand. Fantastic! I look forward to working more closelywith you. Ill get the particulars lined out with HR, and welltell the staff within the next week or so.

Sounds good. Thanks again. I guess Ill head on home.Im pretty tired. A great need to escape engulfed me.

My neat little condo with one puny pink geranium on thepatio was about all I could handle at that moment. I walkedstraight to the bedroom, exhausted, and flopped across thebed. I was too beat to think about how my life was about tochange.

I briefly considered setting my alarm for church the nextday, a habit I had long been out of. I needed the inspiration,but I just could not bring myself to do it.

J J J


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22/97

eye of the godAriel Allison

Fast-paced intrigue and suspense of global proportions

Is the curse of the Hope Diamond real, or just a legacy of greed? When international jewel thieves attempt to steal the Hope

Diamond from the Smithsonian Institution, only its curator,Dr. Abigail Mitchell, stands in their way. Abby soon realizesshe alone holds the pieces to the complicated puzzle in thisdeadly game of illegal art collectors.

Abbys faith is put to the ultimate test as she confronts thefather who abandoned her, the betrayal of the only man shehas ever loved, and the possibility that she may lose her lifebecause of the legendary gem.

US $13.99ISBN 9781426700682FICT / FICTION / SUSPENSE

ON SALE OCTOBER 2009


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Ariel Allison is a published author who lives ina small Texas town with her husband and three young sons. She is the co-author of Daddy Do You Love Me: A Daughters Journey of Faith

and Restoration and Justin Case, the first of three childrens books. Ariel is a weekly contributorto www.ChristianDevotions.us and has written forTodays Christian Woman.eye of the god is herdebut suspense novel.

www.arielallison.com

www.inspire-writer.blogspot.comwww.steppingstonesforwriters.blogspot.com


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eye of the god 24



Prologue

Golconda, India, 1653 Jean-Baptiste Tavernier winced as the soldier chopped off the

mans hand. The thief dropped to the ground, shrieking andclutching the bloodied stump to his chest.

Tavernier turned with a grimace and ordered the litter

bearers beneath him to move faster. Four slaves, dark fromthe sun, jostled between the crowded stalls of Golcondas hec-tic bazaar and away from the public spectacle. The agonizedscreams faded as they pressed farther into the crowd.

Dense heat settled over the marketplace, and Tavernierwiped the back of his hand across his forehead. Pungentsmells hovered in the airsweat and urine, spiced curry andsweet chutney. The hustle and bustle of shoppers and mer-chants haggling over prices surrounded him. Red and goldbridal wear glittered in the stalls. Elephants carried the elitethrough the narrow streets while dirty children chased eachother with sticks.

Tavernier looked across the sea of dark-skinned faces

toward an elaborately embroidered tent in the midst of thebazaar, guarded by two soldiers wearing the white turbanand golden sash of the Sultans army. At his approach theguards stepped aside and pulled back the tent flaps.

Tavernier glanced at the heavy wooden chest near his feet,and stepped from the litter. Guard that with your life, heordered them as he entered the tent.

Large cushions and intricate oriental rugs were scatteredacross the floor. In their midst sat Mir Jumla, GolcondasPrime Minister. The heavy brow, black eyes, and prominent


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Ariel Allison 25



nose of the Persian-born general contradicted his Orientaladornment.

Mir stood and greeted Tavernier in the traditional Indian

way, with palms together, hands raised in front of his faceand head bowed. Vanakkam, he said.

Tavernier lowered his head and returned the greeting.Mir motioned him to sit and they settled onto the

cushions.Good to see you, Prime Minister, Tavernier said.Mir grinned, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. Punctual as always.You said it was important?

Around Mirs neck hung a buckskin pouch, which heuntied and placed in Taverniers hand, I could lose my headfor this.

Come, come Mir, we both know the Sultan would muchprefer to chop off your hands and leave you to beg for food

like a common slave.My hands it will be then if the Sultan ever learns that

escaped his grasp.Tavernier opened the pouch and emptied the contents into

his hand. His eyes widened and the corners of his mouthtwitched as he suppressed a grin. In his palm sat the largestblue diamond he had ever seen. He turned it over, runninghis fingers along the irregular surface. This is a great dealmore than ten carats. It was my understanding that any dia-mond over ten carats found in the Kollur mines went directlyto the Sultan.

Mir Jumla nodded as he pushed back into the cushions.In one hand he fingered a gold coin. That is the edict. But I

never said this stone came from the mines.Since when did you start dealing in stolen gems?Mir Jumla thrust out his lower jaw. You dont want it

then?


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eye of the god 26



Of course I do. I am just curious why a man so loyal to theSultan is selling diamonds right out from under his nose.

Loyalty, like most things, has a price. Mir said with a

grin.Tavernier smiled. Indeed. He held up the diamond, let-

ting the light filter through. Net et dun beau violet, he whis-pered in his native French.

Mir tilted his head to one side.Tavernier repeated in Indian, A clear and beautiful

violet.Yes. It is f lawless.Tavernier balanced the stone in his hand for a moment.

One hundred carats, or close to it, I would wager.One hundred twelve.Excellent. And the price?Two hundred twenty thousand livres.

A steep price.We both know you will not find another such diamond

for sale in Golconda. They all sit in the Sultans treasury.Fair enough, Tavernier said with a shrug. But you still

have not told me how you came by this stone.Mir hesitated a moment as he studied the coin in his hand.

I would not give that much concern. The last person to ownthis was made of stone and sat in a Hindu temple on thebanks of the Godavari River. A slave named Raj, starving andhalf-mad, brought it to me three weeks ago, claiming he hadchiseled it from the forehead of an idol named Rama Sita.Mir cast a sideways glance at Tavernier. Cursed, Raj said. Theidol cursed the diamond and all who would come to own it.

And where is this Raj now?In the bazaar. I believe my soldiers just relieved him of ahand.

That was your doing?


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I paid him a fair price for the stone three weeks ago, buthe came back this morning for more. When I refused, he triedto steal this. Mir held up the coin.

Tavernier laughed. A convenient story, my friend.You dont believe me?Weaving a tale of theft and vengeance is an old jewelers

trick to induce interest in the buyer. One I have used myself,as a matter of fact.

Mir gave a curt nod. May it be on your head. I am glad to

sell it and be done.At such a price, I am sure you are. But as far as my head

goes, I intend for it to stay in place.The curse does not bother you?I dont believe in curses, Mir. Besides, we both know they

increase the value of trinkets such as this.Then we have only the matter of payment to attend.Tavernier rose and went back to the litter to fetch his chest.

He set it on the rug before Mir, and opened the lock with asmall golden key. When he pulled back the lid, hundreds of golden coins spilled onto the carpet before them. He countedthe purchase price before the Prime Minister, who eyed thegold with hunger. Only a few dozen coins remained in the

chest when he was done.Tavernier slid the great blue diamond back inside the buck-

skin pouch and tied it around his neck. Should you stumbleacross the other eye, you will, of course, let me know?

Of course, said Mir with great satisfaction. And thankyou once again for your business.

The men gave each other a polite nod, and Tavernierstepped from the tent. Within seconds his litter disappearedamidst the writhing mass of vendors, peasants, and hanginggoods.


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eye of the god 28



Chapter One

Carnival, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil Present Day

Abby Mitchell stared at the feverish display of dancing out-side the window. She placed her palm on the warm plasterwall of the Chacara do Ceu Museum and felt the pounding

Samba music pulse through her fingers. She observed thefrenzied celebration from within the safety of the museumsmain gallery. An old mansion, turned resting place for someof the worlds most renowned art, the museum was a pleasantcombination of low ceilings, warm walls, and quiet elegance.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she took a deep breath beforeanswering. Good morning, Director Heaton.

Its not all that good, Dr. Mitchell. We have a bit of anissue. His voice was raspy, the ravages of age and too manycigarettes.

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder. Whats goingon?

The Collectors. Theyve taken two Van Goghs.

Abby closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against thewindow. Where?Amsterdam.How?Were not exactly sure. Investigators are baffled. The

paintings just disappeared in the middle of the night.Prints?None.Of course not. In ten years theyve never left a print. Or a

clue, for that matter.


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Ariel Allison 29



Abby, his voice prodded on the other line. You knowwhat this means.

She nodded, staring at her reflection in the window. They

cant get their hands on the Dali. And we know they wantit.

You know what you have to do. A weak smile spread across her face. Lets just hope I

can.Call me when youre done, he said, and then hung up the

phone. A handful of tourists wandered the gallery, trying to study

the timeless wonders on its plaster walls, but distracted byCarnival just a few feet away. Lost in her thoughts, Abby paidno attention to the approaching footsteps until she felt a politetap on her shoulder.

She turned to find an older, graceful woman in her late fif-

ties, wearing a white linen suit and a gracious smile.Dr. Mitchell, I presume? she said with a distinct Brazilian

accent. Abby held out her hand. Indeed. And you must be Director

Santos?Please, call me Ana. Though aging quite gracefully, it was

obvious Ana Santos had been a sight to behold in her prime.Sorry to keep you, she smiled. With all the tourists in

town, I have been running behind all week. But things shouldcalm down now that Carnival is almost underway.

No trouble at all. Ive been enjoying your remarkablecollection.

Ana stretched out an arm and motioned Abby to follow.

They turned their backs to the window and made their waythrough the gallery toward a series of priceless Surrealistpaintings. One in particular caught Abbys attention, and sheleaned forward, appreciation evident on her face.


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Now Dr. Mitchell, you said there was an urgent matterwe needed to discuss. I assume it is more than Carnival thatbrings you to Brazil?

Im afraid so. She ran a finger over the nameplate whichread Two Balconies, Salvador Dali. Abby turned to Ana, try-ing to figure out how to phrase her words.

Fantastic isnt it? Ana beamed. Abby nodded.Two Balconies is the only Salvador Dali painting on dis-

play in Latin America. It is one of the Chacara do Ceus mostprized exhibits.

Abby tapped her lips in contemplation. I dont doubtthat.

Beautiful ring, Ana said, glancing at Abbys finger.Thank you. It was a gift.She grinned mischievously. He must love you very

much.You would think so.

Ana smiled sadly and changed the subject. So what is ityou are concerned about?

Im worried about this painting.What do you mean? I thought you felt it would be a spec-

tacular addition to your exhibit next year.I do, Abby assured her. My concern is not with the

painting itself, but with its safety. I have reason to believe itmay be in danger of theft.

Ana relaxed a little and laughed. I can assure you, mydear, we have strict security measures in place. All of ourpaintings are bolted to the wall and connected to hair-triggeralarms, which if moved even a fraction of an inch, set off oursecurity system. In addition we have state-of-the-art videosurveillance and round-the-clock armed guards.


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Ariel Allison 31



I wasnt suggesting your security system is sub-par, merelythat we have gotten word there may be parties interested inthis particular Salvador Dali painting.

Ana flashed a charming smile. Do you mind me askingyour source?

Ive received notice from the art theft division at Interpol.There are rumblings of an illicit interest in Dali, this paintingin particular. I thought it prudent to warn you, consideringyour partnership with the Smithsonian.

Why is the International Criminal Police Organizationinterested in Two Balconies?

There has been a rash of thefts recently, and Interpol con-tacted me with a warning.

I appreciate your concern, Dr. Mitchell, honestly I do. ButI feel confident we have taken the appropriate measures toprotect our facility.

Abby sighed. Please know you have our full resources atyour disposal should you need them.

Thank you, Dr. Mitchell. I will certainly take that intoconsideration. Ana glanced back at the painting and asked,I assume the Smithsonian is still planning to include TwoBalconies in next years exhibit?

Absolutely. We have already begun preparations for itstransport and security.

Ana beamed. We would be delighted to accommodateyou in any way. I will, of course, accompany the painting to

Washington.Of course.Both women turned back to the window as a loud burst of

cheering and music erupted from the throng outside. ViktorLeite, the mayor, was barely audible over the din. Flankedon both sides by voluptuous women dressed in revealingCarnival garb, he screamed into the microphone so he could


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eye of the god 32



be heard over the pounding drums, Let the festivities begin! At his command the massive parade, seventy thousand peoplestrong, erupted in applause and began to snake through the

streets.You will be staying for Carnival? Ana asked.Im afraid not. Duty calls me back to Washington.I thought this was a working vacation?More work than vacation, Im afraid.Surely the Smithsonian wouldnt object to you staying an

extra day or two? Abby gave a heavy sigh. My flight leaves at noon

tomorrow. Ana opened her mouth to argue her case but was jolted into

stunned silence by the thunderous sound of a gunshot. Abbyand Ana spun around, only to find two armed men standing atthe museum entrance.

J J J


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34/97

The Prayersof Agnes Sparrow

Joyce MagninWelcome to Brights Pond: Home of Agnes Sparrow!

No longer able or willing to leave her home, this unusualwoman has committed herself to a life of prayerprayer thathas resulted in numerous miracles, both large and garden-variety, including a prize-winning pumpkin.

The rural residents of this quirky Pennsylvania town areso enamored with Agnes they plan to erect a sign in her honoron the interstate. Agnes wants no part of it and sends hersister Griselda to fight city hall. Their petitions are shot downand the sign plans press forward.

But when a stranger comes to call asking for his miracle,Brights Pond is turned on its head and Agness feet of clay areexposed, forcing the town to its knees.

US $13.99ISBN 9781426701641FICT / FICTION / CONTEMPORARY WOMEN

ON SALE SEPTEMBER 2009


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Joyce Magnin is co-author of the bookLinked toSomeone in Pain and a frequent contributor tonational publications. She attended Bryn MawrCollege and has three children, Rebekah, Emily,

and Adam; two grandsons; one son-in-law, Joshua,and a neurotic parakeet who cant seem to keep aname. Joyce lives in Havertown, Pennsylvania.

www.joycemagnin.blogspot.com


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The Prayers of Agnes Sparrow 36



Chapter One

If you get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at the Jack Frost Ski

Resort exit, turn left and travel thirty-two and one-quartermiles, youll see a sign that reads: Brights Pond, Home of the

Worlds Largest Blueberry Pie. Although it is true that in 1961 Mabel Sewicky and the

Society of the Crimson Heart, which did secret charitableacts, baked the biggest blueberry pie ever in Pennsylvania,

most folks will tell you that the sign should read: BrightsPond, Home of Agnes Sparrow.

October 12, 1965. That was the day my sister, AgnesSparrow, made an incredible decision that changed historyin our otherwise sleepy little mountain town and made hersign-worthy.

I just cant do it anymore, Griselda. I just cant.Thats what Agnes said to me right before she flopped

down on our red, velvet sofa. It aint worth it to go outsideanymore. Its just too much trouble for you She took adeep breath and sighed it out. and heartache for me.

Agness weight had tipped a half pound over six hundredand she decided that getting around was too painful and

too much of a town spectacle. After all, it generally took twostrong men to help me get Agnes from our porch to my truckand then about fifteen minutes to get her as comfy as possiblein the back with pillows and blankets. People often gatheredto watch like the circus had come to town, including childrenwho snickered and called her names like pig or lard butt.Some taunted if Agnes fell into the Grand Canyon shed getstuck.

When it came time for her high school graduation picturesomeone suggested the photographer take an aerial shot. It


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Joyce Magnin 37



was devastating, although when I look back on it, I think theinsults bothered me more than they did Agnes.

Her hips, which were wider than a refrigerator, spread out

over the sofa leaving only enough room for Arthur, our mar-malade cat, to snuggle next to her.

I think Ill stay right here inside for the remainder of thedays God has set aside for me.

She slumped back, closed her eyes, and then took a hardbreath. It wiggled like Jello through her body.

I held my breath for a second, afraid that Agness heart hadgiven out; she looked so pale and sweaty. But it hadnt. Agneswas always fat and always the subject of ridicule. But I neversaw her get angry over it and I only saw her cry onceinchurch during Holy Communion.

She was fourteen. I was eleven. We always sat together, notbecause I wanted to sit with her, but because our father made

us. He was usually somewhere else in the church fulfilling hiselder responsibilities while our mother helped in the nursery.She always volunteered for baby duty. I think it was becauseMama never really had a deep conviction about Jesus one wayor the other. Sitting in the pews made her nervous, and shehated the way Pastor Spahr would yell at us about our sins,which, if you asked me, my mother never committed and soshe felt unduly criticized.

Getting saddled with fat Agnes every Sunday wasnteasy because it made me as much a target of ridicule as her.Ridicule by proximity. Agnes had to sit on a folding lawnchair in the aisle because she was too big to slip into the pew.

And since she blocked the aisle we had to sit in the last row.

Our father served Communion, a duty he took way tooseriously. The poor man looked like a walking cadaver inhis dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie as he moved stifflydown the aisle passing the trays back and forth with the other


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serious men. But the look fit him, what with Daddy beingthe towns only funeral director and owner of the SparrowFuneral Home where we lived.

On that day, the day Agnes cried, Daddy passed us the traywith his customary deadpan look. I took my piece of crackerand held it in my palm. Agnes took hers and we waited for thesignal to eat, supposedly mulling over the joy of our salvationand our absolute unworthiness. Once the entire congrega-tion, which wasnt large, had been served, Pastor Spahr took

an unbroken cracker, held it out toward the congregation, andsaid, Take, eat, for this is my body broken for you. Then hesnapped the cracker. I always winced at that part becauseit made me think about broken Jesus bones getting passedaround on a silver platter.

I swallowed and glanced at Agnes. She was crying as shechewed the crackerher fat, round face with the tiny mouthchewing and chewing while tears streamed down her heavy,pink cheeks, her eyes squinted shut as though she was tryingto swallow hemlock. Even while the elders served the juice,she couldnt swallow the cracker for the tears. It was suchan overwhelmingly sad sight that I couldnt finish the ritualmyself and left my tiny cup of purple juice, full, on the pew.

I ran out of the church and crouched behind a large boulderat the edge of the parking lot, jammed my finger down mythroat and threw up the cracker I had just swallowed. I sworeto Jesus right then and there that I would never let him oranyone else hurt my sister again.

Which is probably why I took the whole Agnes Sparrowsign issue to heart. I knew if the town went through with theirplan it would bring nothing but embarrassment to Agnes. Iimagined multitudes pulling off the interstate aimed for JackFrost and winding up in Brights Pond looking for her. Theyd


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Joyce Magnin 39



surely think it was her tremendous girth that made her atourist attraction.

But it wasnt. It was the miracles.

At least thats what folks called them. All manner of amaze-ments happened when Agnes took to her bed and startedpraying. It made everyone think Agnes had somehow openeda pipeline to heaven and because of that she deserved a signa sign that would only give people the wrong idea.

You see, when my sister prayed, things happened, but Agnesnever counted any answer to prayer, yes or no, a miracle.

I just do what I do, she said, and then its up to Him.The so-called Brights Pond miracles included three heal-

ingsan ulcer and two incidents of cancerfour incidents of lost objects being located miles from where they should havebeen, an occurrence of glass shattering, and one exorcism,although no one called it that because no one really believed

Jack Cooper was possessedsimply crazy. Agnes prayed andhe stopped running around town all naked and chasing dogs.Pastor Spahr hired him the next day as the church sexton. Hedid a good job keeping the church clean except every once ina while someone reported seeing him howling at the moon.

When questioned about it, Pastor Spahr said, Yeah, but thetoilets are clean.

Pastor Rankin Spahr was a solid preacher man. Strong,firm. He never wavered from his beliefs no matter how rottenhe made you feel. He retired on August 1, 1962 at the ripeold age of seventy-eight, and young Milton Speedwell tookhis place.

Milton and his wife Darcy were fresh from the big city,

if you can call Scranton a big city. I suppose he was all of twenty-nine when he came to us. Darcy was a mite younger.She claimed to be twenty-five but if you saw her back then,youd agree she was barely eighteen.


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Milton eventually became enamored with Agnes just likethe rest of the town and often sent people to her for prayerand counsel.

But it wasnt until 1972 that Agness notoriety took a frontseat to practically everything in town. Studebaker Kowalski,the recipient of miracle number two, the cancer healing, hada petition drawn up, citing all the miracles along with a dozenor more miscellaneous wonders that had occurred through-out the years.

Heck, the Vatican only requires three miracles to make asaint, he said. Agnes did seven. Count em, seven.

Just about everyone in town, except Agnes, MiltonSpeedwell, a cranky old curmudgeon named Eugene Shrapnel,and me added their signatures to the petition, making it themost signed document ever in Brights Pond. Studebakerplanned to present it to Boris Lender, First Selectman, at the

January town meeting.Town meetings started at around 7:15 once Dot Handy

arrived with her steno pad. She took the minutes in short-hand, typed them up at home on her IBM Selectric, punchedthree holes in the sheet of paper, and secured it in a large bluebinder that she kept under lock and key like she was safe-keeping the secret formula for Pepsi Cola.

That evening I settled Agnes in for the night and madesure she had her TV remote, prayer book, and pens. You see,

Agnes began writing down all of the towns requests after itgot so overwhelming she started mixing up the prayers.

Its all become prayer stew, she said. I cant keep nothingstraight. I was praying for Stella Hughess gallbladder when

all the time it was Nate Kincaids gallbladder I should haveasked a favor for.Nate ended up with Stellas prize-winning pumpkin and

had to have his gallbladder removed anyway. Stella had


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Joyce Magnin 41



apparently entered the same contest as Nate and asked Agnesfor Gods blessing on her pumpkin. Stella forgave Agnes forthe oversight and Nate agreed to share the blue ribbon withher. But, as Agnes said, God blessed her blunder because Nateand Stella got married six months later. Theyve been raisingprize-winning pumpkins ever since.

After the pumpkin debacle, Agnes wrote down all therequests in spiral notebooks. She color-coded the names andpetitions, reserving black ink for the most severe cases, red

for less dire but still serious needs (marriage troubles andminor illnesses like warts and bunions) and blue ink for thefolks with smaller troubles like broken fuel pumps and ornerykidsthat sort of thing.

Ive got to get going now, Agnes, I told her a few minutesbefore seven. The meetings about to start and I dont wantto be late.

Could you fetch me a drink of juice and maybe a coupleof tuna sandwiches before you go? And how about a couple of those cherry Danishes left over from last Sunday.

Ill be late.No you wont.I spread tuna salad onto white bread and poured a glass of

golden apple juice into a tall tumbler with strawberry vines.I was standing at the kitchen sink rinsing my fingers whenI heard rain starthesitant at first. It was the kind of rainthat started with large, heavy drops and only a hint of ice inthem but would soon turn to all snow. Most of the time foulweather meant a smaller crowd for town meetings, but withthe Agnes Sparrow sign debate on the agenda I doubted theweather could keep folks away.

I better go, I said. I want a seat in front on account of thesign situation.


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Phooey, Agnes said. I told you I dont want a sign withmy name on it. I dont want the glory.

I know. I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. I

told you Id take care of it.Agnes took another bite of her sandwich and turned on

the TV while I buttoned my coat and slipped into yellowgaloshes. I was just about to step outside when Agnes spokeup. Her high voice made her sound like a little girl.

The Lord just gave me an idea, she said, swallowing. Tellthat town council of ours that the sign should read, BrightsPond. Soli Deo Gloria. Thats Latin. It means

I know what it means. Ill be back as soon as I can.That was when all the trouble started. And I dont just

mean over the silly sign. I thought the towns enthusiasm toadvertise Agness prayers got something loosed in the heavensand trouble came to Brights Pond after thattrouble no one

could have ever imagined.

J J J


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44/97

The Call of ZulinaKay Marshall StromDaughter of slave traders leads revolt against injustice

West Africa, 1787

Grace Winslow, the daughter of a mixed marriage betweenan English sea captain and an African princess, is swept up ina slave revolt after she escapes the family compound to avoidan odious betrothal.

As the truth about the fortress of Zulina unfolds, Gracebegins to grasp the brutality and ferocity of the family busi-nessthe capture and trade of slaves.

Despite being held for ransom, viciously maimed by a run-away slave, and threatened with death, Grace sympathizeswith the plight of the captives. She is especially moved bythe African Cabetos passion, determination, and willingnessto sacrifice anything, including his own life, for his peoplesfreedom. Leaning on the faith of her nanny Mama Muco,Grace risks everything to follow her heart.

US $13.99ISBN 9781426700699

FICT / FICTION / HISTORICALON SALE AUGUST 2009


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Of Kay Marshall Stroms thirty-four published books, four have been chosen as book club selections, ninehave been translated into foreign languages, and one

has been optioned for a movie. One of her best-knownworks isOnce Blind: The Life of John Newton , whichhas been packaged with the DVD Amazing Grace.Kay travels the globe, speaking out against social injus-tice, especially that of modern-day slavery. She andher husband, Dan Kline, live in Eugene, Oregon.

www.kaystrom.com


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The Call of Zulina 46



Chapter 1

West Africa, 1787Hot, dry harmattan winds swept across the African savan-nah and awakened the yellow-brown sand, whipping it upwith wild gusts that swirled and soared high into the air. Thesandy clouds that blew in with the first shards of daybreak

to shroud the dawn in grit refused to release their grip, andby late afternoon a thick layer of dust coated the entire land-scape. Irritated goats paused in their search for edible bladesof grass to stomp and shake themselves, and the childrenwho herded them scratched at the itchy grit in their own eyesand hair. On the road, donkeys turned their heads away fromthe sandy wind and refused to pull their loads. Impatientmasters swiped at their own faces as they whipped at thedonkeys flanks, but all that accomplished was to send stillmore billows of dust into the air.

Sand whistled through banana leaves thatched atop clus-ters of mud huts in villages, and it settled over the decks of ships as they rocked idly at anchor in the harbor. Even at

what was mockingly called The London House, with itsostentatious glass windows locked tight and European boltssecuring its imported doors, gritty wind found a way underand between and beneath and into.

Twenty-year-old Grace Winslow, who had claimed theplumpest of the upholstered parlor chairs for herself, shiftedfrom one uncomfortable position to another and sigheddeeply. She reached out slender fingers and brushed a newlysettled layer of sand from the intricate lace trim on her newsilk taffeta dress and resigned herself to the day.


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Kay Marshall Strom 47



The ancestors are angry, proclaimed Lingongo, Gracesmother, from her imposing position beside the rattling win-dow shutters. Silky soft kente cloth flowed over her in a

kaleidoscope of hand-woven color, framing her fierce beauty.Lingogo made a proud point of her refusal to sit on her hus-bands English furnitureexcept when it was to her advan-tage to do so.

Ancestors! Sech foolishness! Joseph Winslow snorted,but only under his breath. Wind jist be wind and nothinbut wind.

Maybe the ancestors dont want me to marry a snake,Grace ventured.

No one could argue that the first harmattan of the seasonhad roared through on the very day Jasper Hathaway firstcame to court her. He had swept through the front door andinto the parlor in a blustering whirlwind of sand, his fleshy

face streaked with sweat and his starched collar askew. Hestayed on and on for the entire afternoon. Only when itbecame obvious that no one intended to invite him to eatsupper with the family did he finally heave himself out of

Josephs favorite chair and bid a reluctant farewell. When thedoor finally shut behind him and Graces father had thrownthe bolt into place, Lingongo had turned to her daughter andwarned, Snake at your feet, a stick at your hand. So the wisemen say. Keep a stick in your hand, Grace. You will need itwith that snake at your feet.

Surely, Grace had thought, that would be that. Neveragain would she have to endure such an agonizing after-noon. And yet, at her parents insistence, here she sat.

Perhaps it angers the ancestors that white men insist on set-tling in a country where they do not belong, Lingongo said,her black eyes fixed hard on her husband.


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But Joseph was in no mood for arguments. Not this day.So, turning to his daughter, he said, Ye looks good, Darlin.

And he meant it too. He fairly beamed at Grace, bedecked asshe was in the new dress he had personally obtained for justthis occasion.

It was the latest fashion from the shops of London, CaptainBass had assured him when the captain unwrapped the pack-age, then carefully unfolded and laid out the frock he hadsecured in London on Winslows behalf. Captain Bass said

it again when he presented the shops bill of goods, with theprice marked out and double the amount scribbled in. Toaccount fer all me trouble, Bass explained.

In the end, Joseph had been forced to turn over two of his prize breeding slaves to pay for the dress. But, Josephconsoled himself, it would be well worth his investment toget a son-in-law with extensive land holdings, not to mentionendless access to slaves. A son-in-law with enough wealth toflash about, to impress the entire Gold Coast of Africa andno doubt dazzle the company officers in London, too well,such a bloke was well worth the calculated investment he hadmade in his daughter.

Ye looks almost like a true English lass, me darlin, Joseph

exuded. Yes, ye very nearly does.Grace sighed. In her entire life, she had only met one

true English lass. Charlotte Stevens was her name. And if Grace Winslow knew anything, she knew she looked nothinglike Charlotte Stevens. Small and dainty, with skin so paleone could almost see through itthat was Charlotte. Theshe-ghost, the slaves called her. Charlottes hair was almostwhite, like an old womansvery thin and very straight. Inevery way, she was the opposite of Grace. Tall and willowy,with black eyes and thick dark hair that glinted auburn in


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the sunlight, Grace was a silky mocha blend of her Africanmother and her English father.

Charlottes father ran a slave trading business down thecoast. Grace had never been there, although she had seenMr. Stevens on a number of occasions when he came to seeher father on business matters. Charlotte never accompaniedhim, though. She and her mother mostly lived in Englandand only visited Africa for two months every other year. Thefew times Grace and Charlotte had occasion to be in each oth-

ers company, Charlotte had treated Grace as though she wereone of her fathers slaves. Never once had she even calledGrace by her given name.

Mr. Athawaynow theres as fine a Englishman as yecould ope to find, Daughter, Joseph Winslow continued.English ouse e as, too. Even finern ours, if ye kin believe it.

An e as oldins all up and down the coast, e asI dont like Mr. Hathaway, Grace interrupted.You do not have to like him. You only have to marry

him, Lingongo replied. You are a woman, Grace. Tonight,you will tell the Englishman what he wants to hear. After youare married, take what he has to give and then you can makeyour life what you want it to be.

Grace stole a look at her father. A deep flush scorched hismottled cheeks and burned all the way up to his thinningshock of red hair. Embarrassed for him, she quickly lookedaway.

Outside, the wind grabbed up the aroma of Mama Mucoscooking and swept it into the parlor. It was not the usualvegetable porridge, or even frying fish and plantains. No,this was the rich, deep fragrance of roasting meat. Forgettinghis humiliation, Joseph blissfully closed his eyes and suckedin the tantalizing fragrance. A smile touched the edges of his


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thin, pale lips and he murmured, Mmmmm, good Englishfood. Thats wot it be!

Lingongos flawless cocoa face glistened with impatience

and her dark eyes flashed. Where is Mr. Hathaway? shedemanded. He keeps us waiting on purpose!

Grace and her parents had endured each others companyfor almost an hour by the time Jasper Hathaway finally blus-tered in, full of complaints and self-importance and, of course,a tremendous appetite. He talked all through dinner, not evenbothering to pause as he stuffed his mouth with roasted meat,steamed sweet potatoes, and thick slices of mango.

so I sent detailed instructions by the next ship to Londoninquiring about my various and sundry holdings, Hathawaysaid. Little pieces of sweet potato fell from his mouth and set-tled on his blue satin waistcoat. I should have gone myself.It is the only way to get things done right. But I do so hate the

long sea journey. I am not of your kind, Joseph.Here he stopped his fork long enough to cast his host a

look of pity.Aye, Joseph said. Sea air. Tis wot keeps me lungs clean

and me ide tough!No, no! Hathaway said with a dismissive wave of his

fork. That isnt it at all. I mean, you can be away for a yearat a time and no one misses you. That is, your work in Africadoes not suffer in the least in your absence. Not so with atrue businessman such as myself. Why, if I were to be awayso long

Grace stopped listening. The truth was she had absolutelyno interest in anything Mr. Hathaway had to say. And as

for his demeanor, she found that absolutely disgusting. Soshe allowed her mind to move her away from the table andnestle her down in the mango grove, to settle in her favoritespot where the wind rippled through the branches above her


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Jasper Hathaway judiciously turned his attention to hiswaistcoat. The close-fitting satin garment might be the latestfashion in Europe, but Hathaways fleshy body proved too

much for it, causing the seams to strain dangerously. Sighingdeeply, he tossed fashion to the wind. He undid the buttonsand freed his ample stomach.

The ancestors are invisible, Lingongo, Jasper Hathawaystated as if to a not-too-bright child. They have already col-lected what was due them in their own lifetime. Now theyhave nothing more to say. You need not fear the ancestors.Shifting his gaze to Joseph, he added, Fear the living, pres-ent threats to your well-being, my dear lady, not powerlessshadows from the past.

Joseph Winslow flinched and paled. At long last, Mr. Hathaway, jovial and flushed in his flap-

ping waistcoat, and far too familiar toward Grace, sent for his

transportation and bid his farewells. Yet even as his carriageclattered down the stone lane toward the front gate, he leanedout the window and called back, I will not be patient forlong, Winslow. Time is running out. And as for ZulinaThe rest of his words swirled away in the harmattan winds.

As soon as the door was closed and bolted, Graceannounced, I refuse to marry Mr. Hathaway!

Joseph Winslow stopped still. Never, in his twenty-oneyears with Lingongo, had he dared speak to her in such a way.Oh, he had wanted to. How many times he had wanted to!But the most he had risked was a mumbled opinion under hisbreath. Nor had Grace openly contradicted her mother before.But the harmattan winds blew harder than ever. They rattled

the shutters and sent jackfruit clattering down onto the roof. And when such a wind blows, anything can happen.And just who are you to tell me what you will and will not

do? Lingongo challenged.


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Its my life, Mother, and III will what? Grace thought with a sudden jolt of despair.

Undoubtedly, the same question occurred to her mother,

because a mocking sneer curved Lingongos mouth into atwisted grin, and all Graces bravery failed her.

Do you really think I will allow you to stay here forever,playing the part of a useless idler? Lingongo demanded.Why should you live like a princess when you bring abso-lutely nothing to my house? Even a princess must do herpart, Grace. Especially a princess.

Grace opened her mouth to answer, but Lingongo wasntfinished. Her voice dripped with bitterness as she said, You,with your washed-out skin and the color of rust in your hair!

You, with your English clothes and English ways and Englishtalk. Oh yes, Grace, you will marry Mr. Hathaway. You willmarry the snake. You will because I command it of you!

J J J


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55/97


56/97

The Fence

My Father BuiltLinda S. Clare

This is the story of finding your way homeeven whenhome is a trailer in the middle of nowhere.

All her life Muri Pond dreamed of finding the father wholeft her when she was three years old. Now its too late. JoePond has died, willing his remote Central Oregon high-des-ert property to his citified daughter, a librarian whod ratherresearch than ranch.

When legally separated Muri Pond hauls fifteen-year-olddaughter Nova and eleven-year-old son Truman to her inher-ited property, shes confronted by a troublesome neighbor andher fathers legacya fence made from old oven doors.

Along with Aunt Lutie and the Red Rock Tabernacle Ladies,Muri must rediscover the faith her alcoholic Native-Americandad somehow never abandoned.

US $13.99ISBN 9781426700736FICT / FICTION / CONTEMPORARY WOMEN

ON SALE OCTOBER 2009


57/97

Linda S. Clare is an award-winning co-author of three books, includingLost Boys and the Moms

Who Love Them (with Melody Carlson andHeather Kopp),Revealed: Spiritual Reality ina Makeover World , and Making Peace with a

Dangerous God (with Kristen Johnson Ingram).Linda graduated summa cum laude from ArizonaState University. For the last seven years she hastaught college-level creative writing classes andedits and mentors other writers. She and her hus-band of thirty-one years have four grown children.They live in Eugene, Oregon.

www.godsonggrace.blogspot.com


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The Fence My Father Built 58



Josephs Journal

June, 1977Sprawled across the bed, you slept face-down, wearing thatred cowboy shirt and the velvet skirt you love. I stood byand watched your breathing. Your hair, so straight and black,reminded me of my people, our people, and I wondered whatyou dreamed. Years ago, the Nez Perce surrendered to brokentreaties, broken dreams. Im sorry, daughter, but Im surren-dering, too.

Youre only three, Muri, but you learn fast. In this Oregondesert, the sun beats down hot, and today our tan faces shonewith sweat. We walked across the sagebrush and you held thecorn snake we found. You held it gently, without fear. I felt

proud as I ever have. After sunset, we sat on the hill and looked up at the stars. When you got cold I draped my old coat around you and toldyou all about angels. On the way home, you didnt ask foryour mother, not once. Its wrong, I know, but I was pleased.

I had big plans to be your daddy. I was going to read to youevery day, teach you the names of all the Civil War battles.Id teach you how to fish. Youd learn how to listen to thewind and how to skip a stone. Most of all, Id teach you howto pray.

None of that will happen now. After your mom called, I broke down and cried and I

couldnt stop. Ive lost. Your mother doesnt know our ways

but she has the white mans courts on her side. They call itfull custody. I cry because I wont see you on your first dayof school or when you get your drivers license. My ears wonthear you laughing. Youll learn to climb trees and hold snakes


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Linda S. Clare 59



without me. I wont even be able to tell you why I wasntthere.

Maybe when youre grown youll understand. Or maybeyou wont care about the secrets we could have shared, secretsof land and water, secrets of fixing refrigerators. I pray thatGod, who made all of this for us, will reach your heart intime.

Tonight, I hugged you close, but you held your nose andsaid, Daddy, I hate smoking! I cant seem to get that cigarette

smell out of my clothes. All I smelled right then was the painof your mothers victory.

Her car pulled into the driveway, and she leaned on thehorn. I waved out the window. She could wait. I shruggedinto my suede jacket.

Before I handed you over, I picked up the framed pictureI like: the one where youre standing on that wicker chair,holding your raggedy blanket. I took the photo out of itsframe, careful to hold it by the edges and slipped it into mywallet. When you got sleepy we hunted all over for that grimyblanket.

Your old man has the magic touch with broken appliancestoojust this week I fixed the neighbor ladys old stove. The

bottle, now thats a different story, one Ive tried to change ahundred times. If you only knew.

Standing by the bed, I watched you sleeping. I strokedyour flushed cheek and whispered your name. I carried youto your mothers car, and you opened your eyes and smiled. Isaved my tears for later, when I opened my wallet. I looked atyour photo and weakness ambushed me.

There are days when I feel strong. Those times, nothingcan stand between you and me. Most times, though, Im bro-ken, nothing but an old sinner praying for another chance.


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Someday, Muri, come looking for your old dad, will you?Maybe God will light a fire in you and our ancestors will

fan the flames. Ill put up a beacon so youll know where tolook.

Chapter oneMy father left my mother and me when I was three, butback then I didnt hate him for it. He was an angel becausehe showed me things, told me things, made me see things forthe very first time. How to hold a flat stone in order to skipit. The feel of water slipping through my fingers. How to tellthe moons phase.

The last night I saw him alive he took me to the top of ahill to look at the stars. Out where we lived, in Oregons highdesert, there were more stars than black sky. He draped his

worn suede coat over my shoulders and I kept tripping on thebottom, thats how little I was. We walked and walked andonce I fell over a sage bush. When I cried he said, Shh, angelsare watching. Dad pointed up to the Milky Way, which tookmy breath away and then we shouted out with joy, sang rightalong with the whole heavenly host. Thats how I thought of my father then, as an angel, alive and real and always with aflask of whiskey inside that suede jacket.

Before Mother died she always said he was just an old holyroller; that his idea of religion was speaking in tongues whilereaching for the bottle. When I was young she mocked himevery day. Why dont you just take your baby girl on downto the bar with you? Mother would say, dripping with her

special brand of sarcasm. In those days her bitterness onlymade me feel closer to this father who prayed and this Godwho loved a sorry man like Joseph Pond.


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But by the time I grew up I did hate him. Mom did a good job in coaching but I admit that most of my bile came of my own free will. I carefully tended doubts about God the

father, too and routinely blamed my troubles on one or bothof them.

The day I drove to Murkee, where Joseph Pond had livedand died, I believed that angels didnt exist, at least not ondesert highways like this one. My ex-husband Chaz said wedsimply grown apart. I tried to make it work for the kidssake, but after I caught him with that Victoria woman onetime too many, I decided enough was enough. Anyway, Chazadmitted he wasnt the daddy type. When he left, I let himgo.

The kids and I were alone now, bound for the middle of nowhere. I wondered if angels took assignments out here onMars.

Mars was a lot like central Oregon, I thought, where therewasnt a drop of water anywhere I could see, where the windblew hard and constant. Gusts pressed down the grass, leanedit over like a wino whod fallen asleep. Sagebrush, the ugli-est plant Id ever seen, was probably the only thing holdingthe red dirt down. The way things were going, if I didnt findsomething to hold onto soon, I might blow away too.

At times the kids had dozed against the windows, theirrelaxed mouths jerking shut each time I hit a pothole. Theymust be so tired, I thought, to be able to sleep through all the

jouncing. Wed been on the road at least six hours, thanks tomy lousy sense of direction, and many more sibling quarrels.Nova started complaining as soon as we crossed the Cascade

Mountains.Were doomed, Nova moaned. Then she argued withTruman over our bottled water supply and how many Milky

Ways were left.


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What are you looking at? I heard Tru yell to his sister.She was probably drilling him with her famous stare. Theultimate weapon, I thought. I could see her smoldering gaze

in the rear view mirror.Everything looks dead. Nova pointed out the window.

Waters probably poisoned. Acid rain or something. Shesnapped her gum then; knew Id thrown many a teenager outof the high school library for that very infraction.

Maybe thats why Grampa died, Truman volunteered. At nine, Tru, named after my favorite president, still saidGrampa. His sister just groaned before putting her ear budsback in place.

I swear she didnt hate everything and everyone lastweek.

Nova made a face at Tru. Her hair, only two inches long ontop this week, dyed orange and stiffened with Elmers glue,

stood in small peaks.Woolly worms, I told her. Your hair reminds me of fuzzy

caterpillars. She attributed her dark mood to my observa-tions and said it was my fault that everything, including thelandscape, had died. Sometimes she could be a stereotype of herself.

Maybe stereotypes were all anyone was, including myfather. After years of thinking about how I could connect withmy roots, Tru had found him on the Internet. He was doinga report for school about Oregon ranchers, and accidentallybumped right into his own grandfathers name in an articleabout ongoing feuds over water rights in the desert lands. Anaddress popped up almost instantly, and decades of searching

condensed into a few lines on a computer screen.Id written to the address that same day, only to learn that Joseph Pond had recently died. His sister, Lutie Pearl, wroteback, Your daddy was only 55 but liver disease doesnt care


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who it kills off. He owned a piece of property that was nowmine, she said, and coincidentally, the neighbor was threat-ening to sue their socks off. Muri, she wrote, it would bless

me if you could come over to clear things up.Bless her? I wasnt sure I could clear up my checkbook,

much less a lawsuit. But I wanted more than anything to knowmy roots, truth be told, we were temporarily homeless.

The dust hid deep ruts in the road that could have rolledour VW bus over on its back like a turtle. The kids hadnamed it Homer because it was a camper inside completewith a miniature stove and a roll of paper towels that cameunwound unless we held it with rubber bands. Tru kept say-ing we looked like The Beverly Hillbillies.

That might have been funny if I hadnt piled all our belong-ings on the roof rack, including a couple of twin mattressesanchoring an assortment of mismatched luggage and card-

board boxes, mostly containing kitchen appliances and oldbooks.

The thought of driving to nowhere looking like charactersfrom The Grapes of Wrath got my eye twitch going. As if thiswasnt enough, Nova threatened to bail out of the van andwalk all the way back to Portland. My daughter, who wassixteen and therefore knew everything, added, Your dadsalready dead, so whats the point?

Her younger brother Tru stared at her, with that seriousexpression he gets, opened his mouth to say something, thenclosed it again. He went back to playing his hand-held videogame.

Id told them we were here to settle my fathers affairs, but

that was only half right and they knew it. Once the schooldistrict cut my library position, Chaz knew he could pressureme to unload the house. I couldnt stand to live under theneighbors stares, so I went along with the sale. He literally


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You have Gardenburgers? Nova wanted to know. Sheddeclared herself a vegetarian last week. And a double latte,skinny, with hazelnut. My daughter had forgotten that we

were now on a different planet, one without a Starbucks.Dove looked at me to translate. Pick something, I

growled, handing Nova one of those menus where someonehas typed in the selections and slipped them inside a thickplastic sleeve.

When lunch arrived, Nova picked at hers and stared, cata-tonic, out the window. In the light I noticed again that mydaughter had Chazs eyes, a light intense blue that was almostfierce at times. Although most of the time he was maturefor his age, Tru made a touchdown flicking his straw paperbetween the salt and peppershakers. I was taken by the sud-den urge to hide beneath the table.

Instead I asked Dove if she knew about the place out on

Winchester Road, the estate of the late Joseph Pond.Sure everybody knows the Ponds, Dove said, but I won-

dered why she was whispering. She gathered up the littlewads of paper where Tru missed the field goal. So sad abouthis passing. His sister and her husband still live out there,though. Tiny comes in here and hauls off anything we dontwant.

Weve been on the road since this morning, I said. Ivegotten lost more times than I can count. I fidgeted with mystraw; tried to ignore Novas grimaces.

One guy at the counter turned around.He was around fifty, his cheeks creased and tanned with

the marks of sun and wind. His clothes were standard ranch-

ers attire: plaid western shirt tucked into dark blue jeans,boots with pointed toes and a thick layer of dirt clinging tothe heels. A real cowboy, I thought, unlike the phony envi-ronmentalist types Id put up with in the city. This cowboy


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sat hunched over the remains of a platter of greasy lunch, andhadnt eaten the pickle garnish. He stood it straight up in themiddle of a half-eaten sandwich and chuckled. He had sharp,

deep-set eyesI couldnt see if they were brown or green. Ilooked away, hoping he hadnt seen me staring. I also hopedhe wasnt the type that breaks the spine on a book.

The man stood up and strode over to our booth. Welcometo Murkee, he said and extended his hand. Just passingthrough?

No, not exactly, I said. Nice to meet you. Im Muri. Ishook his hand but felt myself recoil. And these are my chil-dren, Nova and Truman.

Since the new highway went through we dont get thatmany tourists, he said. You got to get off the beaten path tofind us, right Dove?

The waitress nodded. Way off the pathyou got that

right, Linc. Unless youre out hunting fossils, that is.He laughed. Where are my manners? I meant to say Im

Lincoln Jackson. I know just about everything that goes onaround here.

Novas head popped up from her sulking. Tell us how toget back to Portland.

I gasped. Nova! Im sorry Mr. Jackson, weve gotten lost anumber of times today and were a little road weary. I hopedmy eyes werent puffy.

He waved his hand. Call me Linc, please. And I dontblameNova is it?for being wary of our little town.Sidewalks do roll up pretty early. Not much action, Imafraid.

Linc, then. I nudged Nova under the table.Sorry, she said.Dove broke in. Even worse when theres a rodeo over to

Prineville. Then were lucky to serve lunch to the rattlers and


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jackrabbits. She chuckled at her small joke and her uniformswished when she moved her arms.

Tru perked up. Rattlers? Are there rattlesnakes out here?

He pushed up his glasses. Nova rolled her eyes.Linc patted Trus arm. Sure theres snakes, little guy. You

ever hold a snake?No but I want to. Tru sat up taller.Linc leaned on the back of our booth. How about roping?

You ever roped a steer?Tru shook his head. Like a cowboy?Linc laughed. Shore, pardner. I can teach you all you need

to know. Linc brought over his black Stetson and handed itto Tru. Go ahead, son, try it on.

Tru looked at me for approval, then plunked on the hat. Itnearly swallowed his head. How do I look? he said.

Like a doofus, Nova said. Like this townwhod name

a town Murkee, anyway?I sighed. Nova, please . . .Tru returned the hat and Linc smoothed the brim. No

offense taken, maam, Linc said. I dont rightly understandit myself, young lady. But my great-grandmother, Ida, she hadthe idea. And she insisted on Murkeesaid it sounded likesome Indian word.

So this whole area was settled by your family? I didntwant to sound nosy, but I was intrigued. I smiled, relievedthat these rural folks were so friendly.

Apparently, Dove had been eavesdropping. She came overwith our check and said, Linc here owns just about every-thing in these parts. Everything but the church and a couple

of parcels next to his place.Trus eyes got bigger again. You mean you own the wholetown? He dribbled ketchup down the front of his T-shirt, butI resisted the urge to wipe it off.


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Linc seemed to consider Trus question. Well, son I guesssoand when I get access to that creek Ill be a lot happier.Dove shot him a look and then resumed scrubbing downtables.

Why do you need a creek? Tru looked puzzled. Doesit have lots of fish or something? He stuffed the last of hisFrench fries into his mouth.

Tru, use your napkin, I said. I grabbed my purse and dugout money for our lunch, plus a nice tip. And dont ask so

many questions. This was getting embarrassing.No problem, maam. Linc said. Lets just say one of my

neighbors has been difficult. He sighed. Then he up anddied before we could see eye to eye.

Tru practically shouted, My grandpa died too! Last week!But I never met him, I just heard about him.

Sorry to hear that, son. Lincs expression changed, andsuddenly he seemed guarded.

The wind picked up outside, rattled the windows and th

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