The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  Praise for The Road to Testament

  “The Road to Testament is, like the author, full of wit and southern charm. It’s a tale of new South meets true South. A love story with all the right ingredients: colorful characters, plenty of romantic tension, a small-town scandal, even a hundred-year-old secret. There’s no one more qualified to pen a southern novel than Eva Marie Everson.”

  —Dan Walsh, bestselling author of The Unfinished Gift, The Discovery, and The Dance

  “No one writes southern fiction like Eva Marie Everson. I loved this book, her voice, her humor, and her poignant look at life through the eyes of Ashlynne Rothschild. The Road to Testament is about discovering what is really important in life and finding the courage to live it out.”

  —Rachel Hauck, best-selling author of The Wedding Dress and Once Upon A Prince

  “Eva Marie Everson’s emotionally evocative novels are so well written that we see, touch, taste, and hear the story. It’s no wonder she has such a faithful following.”

  —Gina Holmes, award-winning author of Crossing Oceans and Wings of Glass

  “This is one book for which I can honestly say I enjoyed every single page. In The Road to Testament, Eva Marie Everson has skillfully woven together all the elements of a great read: suspense, humor, faith, morality, romance. For my own personal library, this one’s a keeper!”

  —AnnTatlock, award-winning author of Sweet Mercy and Promises to Keep

  “A fun and slightly sassy read about a fashionista from Florida who finds herself in small-town North Carolina with the challenge to ‘get to know people.’ Determined to prove she is worthy to ‘inherit’ the head editor spot of her grandparents’ and parents’ magazine, Ashlynne Rothschild accepts the condition to live in Testament, North Carolina, for six months. Once on site, the sparring between the mysterious Will and the proud and private Ashlynne sizzles as they both learn to look deeper and dare to reveal their pasts. A bit of Southern history sprinkled throughout adds to the enjoyment.”

  —Elizabeth Musser, author of The Swan House, The Sweetest Thing, The Secrets of the Cross trilogy

  Other books by Eva Marie Everson

  The Cedar Key Novels

  Chasing Sunsets

  Waiting for Sunrise

  Slow Moon Rising

  Unconditional

  Things Left Unspoken

  This Fine Life

  The Potluck Club series

  Reflections of God’s Holy Land (non-fiction)

  The Road to Testament

  Copyright © 2014 by Eva Marie Everson

  ISBN-13: 978-1-68299-778-9

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202 www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in association with Wheelhouse Literary Agency

  Scripture quotations are from the Common English Bible. Copyright © 2011 by the Common English Bible. All rights reserved. Used by permission. www.CommonEnglishBible.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Everson, Eva Marie.

   The road to testament / Eva Marie Everson.

   1 online resource.

   Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

   ISBN 978-1-4267-8728-7 (epub)—ISBN 978-1-4267-5798-3 (soft back : alk. paper) 1. Heiresses—Fiction. 2. Women journalists—Fiction. 3. Small cities—Fiction. I. Title.

   PS3605.V47

   813’.6—dc23

  2013038979

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Sharon and Bob

  Extraordinary friends.

  “Love you, Cuzes!”

  Acknowledgments

  I am inspired by locations—as a writer, as a photographer, and as a human being walking this planet. I see more of God’s handiwork—His artistry, His brushstrokes, and His inspiration—in landscapes. And so it was the first time I went to Rutherford County, North Carolina, some years back. But more than the quaint towns that reminded me of what I’d found precious about growing up in small-town America back in the 1960s; and more than the rolling hills, the lush valleys, the rambling brooks, and the shimmering lakes; and more than the time-worn trails winding through it all under brilliant blue skies; and more than the nights when the moon is so large you swear you could touch it and the stars are so bright you almost don’t need a night light; more than all that the people spoke to me, to my heart. This is Southern hospitality walking and talking, I said.

  I discovered something even more special (if you can believe it). I discovered family. Whether by blood or only by love, we’re not sure (her mother and my father had the same not-so-common last name), but Sharon Decker and I are family nonetheless. For me, trips to Rutherfordton, N.C., and Rutherford County became a must-do. Somewhere along the way, I met Sharon’s friend, Jean Gordon, a reporter for the county’s newspaper. I watched her work; I listened as she interacted with those around her with smooth assuredness, and a story began to form.

  What if . . . a big fish in a little pond came to a place like Rutherford County to become a little fish in a little pond? And what if . . . and what if . . . And so, The Road to Testament was born.

  So, first and foremost, thank you to Bob and Sharon Decker, who inspired Bobbie and Shelton (sorry, guys . . . best I could do!) and the Decker Ranch for inspiring the “unmarked grave” story line. Thank you, too, for the use of “the Cottage” while I wrote and researched the book and the killer hike up Chimney Rock (and, Sharon, the shopping trip to Bubba O’Leary’s!). Thank you Jean Gordon (from The Daily Courier) for allowing me to trail you as you worked. Also, thank you to Matthew Clark, editor of The Daily Courier, for allowing me to hang out in the office, trail Jean in and out of the office, and take lots of notes during your meetings. (Just a note here: a lot more goes on in Rutherford County than I portrayed as happening in Testament!)

  Thank you to the folks in Rutherford County, especially those at Spindazzle and The Spinning Bean, where I bought lots of fun things, drank wonderful coffee, ate delicious food, and observed everything y’all were doing and saying—whether you knew it or not.

  Thank you to my agent, Jonathan Clements, of Wheelhouse Literary Agency, who believes in me even when I don’t.

  Thank you to Ramona Richards, who is not only my editor but also my friend. Thank you for seeing the gift inside this story and helping me shape it. Love you, girl!

  Thank you to all those at Abingdon Press who made this book—this little idea born out of a location—a reality.

  Thank you to Word Weavers International, Inc., and especially to Word Weavers Orlando for the excellent critiques, guidance, and advice.

  Thank you to my husband who allows me to fly off hither and yon to be inspired and to write.

  And, it goes without saying but I’ll say it anyway, Ani Modah Le’Elohim—I thank you, God.

  1

  Line 4 on my office phone flashed red, letting me know my grandmother, who also happened to be my employer, wanted to speak to me.

  “Ashlynne Rothschild,” I said, supporting the handset between my ear and shoulder. “Hey, Gram.”

  “Ashlynne, do you have a minute to come to my office?”

 
; I looked at the piles of work strewed across my desk. For the last hour, my fingers had flown across my computer keyboard in a futile effort to meet a deadline for Parks & Avenues, our family’s well-heeled local magazine. “Ah . . .”

  “I told your father,” she said with a tone of confidence, “that we should just wait until this evening over dinner to talk, but he seems to think you need to come to my office now. Come save me, hon.”

  All right then. Obviously, our meeting was more than a business matter; it was a family business matter. “Sure, Gram. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be right there.” My mouth lifted in a half-grin. “You know, to save you.” Though I knew if anyone needed saving, it would be Dad. Constance Rothschild steered this ship, not the other way around.

  “Thank you,” she whispered before disconnecting the call. I tossed the handset back to its cradle and returned my attention to the computer’s monitor. On my desk, a cup of spice tea grew tepid in my Winter Park Arts Festival mug. I took a slow sip, enjoying the flavors and the scent. Looking over the last line I’d written for the cover article I was nearly behind on, I mumbled under my breath: “. . . no more than a footpath leading to . . .”

  Fingers poised over the keys, I flexed then typed the conclusion of the sentence.

  I hit Control-Save with dramatic flair, as if playing the final notes of a Sergei Rachmaninoff composition. I stood, took a last sip of tea, and left what often felt like a too-small office, but that was—in reality—plenty big.

  Courtney Howard-Smith, my young assistant and research guru, worked at her desk, her customary headset firmly in place. I never knew if she listened to music as a muse, if she was doing some sort of research, or just goofing off. In truth, I never asked and she never volunteered. She got her work done and, as the ink still dried on her Rollins diploma, she did it well. She was, like me, a research hound. If I didn’t have time to dig, she not only took the assignment, but she often found things I feared I may have missed.

  For me, her attention to the most minute of details trumped the issue that Courtney Howard-Smith lived a life completely devoid of revering anyone older than herself by even so much as ten minutes. Or, in my case, ten years. And counting.

  I tapped her desk several times with my index finger. She stopped typing, pulled the headset from her head, and laid it to rest around her neck and throat. “Hey there.”

  “Hey yourself,” I said, doing my best to make some sort of personal connection. I smiled, but got nothing short of unblinking eyes in return. “I’ve got a meeting with my grandmother and, apparently, my father.”

  “Okay,” she said, clearly not impressed. As usual.

  I paused to regroup. Once again, when it came to Courtney, there was no connection. I should be used to it by now. Not just with Courtney but with most people. Even though I knew being used to it wouldn’t make the pill any easier to swallow. “Do me a favor. Have you seen the photo layout for the new retirement center article?”

  “I haven’t. No.”

  “Can you get that for me? I’m not sure why it hasn’t been sent yet, and I’m nearly done with the article.”

  Courtney picked up a pen, jotted a note on a pad of purple paper, and said, “No problem. I’ll get to that as soon as I can.” She smiled as if the notion to do so had just hit her, then let the smile go.

  Unnerving.

  I tapped her desk again. My way of saying “good job and goodbye,” not that I’m sure it registered. Although I wished it would.

  I headed for Gram’s office, all the way on the other side of the once one-room warehouse, now sectioned by low cubicle walls. Everything about the room was bright. Cluttered but efficient. Faces of employees focused on computer monitors. Rapidly pecked keys, the musical medley I’d grown up with, echoed around me. This—the desks, the faces, the sound of work—had been a part of my childhood. I’d known, even then, I’d one day be a part of it all. And, all of my life—or so it seemed—I’d dreamed of one day occupying the office with my father’s name on the door. And then, one day . . . Gram’s.

  Yet I knew only a few of the employees by name. And most of those were last names. With the exception of Courtney, they all called me “Miss Rothschild,” which suited me just fine. I’d learned a long time ago that the more I protected myself from the intimacies of the personal lives of others, the better off my life would be.

  My grandmother’s office sat beyond the maze of desks and cubes. I walked purposefully to the glass door etched with CONSTANCE L. ROTHSCHILD across the center, the entrance to a sanctuary barred from view by sheets of glass and white blinds. I tapped, then opened the door without waiting for a response.

  Gram sat on the far side of the L-shaped room, beyond a retro bookcase—blond wood, long and low—and behind her sprawling desk, whose size made her diminutive frame seem even more petite. At seventy-eight, she remained in excellent health. She wore her silvery-gray hair in soft curls around her face, brushed back from her forehead, and wore very little makeup. She didn’t need to. She was and always had been a natural beauty. An earthiness shone in the sparkling of her blue eyes and the God-given blush of her cheeks.

  Her smile welcomed me as I stepped in. “Come in, beautiful child. Come in.”

  I closed the door behind me. To my left, my father sat on the olive-green sofa in the 1960s-inspired sitting area, one ankle resting casually over a knee, foot bobbing up and down. He talked on his iPhone, “Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . ,” then looked over and sent a wink my way.

  I smiled at him. He was, like his father—my “Papa”—had been, extraordinarily handsome. “A catch,” Gram called him when she teased my mother. “When I gave you my son,” she says, “I gave you quite the catch.”

  And he’d received quite the catch, truth be told, and I considered myself most fortunate to be their only child.

  I didn’t know whether to sit with him or amble over to my grandmother. Gram made her way to us, so I lowered myself into one of the boxy, gold-colored chairs and crossed my legs in one movement, a process learned from my mother. Not by instruction, but by observation.

  “All right then . . . ,” Dad continued. I could tell he was ready to close the conversation. Though I didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, the caller clearly wasn’t finished speaking.

  Gram stood next to me, ran her fingertips along the wide collar of the Kay Unger eyelet suit I wore. “Very pretty,” she said.

  I smiled at her. In spite of her financial influence and position, Gram rarely wore anything ostentatious. To the office, she typically donned khaki slacks, casual tops, and oversized sweaters. Even in summer. Never at formal gatherings, of course. On those occasions, she slipped into gowns by Veni Infantino or Alberto Makali. Me? I dressed every day as though our mayor might just happen to drop in to say hello. And don’t think it hasn’t happened. That’s just my life.

  “Rick,” Gram said, “tell Shelton we’ll call him again later.”

  Dad gave his mother a look of appreciation. “Uh . . . yeah. Listen, my daughter just walked in, and both she and Mother are staring at me, so . . .” The voice from the other end rattled off a few more lines. Dad laughed good-naturedly. “All right then. We’ll talk about it later . . . thank you again . . . no, seriously. Thank you. Good-bye, sir.”

  He ended the call, dropped both feet to the floor, hung his head between his shoulders, and rested his elbows on his knees as though he had just run a marathon. “My word that man can talk.”

  “Talk the ears right off a mule,” Gram said. One of her famous sayings she’d picked up while, as she puts it, “living Southern in the earlier years of my marriage.” She smiled. “But he is a good egg and a better friend.”

  Gram sat directly across from me in the matching chair. A maple coffee table stretched between us, its surface scattered with issues of the magazine. Dad leaned back, resting an arm along the sleek line of the sofa. The track lights shining overhead brought a twinkle to eyes the color of a robin’s egg. “How ya doing, Kitten?”
he asked.

  “I’m doing just fine, Dad,” I said, suspicion now rising inside me. If the looks they were giving each other—not to mention me—were any indication, something was most definitely up. I looked from him to my grandmother and back again. “What’s going on here?”

  Gram clapped her hands together. “My darling, your beloved grandmother has decided to retire. Officially and fully retire. I see afternoons of nothing but reading and mahjong in my future.”

  The air rushed out of my lungs. “Gram . . .” As much as I’d known it would one day happen, I couldn’t imagine Parks & Avenues or my life without her on a daily basis.

  Her face glowed, appearing ten years younger simply having made the announcement. I looked to my father. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his slender neck. “Dad?”

  “It’s her decision,” he said, leaning over and resting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t you think she’s earned it?”

  I looked around the room. The paneled walls Gram had chosen to complement her ’60s-themed décor boasted with award plaques. Framed photographs of Gram with celebrities—local, national, and international—showed her growing older with grace. Not a superstar in New York or Hollywood could compare to her. Joining the plaques and photographs were framed covers of her favorite editions of the magazine.

  The only thing hanging that wasn’t directly work-related was the massive print over my father’s head. A color drawing of a glamorous, curvaceous woman from 1960, gloved hand resting under her chin, hair held back by a Holly Golightly scarf, eyes shielded by Jackie O sunglasses. She leaned back, tilting the full width of the print, from lower right to upper left. The Eiffel Tower stood in abstract white contrast behind her.

  Few people knew my grandfather had the print of my grandmother made after one of their trips abroad. “I don’t like to brag,” she said to me the day I realized the identity of the captivating woman. I was all of thirteen at the time. “But I was quite a beauty, wasn’t I?” she asked with a giggle.