Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Judy Ann Davis
Four White Roses
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
He looked toward the porch in the dying light
and sighed. “I don’t know what to do with this monstrosity. No one seems interested in buying it. No one wants to live in it. It’s like a giant worthless gift. Maintenance costs exceed its usefulness. The heating bill is enormous. I have to pay to get the grass mowed in the summer and the snow shoveled in the winter.” He shrugged his shoulders in resignation and stared down the street where the street lights had come on. Their globes looked like Japanese lanterns floating in the air. His gaze found hers again. His expression was miserable and grim.
Torrie tipped her ball cap up and gave a cursory glance at the house. She pursed her lips and fell silent. Should she tell him the truth? Or should she wait until he and Estella were settled in? The knowledge twisted and turned inside her. As much as she hated rumors, she hated lies even more. There were enough of both of them flying around town…and some were about her. What to do? Finally, she flung her hands up in despair.
“Of course no one wants to buy it, Richard Lee,” she uttered with unmistakable candor. “I have it through reliable sources your grandmother’s house is haunted.”
Praise for Judy Ann Davis
“FOUR WHITE ROSES is full of wonderfully enchanting characters who stay with you long after you finish reading the book.”
~Nicole Fitton, author of All Tomorrow’s Parties
~*~
“The writing is beautifully descriptive with a touch of wry humor. In the first paragraph, we meet quite a character, and each succeeding ‘actor’ to take the stage is as lifelike and well-developed. The characters make any novel, and the author has characterization down to an art.”
~Linda Nightingale, author of
Morgan D’Arcy: A Vampyre Rhapsody
Four White Roses
by
Judy Ann Davis
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Four White Roses
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Judy Ann Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1456-3
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1457-0
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Producing a novel requires a collaborative effort.
I am most grateful to some talented people
who have helped me along the way.
~*~
Many thanks to Suzanne Webster,
a long-time friend, who is my final draft reader and who suggests corrections and changes;
and Kinan Werdski,
editor at the Wild Rose Press, Inc.
who never ceases to amaze me
with her outstanding editorial talents.
~*~
I am also blessed to have the support of
my husband, family, neighbors, friends,
community members, and fans.
~*~
To you all—I give you my heartfelt thanks.
You keep my passion for writing alive.
Chapter One
Hands crossed at his chest, Richard Lee Redman leaned against the fender of his recently purchased SUV and peered through the fading daylight at the road sign along the berm where he had stopped. No, not where he had stopped. Where the piece of worthless junk he was driving had died.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He berated himself aloud and raked his hand through his already disheveled hair. Why had he thought his trip from Dallas, Texas, to Hickory Valley, Pennsylvania, would be easy? Before he even turned the key in the blasted vehicle, the gods of rusty nuts and bolts had already determined it needed to go straight to the great junkyard in the sky. Unfortunately, they hadn’t sent him the message.
Good condition. Reliable—with many more miles left in her, the car salesman had spewed as Rich scribbled his name on the purchase agreement. Too bad those many more miles didn’t include the last ten to his destination, as the road sign so aptly indicated.
Rich gave the vehicle a hostile glare and kicked the front tire with the toe of his Italian leather driving mocs. How could he have been so naïve? He was thirty-seven years old. And a lawyer, to boot. Old enough to know when he was being taken by a sweet-talking, over-zealous car salesman. He should have never rushed through a decision. He knew better. But it had the room he needed, the price had sure been right, and the salesman had promised to push the paperwork through in record time.
He turned and glanced through the back seat window where his eight-year-old daughter, Estella, was sleeping. The trip had been tiring, and she needed the rest. And she was one of the reasons he decided to purchase a larger vehicle. He didn’t want her to agonize over which of her favorite toys or clothes she could take for the month-long stay. Being a single dad wasn’t an easy job. It had taken him days to gather up and pack all Estella’s can’t-live-without items and necessities—like the garbage bag full of stuffed animals riding shotgun in the passenger’s seat.
Removing his cellphone from his pocket, he dialed his real estate agent and family friend, Marlene Hess, who lived in Hickory Valley and had agreed to open up his grandmother’s house and get it ready for his arrival. The homestead, dating back to the early 1900s, had a barn, some sheds, and over a hundred acres of land in meadows and forests.
He had requested she arrange to have the electricity and cable turned on and to stock the house with only a few provisions, like breakfast food, coffee, and clean sheets and towels, just enough to get them through the night and morning until he could grocery shop and get his bearings. Two years ago, when Rich had learned of his Grandmother Gertrude’s death, he had flown to Pennsylvania for the funeral and had locked up the house, handing the keys over to Marlene to rent, to offer it as a lease-to-buy, or to concoct any kind of deal to keep it occupied, heated, and off his long list of problems to solve.
Marlene answered on the first ring.
“This vintage piece of scrap iron I’m driving
just broke down ten miles outside town along Route 6,” he said brusquely. “And the dang mosquitoes are starting to bite.”
“Well, hello to you, too, Richard Lee Junior,” Marlene said. “I warned you. That’s what happens when you buy a used car from those unscrupulous Texans. Bet he was wearing a big, shiny belt buckle and one of those fancy white Stetsons while he spieled, ‘Such a deal I have for you!’ How’s Estella?”
“Sleeping. Thankfully, I don’t have to hear for the one-thousand-sixty-fifth time, ‘Are we there yet?’” And yes, he thought to himself, the salesman was wearing a white hat and a rather large belt buckle while crowing about the stupendous deal he had to offer.
Marlene laughed. “Good to see your humor hasn’t been destroyed by a little setback. Here, let me get you the number for the local towing company. It’s Henry’s Garage off Main Street. Same garage and towing service that was around when you were a kid. Only Henry’s much older now.”
“Ancient, you mean.”
“That too.” She spouted off a series of numbers. “Call me back if you hit a snag, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Marlene. Sorry for bothering you.”
“No bother. It’s why you hired me. Dinner and milk are in the refrigerator. Bread is in the bread box. I’ll stop over in an hour or so and drop off a can of coffee and see what else you might need. I’ll bring the unopened letter from your grandmother we talked about.” She paused. “Try to have a nice evening, Richard.”
“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he muttered under his breath as she clicked off. “You aren’t the one stranded in the middle of nowhere.” Around him, tiny frogs argued in the nearby wetlands before darkness fell. Somewhere far off, a lone hawk emitted a series of hoarse screams as it began its nightly hunt.
Hoping the garage hadn’t closed for the day, Rich punched in the local number on his cellphone.
A cheery female voice answered on the first ring, “Hello, Henry’s Garage and Towing Center. We tow, so you can go. How can I help you?”
“I need a tow truck out on east Route 6, about ten miles from town, right at the sign at the head of the valley,” Rich said curtly. “My old SUV just gave up its last breath and what it really needs is last rites.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Henry and his crew are off for the day at a fishing tournament in the next town. If you lock your car and leave your keys in the drop box beside the garage door with a note, they’ll pick it up in the morning.”
Lock it and leave the keys in town? Rich laughed cynically as he simultaneously squeezed the phone in his hand and swallowed to keep his irritation under control. He forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath and bite back the smart remark materializing in his head. Stay calm. Be nice, he told himself. Remember, you are stranded.
He swatted at a persistent mosquito hovering above his head and asked, “And please tell me, how do I get to the garage with a trunk full of suitcases and a sleeping kid?”
“Well, Mike’s Taxi Service is not available either since Big Mike is at the fishing tournament, too.” The woman paused and hummed a merry tune under her breath. She had a soft, melodic voice. “I could pick you up and drive you to your destination as long as it’s in Hickory Valley. It’ll take a few minutes since I have to lock up the shop here.” She paused again. “You said ten miles east? And the name is…?”
“Richard Lee Redman.”
“Oh, brother.” She heaved a long audible sigh. “My lucky day. The prodigal grandson returns.” Before Rich could ask her what she meant by the remark, she hung up.
Minutes later, he was even more surprised to see a ragged-looking pickup come chugging up the road. It looked worse than the SUV. It was dirty gray and had dented, mismatched fenders, one painted a dark green and the other sprayed with an ugly brown primer. It coughed and sputtered like it had just smoked a pack of cigarettes as it pulled up behind his vehicle.
The driver cut the engine, shoved a shoulder against the dented, sticky door and jiggled the handle before it flew open and she jumped down. She was a lithe woman of average height and wore paint-splattered coveralls swamping her thin frame. Both the sleeves and pant legs had been rolled up several times. Long slim fingers with blue nail polish peeked out from the sleeves, and chunky, brown, steel-toed work boots poked out from each leg opening. Her blonde hair, closer to white than yellow, was scraped back from her face in a ponytail and trailed out from the back of a frayed red ball cap with the logo: Henry’s Garage—We Tow, So You Can Go.
“You’re very fortunate, Richard Lee Redman. I was just about to close up Henry’s shop and head home.” She approached the car and stood, hands on her hips, as she openly surveyed him from head to toe, smirking as her gaze traveled from his Ray-Ban sunglasses flipped up on his head to his blue silk dress shirt to his alligator belt and then on down to his designer slacks and Italian leather driving mocs.
“What…what are you doing?” she asked, her delicate forehead wrinkled. “A photo shoot for GQ in Hickory Valley?” Not bothering to hide her cynical tone, she added, “You do know you’re in rural Pennsylvania?”
“Very funny. Don’t remind me.” Rich stared at her. She was incredibly beautiful despite the baggy coveralls and scuffed work boots. Her heart-shaped face, dotted with a light sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks, and her pale hair reminded him of someone he should know—someone from the past. Her voice was familiar, and he was certain if he had the time to do a memory search, he’d come up with her name. But it was her eyes that drew him in like magnets. They were neither green nor blue, but a stunning and irresistible aquamarine, and as he gazed into those eyes, a sharp sense of attraction caught him by surprise. He searched his brain again. “Should I know you?” he asked. “You obviously have me at a disadvantage from the simpering look on your face.”
She laughed, those devastating eyes twinkling. “Torrine Larson. I’m Elsa Larson’s younger sister. I was five years behind you in school.”
“Little Torrie Larson?” He studied her, baffled. “The wily kid who used to sucker us into playing any game involving a ball and then beat the pants off us?”
“Yep, that’s me. My dad said he almost went broke buying sports equipment for my three brothers and me.” She paused, then sighed. “But eventually, we all must grow up, Richard Lee. So you won’t be surprised when I tell you I recently took up golf instead of competitive team sports. Now I push around a clumsy bag of clubs. We all have our burdens to bear, don’t we?” A smile softened her face, and she pointed to the rear of his vehicle. “Well, let’s get all your paraphernalia and suitcases loaded and haul you off to your grandmother’s house.” With grace and determination, she moved to the SUV, popped the back hatch, and started dragging the suitcases out.
“Wait, I can help.” Rich jumped forward. “And please, call me Rich.” They reached for the same suitcase and their hands collided. His gray eyes met her aquamarine ones, and his skin tingled where they had touched. She yanked her hand away.
“I doubt all of these will fit in the cab. Are we using the truck bed?”
“That’s the plan.” She started toward the pickup with a suitcase and duffle bag.
“But your truck looks like it was hauling”—he paused and tried to resist saying junk, but it flew past this lips anyway—“junk. No offense, but everything is going to get dusty on the drive in.”
“It’s not my truck. It’s Henry’s. And it was hauling junk. It’s made to haul junk.” Torrie stopped, set the luggage on the road, and held up a hand. “The way I see it, you have two choices.” She stabbed the air with her index finger. “One—take what you need for the night and anything else that will fit in the cab with you and your daughter and lock the rest up. Or, two”—another finger pointed skyward—“we take it all, and you don’t have to worry about getting it later tomorrow at the garage. Your call. If you’re worried your designer luggage will get dirty or scratched, let me point out commercial flying leaves a lot to be desired in this day and age, at
least where dents, scuff marks, and scratches on luggage are concerned. I promise I’ll drive slow. No bouncing. No quick turns. No dirt roads. I promise.”
“I don’t think this piece of crap could go fast or make a quick turn,” Rich muttered under his breath.
“Says the man who needs a ride because his piece of crap died.” Torrie peered around at the SUV side window and tilted her head toward it. “It looks like your daughter’s awake. You’d better see to her while I transfer this load. Looks like you brought enough to stay until Christmas.”
He glanced at her and thought he heard a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice, but her face was impassive, focused on expertly transferring his belongings. “Well, I wasn’t quite sure what clothes or toys Estella might need, so I dumped in as much as would fit,” he admitted sheepishly. He turned and jogged toward his vehicle, calling over his shoulder, “Will you please make sure my computer is stowed in the cab?”
****
Torrie looked at the luggage and boxes piled high to the SUV’s ceiling and shook her head in disbelief. “No wonder this poor thing died,” she mumbled. “It’s a miracle the suspension held under the weight.” She pushed aside two boxes to grab another bag, realized he was hauling water, and smirked. Three cases of bottled water? What was he thinking? We drink from a creek? We don’t have grocery stores? She chuckled, but within minutes she had efficiently loaded the pickup bed. She waited by the driver’s door while Rich scooped up his daughter, a stuffed purple giraffe, and a pink backpack, and carried them to the passenger side.
“Hi,” Torrie said, hopping in and smiling at the little girl as Rich positioned her between them on the front seat, shut his door, and fastened their seatbelts. “My name is Torrie. What’s yours?”
“Estella,” the little girl said through a yawn. Her silky, ink-black hair was pulled away from her little delicate face with a striped pink headband matching her cotton sundress. In her hands, she clutched a Ramona Quimby book. She looked over at her father with big brown eyes framed in long dark lashes. “Are we there yet? I’m getting hungry.”
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