Praise for the Mossy Creek Hometown Series
“Delightful.”
—Marie Barnes, former First Lady of Georgia
“Mitford meets Mayberry in the first book of this innovative and warmhearted new series from BelleBooks.”
—Cleveland Daily Banner, Cleveland, Tennessee
“MOSSY CREEK is as much fun as a cousin reunion; like sipping ice cold lemonade on a hot summer’s afternoon. Hire me a moving van, it’s the kind of town where everyone wishes they could live.”
—Debbie Macomber, NYT bestselling author
“A fast, funny, and folksy read. Enjoy!”
—Lois Battle, acclaimed author of Storyville, Bed & Breakfast, and The Florabama Ladies’ Auxiliary & Sewing Circle
“SUMMER IN MOSSY CREEK takes you to a land that time has not forgotten, but has embraced.”
—Jackie K. Cooper, WMAC-AM, Macon, GA
“Colorfully and cleverly portrayed. A wholesome story.”
—Harriet Klausner, Amazon.com’s top reviewer
“The characters and kinships of MOSSY CREEK are quirky, hilarious and all too human. This story reads like a delicious, meringue-covered slice of home. I couldn’t get enough.”
—Pamela Morsi, USA Today bestselling author
“[MOSSY CREEK] is a book you will not lend for fear you won’t get it back.”
—Chloe LeMay, The Herald, Rock Hill, SC
“These southern belle authors have done it again, even better this time.”
—Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews
“In the best tradition of women’s fiction, MOSSY CREEK points to a genuine spirit of love and community that is our best hope for the future.”
—Betina Krahn, NYT bestselling author of The Last Bachelor
The Mossy Creek Home town Series
Mossy Creek
Reunion at Mossy Creek
Summer in Mossy Creek
Blessings of Mossy Creek
A Day in Mossy Creek
At Home in Mossy Creek
Critters of Mossy Creek
Homecoming in Mossy Creek
At Home in Mossy Creek
A collective novel featuring the voices of:
by
Deborah Smith
Sandra Chastain
Debra Dixon
and
Martha Crockett
with
Susan Goggins
Maureen Hardegree
Carolyn McSparren
Carmen Green
Wayne Dixon
Sabrina Jeffries
BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
BelleBooks
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935661-22-1
Print ISBN: 978-0-9768760-8-3
Copyright © 2007 by BelleBooks, Inc.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Martha Crockett
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Front cover photo: Deborah Smith
with permission from Bill and Mary Scott
Mossy Creek map: Dino Fritz
:Eham:01:
Map of Mossy Creek
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to all our friends, loved ones and wonderful readers. We couldn’t do it without you.
Many thanks to Bill and Mary Scott of Dahlonega, Georgia, for allowing us to photograph their historic home for the cover.
Odd Places & Beautiful Spaces
A Guide to the Towns & Attractions of the South
Mossy Creek, Georgia
Don’t miss this quirky, historic Southern village on your drive through the Appalachian mountains! Located in a breathtaking valley two hours north of Atlanta, the town (1,700 residents, established 1839) is completely encircled by its lovely namesake creek. Picturesque bridges span the creek around the turn-of-the-century town square like charms on a bracelet. Be sure to arrive via the scenic route along South Bigelow Road, the main two-lane from Bigelow, Mossy Creek’s big-sister city, hometown of Georgia governor Ham Bigelow. (Don’t be surprised if you overhear “Creekites” in heated debate about Ham, who’s the nephew of longtime Mossy Creek mayor, Ida Walker.) You’ll know when you reach the Mossy Creek town limits—just look for the charming, whitewashed grain silo by the road at Mayor Walker’s farm. Painted with the town’s pioneer motto—Ain’t goin’ nowhere, and don’t want to—the silo makes a great photo opportunity. The motto perfectly sums up the stubborn (but not unfriendly) free spirits you’ll find everywhere in what the chamber of commerce calls “Greater Mossy Creek,” which includes the outlying mountain communities of Bailey Mill, Over, Yonder, and Chinaberry.
Lodging, Dining, and Attractions: Shop and eat to your heart’s delight around the town’s shady square. Don’t miss Mama’s All You Can Eat Café, Beechum’s Bakery (be sure to say hello to Bob, the “flying” Chihuahua), The Naked Bean coffee shop, O’Day’s Pub, the Bubba Rice Diner, Hamilton’s Department Store (featuring the origami napkin work of local beauty queen Josie McClure), Hamilton House Inn, the I Probably Got It store, Moonheart’s Natural Living, and Mossy Creek Books and What-Nots. Drop by town hall for a look at the notorious Ten-Cent Gypsy (a carnival booth at the heart of a dramatic Creekite mystery). Stop by the town jail for an update on local shenanigans courtesy of Officer Sandy Crane, who calls herself “the gal in front of the man behind the badge,” Mossy Creek Police Chief Amos Royden (recently featured in Georgia Today Magazine as the sexiest bachelor police chief in the state). And don’t forget to pop into the newspaper offices of the Mossy Creek Gazette, where you can get the latest event news from Katie Bell, local gossip columnist extraordinaire.
As Katie Bell likes to say, “In Mossy Creek, I can’t make up better stories than the truth.”
A Who’s Who of Mossy Creek
Ida Hamilton Walker—Mayor. Devoted to her town. Menopausal. Gorgeous. Trouble.
Amos Royden—Ida’s much-younger police chief. Trying hard not to be irresistible.
Katie Bell—Gossip columnist and town sleuth. Watch out!
Sue Ora Salter Bigelow—Newspaper publisher. Fighting the Salter romance curse.
Jasmine Beleau—Fashion consultant. Her secret past is a shocker.
Josie McClure—Failed beauty queen. Budding interior designer. Talent: origami napkin folding.
Harry Rutherford—Josie’s mountain man and fiancé. PhD and local version of Bigfoot.
Hamilton Bigelow—Governor of Georgia. Ida’s nephew. A typical politician. ’Nuff said?
Win Allen—aka Chef Bubba Rice—the Emeril of Mossy Creek.
Ingrid Beechum—Baker. Doting surrogate grandma. Owns Bob, the famous “flying” Chihuahua.
Hank and Casey Blackshear—Run the veterinary clinic. Most inspirational local love story.
Sandy Crane—Amos’s scrappy dispatcher. If Dolly Parton and Barney Fife had a daughter . . .
Ed Brady—Farmer. Santa. The toughest, sweetest old man in town.
Rainey Cecil—Owns Goldilocks Hair, Nail and Tanning Salon. Bringing big hair to a whole new generation.
Michael Conners—Sexy Chicago Yankee whose Irish pub lures dart-tourney sharks.
Tag Garner—Ex pro-footballer turned sculptor. Good natured when bitten by old ladies.
Maggie Hart—Herbalist. Tag’s main squeeze. Daughter of old lady who bit him.
Millicent Hart—See above. Town kleptomaniac. Sorry she bit Tag. Sort of.
Del Jackson—Hunky retired lieutenant colonel. Owns Ida’s heart. For now. See Amos.
Bert Lyman—The voice of Mossy Creek. Owner, manager, DJ of WMOS Radio.
Opal Suggs—Retired teacher who adopts needy kids. Talks to her sisters’ ghosts who foretell NASCAR winners.
Dwight Truman—Chamber president. Insurance tycoon. Ida’s nemesis, along with Ham Bigelow. Weasel.
Swee Purla—Evil interior design maven. Makes even Martha Stewart look wimpy.
The Mossy Creek Gazette
215 Main Street • Mossy Creek, Georgia
From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager
Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope
The Cliffs, Seaward Road
St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ
United Kingdom
Dear Vick:
Remember how I told you I sensed trouble in the air last month, on that whacky winter Saturday when common sense left town on a cold January breeze and all heck broke loose? Miss Irene led the elderly Creekites in a handicapped scooter protest, and Honey and Bert Lymon escaped from their gas-filled house thanks to a miracle, and Amos hauled Ida home from another of her escapades only to have Ida’s boyfriend, Del Jackson, catch the two of them kissing in Ida’s yard at Hamilton Farm like a pair of lovestruck teenagers? Ida backed away from the romance faster than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, and she hoped no one in town would find out. But you and I both know how gossip travels in Mossy Creek, so now everyone knows our police chief and our mayor are an item. Only they aren’t. Or are they?
Well, my dear English girl, you ain’t heard nothing yet.
We have just survived the weirdest Valentine’s Day weekend in the history of Mossy Creek. Let me just tell you this much up front: People aren’t kidding when they say romance is like a circus.
Your clown-faced gossip columnist,
Katie
Chapter 1
Friday Afternoon
The Circus Arrives in Mossy Creek
Ida
ALL RIGHT, HERE’S the short and sweet of it: Last month, Amos Royden and I had a Las Vegas moment. That’s all. End of gossip. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. What happened in January stays in January.
Why? Because I won’t risk having Amos look at me one day as I’m scrubbing my dentures or adjusting my support hose and wish he’d fallen in love with someone closer to his own age. I have my pride. Even when I no longer have teeth or vivacious leg veins, I’ll still have my pride.
He won’t be honest with me about the brutal facts of life. Maybe he wants children. Maybe he doesn’t. He refuses to say. Men have the luxury of postponing fatherhood until they’re old enough to shop for their own diapers as well as their baby’s. Women don’t have that choice. Oh, sure, aging celebrities and the occasional Romanian grandmother make headlines with miracle births, but not without medical assistance. Besides, any woman over forty-five who tries to get pregnant needs to have her menopausal head examined. Just my opinion. I’m not sending a team of doctors on an Easter egg hunt through my ovaries.
I don’t deserve this romantic dilemma. My life is just fine the way it is, thank you very much. I’m fifty years old, have been respectably widowed for twenty of those years, and have served five sterling terms as mayor of Mossy Creek; I have a wonderful son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. I’m wealthy, an accomplished businesswoman, and last but not least, I’m a good-looking redhead who can still wear skinny jeans and pass for thirty-five in the right indoor light.
Listen, I have my choice of lusty, fine-looking men my own age, and no one accuses me of being prim about enjoying their, ahem, attention. I’m a passionate woman. I wear heirloom pearls with my Lynard Skynnard t-shirts, I listen to Fleetwood Mac, drink bourbon, drive my late husband’s red Corvette well over the speed limit, and recently sang a fabulous, jazzy rendition of The Lighthouse at a gospel music competition up in Nashville, Tennessee. I lost in the finals to a young Aretha Franklin clone who said I was the loudest white woman she’d ever heard.
I took it as a compliment. I’m proud of who and what I am. I like being unpredictable. People know that about me. “That Ida Hamilton Walker, you can’t pin the same notion on her twice,” Eula Mae Whit likes to say. At 101 Miz Eula Mae is the oldest and wisest person in town, and I like how she puts things.
So, given all of the above credentials, I should have been able to kiss Amos, our police chief, last month without everyone in Mossy Creek rushing down to Bigelow Mall to buy us “His and Her” monogrammed towels at Bed, Bath & Beyond. My fellow Creekites ought to know I have no intention of making an honest man out of Amos. For one thing, there was nothing dishonest about his part in the dastardly kiss. I’m the one with a significant other to consider. I’m the one who betrayed retired Lt. Colonel Del Jackson, a man I adore.
Okay, I admit it. I’ve dreamed of kissing Amos at times. A lot of times. Twenty years of times. Again. The first time I kissed my future police chief he was a tall, awkward, consoling teenager struggling to elude the shadow of his legendary lawman father, Battle Royden. I was a grieving young widow whose beloved husband had died up on Colchik Mountain while trying to rescue two stranded deputy sheriffs.
It was one of those cinematic, Summer of ’42 incidents, completely spontaneous and unplanned and relatively innocent. In my misery I wanted to slash my breasts, saw off my hair, wail to the moon. I had my son, Rob, to raise and an important Hamilton family legacy to manage, but during those dark weeks after Jeb was killed I could barely think of moving forward. I couldn’t even breathe. The slightest brush of a butterfly’s wings would have stopped the air in my lungs for good.
With that one kiss, Amos saved my life. He forced me to gasp in shock, to inhale the sweet, startling sensation of need, of want, of life. Amos will never know how close I came to pulling him down on the soft mountain grass that day at The Sitting Tree. Only an immediate tidal wave of shame—How can I betray Jeb’s memory this way? How can I take advantage of Amos, he’s only sixteen!—made me push myself away. And has made me keep my distance ever since.
The kiss has remained our secret. We never mention it, even to each other. But neither of us has ever forgotten it, either, and now, yes, twenty years later, we’ve gone and done it again. Maybe just to see if it was as good as the first time.
It was.
This time the kiss happened in my own wintry front yard at Hamilton Farm. Right in front of the naked branches of the butterfly bushes and the pink Rose of Sharon. Absurdly, I kept thinking of a Lewis Grizzard book title: Don’t Bend Over In The Garden, Granny, ’Cause Them Taters Got Eyes.
Del never expected to see Amos drive up the farm lane with me locked in the back of a Mossy Creek patrol car. And he certainly never expected to watch us argue outside the patrol car then throw ourselves at each other in a kiss hot enough to make my red nandina hedges blush scarlet. Actually, it wasn’t just one kiss. It was a series of them, de
livered with swaying, back-bending, on-our-tiptoes urgency.
I turned and there was Del, on my veranda. I’ll never forget the pain in his eyes, the disappointment, the anger. My heart hurt for him. He’s gorgeous, funny, sexy, smart, and a decorated hero of the first Gulf War. He’s become my best friend, not just my bed partner.
Del took the betrayal as well as he could. He pretended to blame Amos for provoking me and he said he forgave me. He can’t deny our relationship has been under some strain lately, since his adorably needy ex-wife arrived in Bigelow to buy a condo near their grown son and grandson.
By “adorably needy” I mean a cute blonde with Botox, implants and an eyelift, who’s three years younger than me and looks thirty-five even in strong sunlight. Every time I’m forced into her presence I try not to stand beside her near a window.
People think I’m a bastion of middle-aged confidence. Yes, I am an upbeat person at heart. But anyone who’s honest at mid-life will tell you that they now see a horizon in the distance. Like a haunting panorama of our farthest Appalachians, misty and lavender-blue, that border between earth and Heaven is faint but discernible now, something I take a step closer to everyday. You have to be a lot younger than fifty to believe you’ll live forever. I won’t call the distant horizon Death because I believe it’s a crossing point, not a final destination. But it’s there.
Some day that smoky-blue mountain horizon will loom up before me, and I’ll smile and climb the rounded, ancient peaks as easily as a child, and when I get to the top Jeb will be waiting with open arms, along with my parents and Big Ida, my favorite grandmother, and every other person and every pet animal I’ve loved, and maybe even my favorite camellia shrubs and rose bushes. And in the background, Stevie Nicks will be singing Crystal.
How the faces of love have changed turning the pages, and I have changed oh, but you . . . you remain ageless . . .
At Home in Mossy Creek Page 1
