As Much As I Ever Could
Book One, The Edisto Summers Series
Brandy Woods Snow
Copyright © 2020 by Brandy Woods Snow
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
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Sugah Publishing
Fountain Inn, SC and Kansas City, MO
www.sugahpublishing.com
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Cover Design © 2020 by JRC Designs/Jena R Collins
www.jenarcollins.com
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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As Much As I Ever Could/ Brandy Woods Snow.
ISBN: 978-1-7363019-2-0
ISBN e-book: 978-1-7363019-2-0
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Brandy Woods Snow
To my children, Maddox, Hayden, and Colton:
Be Fearless. Live Fully.
“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”
- Norman Cousins, American journalist, author, professor, and world peace advocate
Praise for As Much As I Ever Could
“A swoonworthy summer read with a hopeful lesson about how to move forward without fear.” — Kirkus Reviews
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“Readers looking for a gentle read about recovering from grief, buoyed by a community of welcoming new friends and new love, will find Snow’s latest fits the bill.” — Library Journal
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“This slow burn, southern romance is as intoxicating with young love as it’s real and honest. Brandy Woods Snow’s As Much as I Ever Could is deeply emotional, yet so full of voice and charm. Each character jumps off the page with authenticity and has their own special something that draws the reader in and tugs at the heartstrings. Snow’s second novel will stir up your soul and leave you yearning for more. That’s a promise.” — Sarah Barkoff, YA contemporary author of The Wanderers
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“Heartwarming and beautiful, As Much as I Ever Could is a love story filled with hope that deftly portrays the many layers of life, loss, and love. The perfect amount of angst and drama, it drips with heart melting lovely sweetness that will leave you feeling good.” — Julie Hoag, YA author of contemporary romance, Hungry Hearts
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“As Much as I Ever Could is a charming, fast-paced love story that will leave your heart full. Everyone needs a Memaw in their life, and every body deserves a Jett to look at them the way he looks at his Cami. CJ’s journey will make you laugh, cry, cringe and most of all, love. I’m so lucky to have been able to read this early. Brandy Snow is a talented author you’ll want to add to your auto-buy list.” — Deborah Maroulis, YA author of Within and Without
Chapter One
A summer away at Memaw’s can’t rectify everything that fell apart in a single minute, but that won’t stop my dad from forcing it on me.
My fingers wrench tighter around the handle grip of Dad’s Ford Explorer as he hugs the center line, tires thumping over golden reflectors in waves and shooting vibrations through my seat. I glance over my shoulder to make sure the door lock is crammed to its neck into the tan vinyl interior. Not that it’d make a difference if he were to flip this thing head-over-end into the muddy goop of tidal flats along either side of the road. If a body’s going to exit a car in a hurry, it sure as hell won’t wait for an unlocked door.
These kinds of thoughts never shoved their way into my brain before the accident. Now they circulate like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.
I sigh and yank my phone off the dashboard. 4:15 p.m. Only ten more minutes to get my summer of hell underway.
A notification blinks on the home screen. One new email from Trent Casey and all I can see of it is, “CJ, things have changed so much this last year that I think…” Inbox preview cruelty at its finest. A little sneak peek of my on-again, off-again boyfriend kicking me to the curb because I’ve been too screwed up to screw him the past year. Not that I’d screwed him before, or anyone else for that matter.
I toss the phone in the cup holder and stare over at my dad in the driver’s seat, his eyes fixed and hooded as if in a trance. He hasn’t spoken in over a hundred miles, but I’ve strategically coughed from time to time to make sure there’s at least a reaction to the noise, and he’s not comatose or something. Plus, it’s easier than actually talking, and it warrants no response from him. Win-win.
Dad flips on the blinker, its dink-doonk, dink-doonk, dink-doonk signaling a right turn. Into where I have no idea, and unless Memaw has taken up living in a dilapidated open-air shack, he’s seriously misguided. He pulls into one of the ten open parking slots, demarcated by rows of conch shells instead of actual painted-on lines. How beachy of them.
Dad lets the engine idle, sliding his phone from the pocket of his polo and pecking out a text message without so much as a word or glance in my direction. I unlatch my seatbelt and open the door, easing out onto the hot, gritty sand, which creeps into my sandals and scratches at the skin.
“Where are we?” When he doesn’t respond, I step beside the open door, banging my hand on the window. “Dad, where are we?”
“Edisto Island, of course,” he mumbles, never looking up from his phone, his fingers still moving furiously over the screen.
I point to the rectangular banner draped atop the entrance with what looks like a hand-stenciled Welcome to Edisto Beach, SC! in blue paint. “No shit. I mean, what is this place?”
“Watch your mouth, CJ. I’m still your father.” He finally looks up long enough to glare across his steering wheel at the banner, squinting as if it’s written in some foreign language before looking back at me. He waves his hand around. “We’re obviously at the market.”
The entrance isn’t a single open-close door, but one of those garage-style deals that pulls down from the ceiling. Oyster shell wind chimes tinkle in the breeze. I take a deep breath, the briny air expanding in my lungs and coating my skin, and somehow start imagining myself as one of those slugs we used to find on the back porch at home and pour salt over. Almost immediately, their slimy little bodies would foam up and implode, turning into a dried-up crispie we’d flick off into the grass the next day. Maybe that’ll happen to me, and I can simply shrivel up and disappear.
Dad gets out and lifts the back hatch, and I walk to meet him, giving an extra foot shake on each step to loosen the stowaway sand from my sandals.
“But why are we here?”<
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“This is where Memaw’s picking you up.” He hauls out my two large suitcases and sets them under the overhang. “She’s running late, but she’ll be here within the next twenty minutes.”
“And you’re just gonna leave me here?” I thumb over my shoulder.
He stares at me as if I’ve just asked for an explanation on the meaning of life, standing like a statue except for the front flip of his thinning auburn hair that tousles with the breeze. That hair, along with his chocolate brown eyes and freckles, are the only things we even share anymore. Everything else is gone. Evaporated.
“Don’t be dramatic, CJ. I have a long drive home.” He slams the hatch, walks to his still-open driver door and slides in behind the wheel. The passenger window rolls down part-way. “I’ll see you at the end of summer. Bye.” The words scarcely exit his lips before the window’s rolled up and he’s peeling out of the parking lot on two wheels as if he’s off to a five-alarm fire.
Wow. Truly heartfelt. I think he might miss me. I lock my jaw, forcing my quivering stomach back in its rightful place. Part of me loathes him for just dumping me here. The other part understands, though. He hates me for what happened and wants me gone too.
I can’t blame him for that.
“Bye Dad,” I whisper in the wind, staring down at my bags before glancing out across the surrounding marsh.
What am I supposed to do for twenty minutes? Lotus pose? Stare out over the grasses and become one with my new home-away-from-home? Not likely.
I force out an audible breath and bend down to grab my wallet from the suitcase, folding out the side flap to check myself in the tiny mirror. The jagged tip-top edge of my scar peeks out from the neckline, so I inch my white T-shirt straight on my shoulders, making sure it’s hidden. Not like I need another reason for the people in this market to look at me like a freakshow. I secure the magnetic clasp on my wallet with a click and walk inside.
The floor is packed dirt and sand, the shelves nothing more than overturned crates and stacked-up pallets brimming with rainbow-hued mounds of fresh fruits and vegetables. I trudge to the refrigerator cases, their motors humming in a monotonous chorus, swing open the door, and grab a bottled ginger ale from the rack. Glass bottles, huh? This place is all about modern ambiance.
At the cash register—the only thing in the whole place that doesn’t look like it got dropped off of Noah’s Ark or dug out of some grungy guy’s truck—a girl about my age stands behind the counter, power grin spread wide, lips stretched around both rows of teeth. The top ones have braces with little purple bands.
“Hey there! Will this be all for you today?” She takes the bottle, punches in the barcode numbers by hand, then slides it back across the counter, tilting her head just enough that the honey-blond ponytail poked through the back of her baseball cap waggles from side to side.
“Yeah, thanks.” I pull out my debit card and hand it to her. She slides it and then pushes the handheld electronic device in front of me. While I type in my pin, she flicks my card in her fingers, staring at the front of it.
“Wait…Ainsworth? Are you Bessie’s granddaughter, CJ?” She leans across the counter on her elbows, blue eyes wide like polished sapphires.
“Uh, yeah. That’s me.” I pluck my card from her fingers and shove it back inside my wallet. “How do you know Memaw?”
“Everyone knows your Memaw! She’s like a grandma to all of us.” She looks over her shoulder and yells, “Bo, get in here!” before turning back and sticking her hand out to shake. “I’m Ginny Lee, by the way. You can call me Gin.” I reach out and take her hand. A stocky, chocolate-haired guy with the same eyes as Gin jogs to the counter and waves. He’s cute in a boy band-meets-rugged-farmhand kind of way.
“I’m Beauregard Johnson, Gin’s brother.”
“That’s some name there, Beauregard.”
“My mama loves historical family names. My great-great-great-great grandfather was also a Beauregard.”
That’s a lot of greats. I give him a thumbs-up. “Ah, then her name choice stands completely validated.” I smirk and pick up my bottle, wrestling with the stubborn-ass metal cap.
“You can call me Bo. Everybody else does.” He offers a dazzling white, if somewhat crooked, smile. His curly hair, longer on top with shaved-close sides, flops lazily over his brow. “Did I hear you say you’re Ms. Bessie’s granddaughter?”
“In the flesh. By the way,” I turn back to Gin, “when you said Memaw’s a grandma to ‘all of us,’ who exactly is us?”
“Pretty much the whole town. She’s a legend around here. Volunteers like crazy.” She narrows her eyes. The question marks practically float in speech bubbles above her head. “You didn’t know that?”
I bite at a piece of dry skin on my lip. “I don’t know much about her. I haven’t seen her since I was eight.”
The two of them glance sideways at each other. “Oh. Well, we live right next door to her.” Gin hesitates, then reaches out over the counter to touch my arm, her fingers barely brushing my skin. “She told us about what happened…”
My heart catapults to my toes as a familiar frenzied vibration courses through my veins. Not here. That was never supposed to follow me here. “No.” I point the longneck of the bottle between the two of them. They both step back, hands up. “I don’t want to talk about that. Everyone over the last eight months has steered clear of me because…” I open my mouth wide, willing the oxygen to saturate me. “I can’t believe Memaw would tell.” I slam the bottle on the counter and wrench my hands over my face.
“CJ?” I glance at Gin from between my fingers. “Only Bo and I know, and we won’t tell.” She stares at Bo, who nods in agreement.
“Ms. Bessie wanted you to have some friends here who understood if…it took you a while to open up. We won’t mention it again.” Bo shifts from leg to leg, rubbing his hands together.
Somewhere down deep, my backbone relinquishes its grip on my stomach, and I swallow hard. “Thanks, y’all.”
He ducks around the corner of the counter and walks over to me, holding out his clenched fist. “Bump ‘em.” I stare at his knuckles, then follow the ridges over the top of his hand and up his arm. He widens his eyes and shakes his fist a bit, still waiting.
“C’mon CJ. I know we’re all gonna be great friends.” Gin’s syrupy drawl makes me almost believe it’s possible. I force a smile and reach forward to bump my fist into Bo’s, but we’re interrupted by the squealing of tires and the gritty pitter-patter of displaced sand raining down in the parking lot.
A bright orange Dodge Challenger with parallel black racing stripes pulls in front of the entrance and revs its engine, the thunderous growl rattling the walls. Bo looks at his watch, and a grin creeps across his lips. “Aw hell, here comes trouble.”
He walks halfway to the front and stands with his hands on his hips while Gin begins fidgeting with her hair, sticking loose wisps under the cap’s brim, and running her tongue over her lips time and again until they glisten with wetness. Damn, these two must have a major yen for trouble. I smirk and shake my head, but find myself leaning forward on tiptoes to see just who’s creating all the commotion.
He gets out and slams the door, twirling the keys on his finger. Taller and thinner than Bo, his arms and legs look a bit too long for his body, but it doesn’t affect his stride. He glides in, heavy on the heels of his sneakers, almost as if he’s somehow reclining on an invisible cushion while walking. Bo high-fives him as he saunters to the counter across from me and hops onto it in one seamless motion. Gin’s at his side almost immediately, arms folded underneath her boobs, creating a vertical line of cleavage above the scoop neck of her tank.
“Hey kid.” He flicks the brim of her cap, and she giggles, swatting his hand. But he’s not looking at her. His jade eyes pierce me like daggers as he nods in my direction. “Who’s the chick?”
Oh God. One of those.
I roll my eyes and grab the ginger ale from the counter, renewing my fight again
st the stubborn bottle cap. “Someone who doesn’t appreciate being called chick,” I say through the grunts as I twist raw ridges into my palm.
Bo steps in between us. “CJ, this is my best friend Jarrett Ramsey. Jett for short. And Jett, this is CJ Ainsworth, Ms. Bessie’s granddaughter. She’s here for the summer.”
He runs his eyes up and down me in a way that makes my bones shiver and my blood boil. My body wars within itself. “I didn’t know Ms. Bessie had a granddaughter. We’ve never seen you here before.”
I purse my lips and shrug my shoulders. “Can’t say that now.”
“You don’t look like a CJ.” Jett stops and runs his tongue across the front of his teeth, and as it swipes from right to left, a metallic flash catches my eye. A gold-capped tooth. Odd.
“What does that stand for, anyway?” he asks.
“Camelia Jayne.”
Jett smiles, but Bo slaps his hand over his mouth, laughing. “And you made fun of Beauregard! I’m sorry my name seems too old-fashioned for you, Camelia.”
“Quit being an ass, Bo.” Gin sashays around the counter and inserts herself between us. Jett jumps down and walks beside me, tugging my French braid between his fingers. I flick my eyes toward Gin who frowns and looks at her flip-flops.
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