by Peggy Webb
Stars to Lead Me Home:
Love and Marriage
A Novel
Peggy Webb
Westmoreland House
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locals or persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Stars to Lead Me Home © 2015 Peggy Webb
Cover design 2015 by Vicki Hinze
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without Amazon Edition
Westmoreland House
Mooreville, Mississippi
Published in the USA
First Edition June 2015
Praise for USA Today Bestselling Author
Peggy Webb AKA Elaine Hussey
“Stars to Lead Me Home is a book you can’t wait to share with friends… It’s the MUST READ novel of the year!” ~ Dr. S. Fortune
“An unforgettable story told with astonishing skill and clarity by a truly gifted writer.”
~Pat Conroy, author of The Prince of Tides for The Tender Mercy of Roses
“A story so moving and lyrically written it sometimes seems like a dream.”
~Delta Magazine
“Stellar.” ~Alfred Hitchcock Magazine
“Wonderful…Unforgettable.” ~Fresh Fiction
“I devoured this thrilling page-turner, absolutely hooked, until the final scene, then went back again to read passages so lovely I wanted to savor them…This one is a treasure!” ~Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author
“Surprising wisdom startles the reader in the midst of a narrative both lyrical and powerful.” ~Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times bestselling author
“Prepare to laugh out loud.” ~ Library Journal
“Webb writes purely funny scenes…all with a Southern flair.” ~Booklist
“A story not to be missed.” ~ Once Upon A Romance
Letter from the Author
This novel is very dear to my heart. When my courageous and beautiful Aunt Maxine died a few years ago, she was the world’s second longest living recipient of a donor heart. I’ve always intended to write about her journey, and this novel gave me the perfect opportunity.
Still, getting a “borrowed heart,” (Aunt Maxine’s words) is the secondary story line in Stars to Lead Me Home. This is a novel about coping with divorce after a long-time marriage, something many of my friends and I know all too well. All of us understand the heart of Maggie. We understand that it was our female friends who pulled us through. In the end, then, the truest thing I can say about Stars to Lead Me Home is that it celebrates the joy of friends, the compassion, laughter and tears we use to handle whatever life throws our way.
As always, I thank you for reading this novel, for loving my books and for remaining loyal fans for so many years!
Peggy
Table of Contents
Praise for the Author
Letter from the Author
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
About the Author
Peggy Webb Book List
One bright star in the vast unknown
A blazing ember in the night sky shone
Reminding me that I’m not alone –
One bright star…
One bright star in the midnight blue
Holds the dreams that I dream of you
Take my hand and I’ll lead you to
One bright star.”
From One Bright Star by Linda Ori
CHAPTER ONE
I know my marriage is in shambles, had known long before Lillian called.
“I’m coming over,” she says. “With Jean. Break out the wine and throw some blankets in the boat. I have something very important to tell both of you and I want to be on the lake under the stars when I tell it.”
The minute I put the phone down, my husband pounces. “What was that all about?”
“Lillian and Jean are coming.”
“Those troublemakers would have to ruin a peaceful Saturday night!” The way he says this makes his face turn red. He knows more about stealing joy than any person I ever met.
“Don’t worry. You won’t even have to see them. We’ll be at the lake.”
“In this cold? Are you crazy?”
I don’t bother to defend my sanity. I don’t even bother to point out that Mississippi is having one of the mildest winters on record and that he went golfing this morning with nothing more substantial than a sweater.
I start grabbing blankets and wine, cheese straws and Hershey’s kisses, three big hunks of the German chocolate cake I baked this morning, linen napkins and real silver forks. Who cares if the boat tilts and I lose all of this in the lake? Lillian and Jean are worth it. These friends are worth any price, even Dick’s rage, which is sure to come again later tonight when we’re lying in bed as far apart as possible, him ranting and me wishing he’d just shut up, wishing there was an easy way to deal with the wrenching loneliness of being a couple but living a lie.
It’s already dark when I race into my back yard, the sky a deep navy that makes a perfect backdrop for the constellations spread across the Milky Way. Lillian will love this. Like me, she identifies with the stars, credits them with magical powers that can heal the hurts of your heart and guide you to your perfect home.
Wrapping my sweater against the chill, I stand under the glow of constellations, trying not to think about the hurts in my heart and the twenty years they’d been accumulating.
The roar of Lillian’s Thunderbird convertible pulls me out of my stargazing. I stash the supplies by the edge of the lake, its water already turning silvery and mysterious, then dash toward the driveway with my arms wide open.
Even if I saw Lillian and Jean only yesterday at school where all of us teach, seeing them again is an occasion for hugs and squeals and jumping up and down. Some people might frown on women our age carrying on like teenagers, but what do we care? As long as we have each other, everything will be all right.
“Lillian, I can’t wait to hear your news? Is it a new baby?” She has two children, but she’s only thirty-four, plenty young enough to have another.
“There’s no need to ask, Maggie.” Jean makes a face at Lillian then trots beside us toward the back yard, barely keeping up. “I pestered her to death in the car, and she wouldn’t tell me a thing. But if it’s another kid, I’m going to strangle her. Who needs a little person in diapers?”
That’s Jean for you. She has opinions about everything, and she’s not shy about sharing them.
“I wouldn’t mind a little person in diapers.” My two daughters are grown and gone, and I miss the unexpected pleasures, playing with a rubber ducky at bath t
ime, watching spit bubbles form when a baby first yearns toward the beautiful art of language, sitting in my rocking chair late at night, the only person awake in the house except for the tiny bundle in my arms. A girl, I think. But not with Dick. Which presents a whole other line of thought.
“Thirty-eight is not too old, Maggie,” Jean says, “but I’m going to whip your butt if you get pregnant by Dick.”
“Who else would it be, Jean?” Lillian has reached the water before us and is already climbing into the boat. “Somebody toss me the blankets and the picnic basket.”
I hand them in to her then turn to Jean. “Go ahead and hop in.”
“What about you?”
“Somebody has to push us off.”
“I can help you with that.” Jean stands on the edge of the lake with her hands on her hips. She’s as stubborn as she is opinionated, two qualities I covet but probably won’t ever learn. I’m a peacemaker, a woman who hates controversy and will go to any lengths to avoid it.
“Jean, get in this boat and let Maggie push off.”
“I don’t see why I can’t help.”
“Because your legs are too short and you’ll dump me in the water, like the last time, and I don’t want to be soaking wet and have frogs in my hair when I tell you my news.”
By the time Jean has clambered in and I’ve managed to shove off then hop into the boat without soaking my tennis shoes, they’ve already wrapped themselves in blankets and are digging in the basket for food.
I row us toward the center of the lake, which sounds like a Herculean feat but isn’t. This is a small private lake, easily navigated and totally non-threatening, no fear of getting lost or running aground or getting snared in a tangle of fallen trees hidden by dark water.
This lake is one of the many reasons I find it hard to think about leaving. What would I do in a kitchen where I couldn’t stand at the window and watch the sunset over the water? How would I remember all those summer days when the girls were small and we’d picnic by the lake?
The only sounds are the rustle of chocolate wrappers (Jean), the barely audible snatches of somebody humming “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (Lillian), and water lapping against the boat. This is the kind of mild winter evening I love, in the silent dark under the stars with friends who would walk through fire for you.
“I need a new heart.”
Lillian drops this bomb without preamble, five little words, spoken with dignity and purpose, words neither Jean nor I want to understand.
“Who doesn’t?” Jean finally says. “Bill claims mine is pickled.”
All three of us laugh, but there’s a nervous edge to it, a sick feeling that we’ve missed the point. The last echoes of laughter fade, and we wait for what will happen next.
For a while nothing does.
I tip my head back to study the stars. I’m looking for answers, buying time, praying Lillian didn’t mean what she said.
“It’s the weirdest thing how you can go along thinking you’ll be around to see your children graduate, to plan their weddings. And then the doctor says your heart won’t make it. He says he has to take your old diseased heart out of your chest and replace it with the heart of a perfect stranger.”
“Oh, my God, Lillian!” I grab her hand, hold on tight as if the very act will anchor her to the earth, prevent her from flying off into the unknown and leaving us behind. “If I could, I’d give you mine.”
“If hearts grew back, I’d give you half of mine and half of Maggie’s.” Jean takes both our hands, completing the circle. She’s crying, making no bones about it, crying so hard her speech is garbled. “We would, wouldn’t we, Maggie?”
I nod, too full to speak. Lillian is too young to die. What will her family do without her? What will Jean and I do?
“There must be something else you can do. Some medicine you can take to fix it.”
“There’s nothing, Maggie. Only a transplant. I’m on the list. All I can do now is wait.”
“We’ll be with you every step of the way, Lillian.” Jean gives her face a savage swipe with her shirt tail. “We’ll do your laundry and watch your kids and fix your meals.”
“You don’t cook,” I tell Jean.
“That’s why God made Betty Crocker.” She says this with asperity, and I’m glad to see Jean is already moving away from shock and grief to the real task: we will be the wind beneath Lillian’s wings until she gets a borrowed heart and can fly again.
“I don’t want you two hovering over me.” Did Lillian read my mind? “I want to go on living in the normal way. I don’t want to be constantly reminded that my heart’s not good enough. I don’t want to think about a getting a new one, I don’t want to talk about it, and I absolutely forbid either of you to pray for a donor heart.”
Somebody will have to die so she can live. That’s what Lillian knows, what she can’t bear to think about.
“No more talk about this.” Lillian grabs the wine bottle. “Where’s the corkscrew? Let’s celebrate.”
“Good grief, Lillian! I’d like to know what in the world we have to celebrate?” Still, Jean hands her the corkscrew.
For a moment I agree with Jean, and then all of a sudden, I know. What if I were the one who needed a new heart? What if I could drop dead any minute unless I got a new one? I’d have Jean and Lillian, of course, but I’d be stuck in this cold-hearted house, dying in a bed where not a word of love has been spoken in so many years I don’t even want to think about it.
For too many years I’ve been on the fence. Should I leave or should I stay? How will the children handle it? How will I make it on my own, on a school teacher’s salary? How can I bear to leave the house, a place I’ve called home for twenty years?
Those excuses no longer hold. I’ve figured the money so many ways I dream in dollar signs. The girls are now grown and gone, and the house no longer feels like home.
“I’ll tell you what we have to celebrate. I’m leaving Dick.”
“Hear, hear!” Jean grabs the bottle from Lillian, takes a swig and passes it back. “It’s about time, Maggie!”
“I’ll drink to that.” Lillian upends the bottle and is grinning when she hands it to me. “Make a toast, Maggie.”
I lift the bottle high and moonlight catches the glass, reflecting a shower of stars across our faces.
“No matter what life throws at us, we have each other. Friends forever!”
Jean and Lillian send up a cheer and I join in, but it’s not the toast I’m thinking about. It’s the possibility that the path we’re on will repair two hearts, one diseased and one shattered by neglect and relentless chipping.
Lillian and I glance upward at the same time. Though the stars are light years away, I feel as if I can reach out and touch Sirius, the brightest star in the winter sky.
Usually, the Dog Star - or as I prefer to think of him, the Sparkling One - shines white with a tinge of blue. But when the air is unsteady, he undergoes a miraculous change.
If ever the air was unsteady, it’s tonight. Lillian’s news has disturbed us in ways that spill over into the atmosphere, and my news adds to the shock waves. The Sparkling One flickers in the winter sky, its brightness spreading across the water until the three of us are sitting in a rainbow colored circle of starlight.
CHAPTER TWO
Two Years Later
The private eye is out there watching me. I can’t see him, but I know he’s out there anyhow, just the way I know that I’m a prisoner in the upstairs apartment with no balcony and no windows that stay open without propping the dictionary underneath and no door to the outside so that I can go through every morning and say to myself, “Hmmm, it’s going to be brisk today. I’d better put on a sweater.”
Trapped. I am trapped inside three box-like rooms and have been for the last two years and I am sick and tired of it. The wailing of sirens reminds me that it’s late at night and criminals are prowling the streets and it isn’t safe for me to go to the late show, even if I have a not
ion to see one. Which I definitely do not.
I’m not in the mood for movies: I’m in the mood for sex. Not solo, but the real kind you have with a genuine other person. Sometimes I laugh about it, this still-married-but-only-on-paper limbo, especially with Jean and Lillian. But tonight I’m alone and Venus is shining through my window and all hope of a quick settlement has been torpedoed by Dick’s relentless refusal to simply sign papers and let each of us get on with life. I’m sick and tired of trying to see the bright side. And I’m more than fed up with providing my own gratification.
I throw back the covers and race to my walk-in closet with my nightshirt flapping behind me like the wings of some skinny legged wild white bird. Once I am in the closet I don’t have to search for what I want. I know exactly where the bag is. Hidden under the electric blanket.
I jerk it up by the handles and don’t even stop to make sure the snap is closed so nothing will spill out and leave a trail of evidence. It doesn’t matter anymore. If I leave a trail, I’ll clean it up.
The bag is black and white stripped, a freebie from Revlon, big enough for all the cosmetics a woman my age needs to firm her chin, plump up her wrinkles, rouge her cheeks and gloss her lips. Only it’s not full of cosmetics; it’s full of secrets. Secrets that shouldn’t cause shame, but sometimes do.
Lately though they’ve caused nothing but rage.
I don’t even bother with housecoat and shoes. There are only eleven apartments in my building, most of them occupied by kids fresh out of college who have seen worse things than a forty-year-old woman strutting through the halls in a nightshirt that declares “Give in to your animal instincts.”
After tonight I’m planning to take the advice of my own nightshirt. Just give right in. If the perfect partner will only fall out of the sky and land at my feet and spare me the humiliation of searching.
