When he was not forthcoming with a word, her dad offered, “Grateful? Relieved?”
“Grateful.” He tried it on like a new shirt. “I was grateful. Not grateful that my mother was dead, of course, but grateful that it wasn’t Sophie. And there’s a hair’s difference between that and being grateful Sophie wasn’t dead, too. You see? And it seemed wrong—in my head—like I’d chosen between them. But that’s how I felt, and then I felt guilty.”
Part of Sophie wished she could watch his face during the long pauses in his account, though she knew the emotion in his frank expression would be crushing to see. She went two steps lower, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of him without interrupting—suspecting it wouldn’t be any easier on him to tell her these things than it was to tell a relative stranger—who happened to be her father . . . who happened to make his living being easy to talk to and listening with care.
“When I heard Jesse calling her name and seeming to expect her to answer . . . well, I don’t know. Somewhere in there—between seeing my mother and what Lanyard did to Sophie and hearing what Mother did and almost losing Sophie and not being there for either of them—I wasn’t sure I wanted to, or even could, keep feeling the way I did about her. It was . . . too much. It felt out of control. I felt out of control.”
Out of control. His feelings for her made him feel out of control. Believing he had no feelings for her made her feel out of control. Oh, surely there was a happy medium here somewhere, she thought, her chest tight with optimism.
The next step moaned slightly, briefly, but not enough to disturb them.
“It took me too long to understand that I felt differently about them because I love them differently, in different ways . . . for different reasons. And to remember that emotions don’t parade by, one at a time, so you can pick and choose. They come all at once in massive proportions. And you can’t always tell them apart or decide to feel one more than another. You just feel them all, all at once. I’ve seen it. A million times. I just couldn’t see it in me.” He paused. Sophie could all but see him collecting himself, though the stress in his voice remained. “Of course, by the time I did, it was too late. I’d pushed her away.
“So I came to tell her . . . I want Sophie to know that as enormous and scary and almost unbearable as it can be to love her sometimes, living without her is worse.” His voice lowered as he said, “I hurt her. I know that. I came to say I’m sorry.”
As the silence in the kitchen grew, Sophie waited, anticipating the soft throat-clearing that always signaled what her father seemed to deem his turn to talk.
It came and he spoke calmly. “I agree with you. And it doesn’t seem to me that anything you’ve told me is unnatural. Extraordinary circumstances produce extraordinary emotions, which in turn produce extraordinary reactions. I think, in fact, it would have been extraordinary and quite unnatural if you hadn’t felt overwhelmed and out of control. I also believe that it’ll be considerably easier to acquire Sophie’s forgiveness than it’s been to forgive yourself—but one is not more important than the other.”
There was an abrupt change in her father’s manner.
“Now, first, I feel I should tell you that while it is unexpectedly gratifying—and sentimentally satisfying—it isn’t necessary for you to explain yourself or to inform me of your intentions toward Sophie . . . even if she is living in my home. However, that said, if you can relieve this blue funk she’s been in lately and get her to stop scribbling your name on the grocery lists, you have my blessing and I will be forever in your debt. Tuesday evening I spent thirty minutes after work looking for ‘Drew laundry detergent’ before I realized what she’d done.”
She heard Drew’s chuckle and was again startled to think that every time she believed she could not love her father more, she did.
“Also, while Sophie has been blessed with an easy ability to forgive, I would advise you not to use the word sorry when you apologize. She’s had several very peculiar reactions to it lately. Although, if I’m not mistaken, it might not be necessary to use any words at all because I’m certain I heard the step, sixth from the bottom, creak in the hall a few minutes ago and”—Sophie heard a kitchen chair move across the floor—“I’m fairly certain she’s been listening.”
Drew was at the bottom of the steps before Tom Shepard finished speaking.
Being embarrassed at having been caught eavesdropping was nothing compared to watching the joy in his eyes turn a little amused and hungry as he drank her in head to toe and back again.
In the six feet between them, regret and forgiveness bounced freely back and forth between leaps of faith and bounding love, soaring hopes and the mounting fervor of promises that were just as binding unsaid as said.
And then they smiled, as friends . . . and more.
“I’m redeeming my rain check.” He held up the invisible chit for her to see. “You owe me a date.”
P.S.
About the author
Meet Mary Kay McComas
About the book
Author note
Discussion Topics for Book Clubs
Read on
More from Mary Kay McComas
About the author
Meet Mary Kay McComas
MARY KAY MCCOMAS started her writing career twenty-five years ago. To date she’s written twenty-one short contemporary romances and five novellas; Something About Sophie is her third novel. She was born in Spokane, Washington, and now lives in a small town in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with her husband, three dogs, a cat, and her four children nearby.
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About the book
Author Note
ASK ANY AUTHOR and they’ll tell you that the question they are most frequently asked is: Where do you get your ideas?
In fact, it is asked so frequently that Google has more than twenty-six pages (at which point I stopped counting) dedicated to explanations as wide and varied as the authors who attempt them.
Luckily for you, I agree with most of these explanations. Ideas come from everywhere and nowhere, from personal encounters to dreams to—as Stephen King suggests in his wonderful book On Writing—simply asking “what if.”
On rare occasions, ideas arrive in a short summary with a beginning, middle, and an end that the writer must flesh out, warp, and manipulate into a story—a story with substance, with conflict and resolution, and vivid images that will, hopefully, resonate with the people who read it. But more often ideas come as a kernel or two that must be ground into flour between a rock and the top of your head. Long story short, so to speak: they don’t come easy.
The idea for Something About Sophie was of the former breed. A fully developed concept that I kneaded like clay, then pressed and squeezed into a story of my own. And this is how it came about . . .
I live in the country. It takes seven hours straight to mow my entire lawn, front and back. I don’t have a gardener or even a lawn service, and before my kids were old enough to take their turns, I did it.
It is a wonderfully mindless job. Going around and around and around I pondered many a seed of a story that gradually grew and produced fruit in the form of one of the many short contemporary romances I wrote for the Loveswept line at Bantam Books. (Note from my agent: many of Mary Kay’s romances are available as e-books from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.)
For seven hours a week it was just me, my lawn tractor, and my choice for album-of-the-day played full blast (so I could hear it over the mower, of course) over and over so I could belt out the songs with unabashed off-key enthusiasm.*
I did a lot of mowing with Motown—The Supremes of the sixties before Diana went solo, a little Marvin Gaye and Greatest Hits by Mary Wells (who didn’t record enough, if you ask me). And of course, The Four Seasons—who better to scream out those high notes with than Frankie Valli? I was soulful with the amazing Aretha Franklin. I was killer with Thriller. And
who doesn’t love Bonnie Raitt, Cher, Bette Midler, George Strait, and Fleetwood Mac? And Dan Fogelberg? Billy Joel is my favorite piano man and little Dolly Parton’s big voice was on repeat. Plus, here it is in black and white: I love ABBA and the Bee Gees—my children accept this about me.
In the summer of 1994, a year after the release of Garth Brooks’s fifth studio album, In Pieces, I was all about “Standing Outside the Fire,” “Callin’ Baton Rouge,” and “American Honky-Tonk Bar Association.” I mangled them all. “The Night I Called the Old Man Out,” “One Night a Day,” “Kickin’ and Screamin’.” The whole album is lawn mower legend.
Except for “The Night Will Only Know.”
“The Night Will Only Know” is not the sort of song you sing along with—not happy or upbeat or even brokenhearted sad. It’s disturbing. And haunting. I listened.
It tells the story of two people who are having an affair and accidentally witness the attack and murder of a woman. The next day the woman’s death is reported as a suicide, which always confuses me since it’s hard to hide an attack, but it adds to the evil in the story. The thing is, the couple didn’t step in to help her and didn’t step up to tell the truth later because to do so would bring to light the sin they committed that night. They chose to save their secret. But wait, it gets worse. Not only is the night privy to their deception and a daily reminder of their cowardice and failure, but it also keeps the secrets of the murder that took place, why it happened . . . and who got away with it. Is that twisted or what? It’s so wrong and so morally depraved—and so human in that heroes are heroes because the rest of us are not—because looking away is not uncommon and because we all might be tempted do the same thing, only hoping we’d be different.
Of course, this isn’t the sort of fare a writer of short contemporary romances would cook up for inspiration. But it is certainly a scenario to be dumped into the cauldron of ideas on the back burner, stewed for eighteen years, and eventually ladled out as my version of southern small-town gumbo . . . Something About Sophie.
I hope you enjoy Sophie’s story. I hope it does justice to the thought-provoking song written by Stephanie Davis, Jenny Yates, and Garth Brooks that so stirred me.
With Sophie following What Happened to Hannah and set in the same rural Virginia town, I see a trilogy in my future with Don’t Ask Alice. Please watch for it.
—Mary Kay McComas
* Portable MP3 players appeared in 1999 so, yes, the tapes and CDs mentioned played repeatedly, unshuffled, at least seven times before I put the mower away. I really love the music I love.
Discussion Topics for Book Clubs
1. Was there a specific theme (or themes) that the author emphasized throughout the novel? What do you think she was trying to get across to the reader?
2. Did you feel sympathy for Elizabeth? Truthfully, what would you have done in her place that fateful night?
3. How many times did Sophie’s view of and feelings for her birth mother change? How do you think she felt about her when the story ended?
4. Something About Sophie is a dark tale. Talk about the lighter parts. Was there a good balance?
5. The real cause of Arthur’s death was never brought to light. Might there have been other crimes left in the dark? Knowing what you know of Elizabeth, could Lonora have been her first victim?
6. Does Elizabeth deserve absolution from her children? Did it seem unnatural that Sophie was so quick to forgive?
7. Do you have a favorite scene? What about it appeals to you? If you could rewrite any part of the story what would it be and how would you write it?
Read on
More from Mary Kay McComas
WHAT HAPPENED TO HANNAH
To save her own life, Hannah Benson fled her hometown as a teenager. She’s never looked back, not even to find out what happened to the mother and sister she left behind. Twenty years later, the past comes calling when the town sheriff, Grady Steadman—Hannah’s high school sweetheart, phones her with life-changing news: her mother and sister have both died, and she’s the sole relative of her fifteen-year-old niece.
Hannah had become used to the idea of going it alone, but she can’t shake her responsibility for her young niece. Returning home to bitter memories and devastating secrets, Hannah has to find a way to take on this new challenge without ruining lives—or risking her own sanity. And when her painful memories of this small town become mingled with the new, happier memories she’s creating with her niece—and the rekindled feelings she has for Grady— Hannah finds out once and for all if she’s strong enough to save her own life one more time.
Praise for Mary Kay McComas’s What Happened to Hannah
“Hannah Benson is a memorable character of uncommon strength. From the unthinkable horror of the past to the glimmering possibility of love in the present, What Happened to Hannah is a stirring novel of family and redemption.”
—Kristina Riggle
“Blending poignancy with humor, crafting characters as real and recognizable as your next-door neighbor, Mary Kay McComas weaves stories that brighten the heart.”
—Nora Roberts
“I love Mary Kay McComas. Her books are honest and real, and transport you to a place that feels like home.”
—Patricia Gaffney
“It is hard not to be moved by the tender love story that emerges from the depths of violence in this haunting and touching novel. You will never forget What Happened to Hannah.”
—Jessica Anya Blau
“A touching tale of trauma, healing, and family. . . . McComas builds the relationship between Hannah and Anna deftly, showing how hard it can be for strangers who fhappen to be family to know each other.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Mary Kay McComas has written a poignant tale of the prolonged effects of domestic abuse.”
—Daily News (Iron Mountain, Michigan)
By Mary Kay McComas
What Happened to Hannah
Credits
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph © by Kat Kiernan/ Glasshouse Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
SOMETHING ABOUT SOPHIE. Copyright © 2013 by Mary Kay McComas. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-208480-4
EPUB Edition April 2013 ISBN 9780062084811
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