Praise for Sherri Wood Emmons and Prayers and Lies
“With haunting prose, Sherri Wood Emmons captures childhood in a small southern town a generation ago and a family whose lives are filled with joy but with secrets buried deep in their souls. Bethany and Reana Mae, no longer children but not yet women, are tied together by bonds of kinship and friendship that help them survive challenges they don’t understand. Prayers and Lies is a rich story of the triumph of love and decency.”
—Sandra Dallas, author of True Sisters
“From the first sentence, the voice of the narrator, Bethany, rings true and never falters. Prayers and Lies is the story of a family that knows how to love and forgive and get on with life.”
—Drusilla Campbell, author of Little Girl Gone
“Prayers and Lies is a sweet, revealing tale of family, friendship, long-held secrets and includes the all-important ingredients of forgiveness and love.”
—Kris Radish, author of Tuesday Night Miracles
“When I was reading Prayers and Lies, the voice was so genuine, so sincere, I felt like Bethany was standing right before me, barefoot, earnestly telling me her story, alternately laughing, crying, wondering, confused, and scared. I was on the edge of my seat, listening, every scene coming into full, bright, Technicolor detail as one prayer was heard, one lie was shattered, one family’s raw, haunting life laid bare. I loved it.”
—Cathy Lamb, author of A Different Kind of Normal
“Prepare to stay up all night reading! Sherri Wood Emmons perfectly captures the devastating impact of family secrets in her beautifully written—and ultimately hopeful—debut novel. With its evocative setting and realistically crafted characters, Prayers and Lies is a must read for fans of rich family drama.”
—Diane Chamberlain, author of The Good Father
And praise for The Sometimes Daughter
“With strong Oprah Book Club vibes, The Sometimes Daughter is a pleasant, touching read . . . Emmons knows how to write women, capturing the nuances of ordinary life in such a way that her characters become people that you want to know.”
—NUVO Newsweekly
Books by Sherri Wood Emmons
PRAYERS AND LIES
THE SOMETIMES DAUGHTER
THE WEIGHT OF SMALL THINGS
THE SEVENTH MOTHER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Seventh Mother
SHERRI WOOD EMMONS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise for Sherri Wood Emmons and Prayers and Lies
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART 1 - IDAHO
1 - Jenny
2 - Emma
3 - Jenny
4 - Emma
PART 2 - KENTUCKY
5 - Jenny
6 - Emma
7 - Jenny
8 - Emma
9 - Jenny
10 - Emma
11 - Jenny
12 - Emma
13 - Jenny
14 - Emma
15 - Jenny
16 - Emma
17 - Jenny
18 - Emma
19 - Jenny
20 - Emma
21 - Jenny
22 - Emma
23 - Jenny
24 - Emma
25 - Jenny
26 - Emma
27 - Jenny
28 - Emma
29 - Jenny
30 - Emma
31 - Jenny
32 - Emma
33 - Jenny
34 - Emma
35 - Jenny
36 - Emma
37 - Jenny
38 - Emma
39 - Jenny
40 - Emma
41 - Jenny
42 - Emma
43 - Jenny
44 - Emma
45 - Jenny
PART 3 - INDIANA
46 - Emma
47 - Jenny
48 - Emma
49 - Jenny
50 - Emma
51 - Jenny
52 - Emma
53 - Jenny
54 - Emma
55 - Jenny
Epilogue - Emma
THE SEVENTH MOTHER
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Copyright Page
For Zach, who can always make me laugh, with love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My favorite part about writing books is doing this very thing. And so ...
To my amazing editor, John Scognamiglio, many, many thanks for your patience, encouragement, and guidance. Thanks also to Vida Engstrand, Paula Reedy, and the other wonderful people at Kensington Books for all you do.
To my wonderful agent, Judy Heiblum, thank you for your honesty, support, and faith in me.
To Liz Zander and Norman and Denise Lower, thank you for helping with the background on this book.
To Rhonda Hooks Tyner and Tina Smith, so many thanks for letting me steal your stories. You guys are the best!
To Wayne and Kathy Stanley and Richard and Barbara Emmons, thank you for schooling me in Teton Valley culture and lingo. And for making me part of your family.
To Kathleen Madinger Angelone, the real-life owner of Bookmamas, thank you bunches for your support and your friendship.
And finally, to my husband, best friend, and partner in crime, Chris Emmons . . . you are my rock, my heart, and my home. I love you.
PART 1
IDAHO
1
Jenny
I remember how it started, the beginning of the end. Of course I didn’t know it then.
We were in southern Idaho and it was July. Daddy was working for the summer at a little campground that sat in a broad, grassy prairie between two mountain ranges. It was a nice place, hot and dry so you always had to carry a bottle of water with you. A curvy, slow-moving river ran just east of the campground, and lots of geese and ducks lived there. Sometimes we saw wild elk in the fields. Once at the river, I even saw a mother moose with her baby, standing on spindly legs in the water. If I’d had a camera, I would have taken a picture of them. I didn’t have a camera, but I still remember how the mother glared at me as she stepped between Daddy and me and her baby. She was protecting him, I guess. That’s what mothers are supposed to do.
Near the entrance to the campground sat a tiny, dusty restaurant called Zella Fay’s Café. That’s where we ate most of our meals. Zella Fay was an enormously fat old woman with a patch over her left eye and a bad temper. I never had the nerve to ask why she had an eye patch. She kind of scared me. But she made the best beef stew I’d ever had, and she always gave me an extra biscuit. Sometimes she let me take leftover bread from the restaurant to feed the ducks.
To the east, we could see the Teton Mountains from our campsite, with snow on the tops even in the summer. A boy who was staying at the campground in June told me that Tetons meant “titties” in French. Then he pinched my chest hard and laughed. I wanted to punch him. I let my hands curl into fists so tight my fingernails bit into my palms. But I didn’t hit him, of course. He was a guest, and we had to be nice to the guests because they were paying to be there. They were paying for us to be there, too, Daddy said. Sometimes I hated that.
Anyway, that night in early July, I was lying on my bed—it was a shelf, really, in an alcove that jutted out of the trailer when we set up camp. I was staring at the roof, bored and kind of thirsty, wishing I could turn on the light to read. I was supposed to be asleep, but it was still light outside, even though it was almost nine o’clock. And it was still God-awful hot. I lay
on top of the sheets below the screened window just over my bed, waiting for the breeze I knew would come eventually. We had air-conditioning in the trailer, but Daddy didn’t like to run it at night. Once the sun set, it always cooled off so much I had to pull my quilt over me. Daddy said the fresh air was good for us both.
Outside, I heard Daddy talking softly and then laughing. I peeked out the window and saw him dancing in the grass with Emma, his arms wrapped around her waist. She tilted her head back to laugh and then saw me watching them from the window. Before I could drop the mini-blind, she smiled and winked at me.
I liked Emma. Actually, I liked her a lot. She took care of the horses at the campground, and she let me help feed them and sometimes brush them. Most days, she led the paying guests on trail rides into the surrounding foothills, telling them the history of the area, pointing out photo opportunities, and making sure they didn’t get hurt . . . or worse, hurt the horses.
Emma knew every horse in the stable by name. She knew each one’s likes and dislikes, its weaknesses and its stubborn streaks. She said the most important job she had was pairing a horse with a rider who would appreciate it. That and making sure that everyone got back to the campground in one piece.
For three years, Emma had been working at the campground. She was a year-round employee, taking care of the horses even after the campground closed for the season and the snow set in for months on end.
Daddy and I were only there for the summer. When the season ended and the campground closed, we would move on to the next place where Daddy could find work. Some people called us workam-pers, because we moved around so much and lived in a trailer. Daddy said we were modern-day gypsies or maybe even pioneers. He said stuff like that.
I was reading about the pioneers that summer. The week before, Emma had taken me to Victor, a little town that sat right up next to the mountains. We went to the Emporium for huckleberry shakes and then to the library to get some books about the people who’d come across the Teton Mountains in covered wagons to settle the area. Compared to those wagons, our trailer seemed pretty fancy. We had an electrical hookup and running water. We had GPS and even a satellite TV, which Daddy let me watch sometimes, but only after I had finished my lessons. Mostly, we used the TV to watch the Weather Channel. When you live in a trailer, you really do have to watch the weather.
Of course, compared to the houses I saw in the towns around the campground, our trailer seemed kind of shabby. There were some fancy houses in that valley, all brand-new and beautiful, with huge windows facing the mountains and sprinklers making “che-che-che” sounds as they sprayed water across the huge lawns. Zella Fay at the restaurant complained all the time about how much water people wasted on those lawns. They were mostly vacation homes, Daddy said. People built them just to come for a few months in the winter, when the ski hill was open. During the summer, they sat mostly empty, their windows glinting sunlight back at the mountains.
Still, our trailer was way better than the motels we used to live in, Daddy and me. Some of those places had been downright scary, with skittering roaches and mice. Once Daddy even killed a big gray rat that was hiding under our bed. And every few months, or even every few weeks, we’d move to another motel room and scrub it clean with Lysol and start all over again. At least with the trailer, we took all our stuff with us. And my bed in the alcove shelf was always my bed, with my own sheets and pillow and Bugsy Bear, the stuffed panda my mother bought for me before I was even born.
I raised the mini-blind again and peeked out the window. Daddy was kissing Emma’s neck now and his hand was on her butt. Then I knew that she was probably going to be my new stepmom. For a minute, I let myself hope that she would stay. But almost as soon as the wish formed, it disappeared. I knew Emma wouldn’t stay too long, no matter how much I wished. They didn’t ever stay, not any of them.
Two weeks later, Emma moved her things from her room at the bunkhouse into the trailer. She didn’t have a lot to move—just a duffel bag and a backpack. Daddy made space in a drawer beneath their bed for her things.
That night, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried hard to sleep, willing myself to see cartoon sheep or anything else I might count. There was no door to my little shelf/alcove and only a flimsy accordion door across the hallway into Daddy’s bedroom. Like I said, a lot of women had come to live with us. And I really hated hearing them at night.
That night, Emma’s voice rang out as clear as day.
“So Jenny hasn’t ever been in a real school? Do you think that’s a good idea?”
Daddy’s voice was soft and low. He knew how everything worked in the trailer, knew I might still be awake. “She’s doing a homeschool program on the computer. We move around too much to enroll her anywhere. She’s better off this way.”
“But . . .” Emma’s voice trailed away. I heard Daddy kiss her.
“But nothing,” he said finally. “We use an accredited program. She has her laptop. We have the Internet. She’s as smart as a whip. And she’s fine.”
“And you are more than fine.” Emma’s voice was breathy and soft.
I squeezed my eyes closed more tightly.
“Let me show you how fine I am.” Daddy laughed.
2
Emma
I know it was stupid, moving in with Brannon so fast. But I was lonely before he came to the campground, and he was funny and sweet and so good with his daughter. And my God, he looked so good. When he and Jenny first arrived at camp, I watched him around the place for a few days before I talked to him, his dark hair just curling damp at the base of his neck, his arms and chest muscled and taut under his white T-shirts. He was something to watch, all right, so lean and tanned and glistening with sweat. Even Zella Fay at the diner said so, as we stared at him out the window over lunch one day.
“Yeah, he’s a looker, all right.” Zella Fay poured more coffee into my cup and almost smiled, watching Brannon outside, hauling wood to the fire pit for the big bonfire that night. “And the little girl seems like a good kid,” she added, turning from the window. “She’s real polite. Sometimes she even helps me with the dishes. I give her a dollar.”
I’d seen the daughter around, too.
“How old do you think she is?” I asked.
“Ten,” Zella Fay said. “Eleven in August.”
“I wonder where her mother is.” I was fishing now.
“Dead,” Zella Fay said. “She died when Jenny was three.”
I raised my eyebrows. Normally, Zella Fay didn’t engage in gossip, but she was full of information today.
“Jenny hangs out here sometimes when it’s too hot outside,” she said. “Does her schoolwork at a booth or just follows me around. She seems kind of lonely.”
“I’ll bet,” I agreed. “It must be hard on a kid, moving around the way they do.”
Zella Fay nodded and swiped the counter with a towel.
“Seems like he’s a good dad,” she said, glancing out the window toward Brannon. He was stacking logs in the fire pit now, building a balanced pyramid. “I’ve never heard him raise his voice to her. He pretty much dotes on her.”
“That’s nice.” I smiled to myself, watching Brannon build the pyramid. “It must be nice to have a dad who dotes on you.”
When I left the diner that day, I stopped by the fire pit and introduced myself.
“Hey, I’m Emma. I work with the horses.” I smiled at him.
He wiped his forehead with a blue bandana and grinned back at me—a crooked, beautiful, wide grin.
“I’m Brannon,” he said, holding out his hand. “Brannon Bohner. Nice to meet you.”
“Looks like hot work,” I said, taking his hand and nodding at the pyramid.
“At least it’s not muggy,” he said. “Last summer I worked at a campground in Alabama. Imagine heat like this with ninety-percent humidity. It felt like I was working in a sauna.”
“Zella Fay just made a fresh batch of iced tea,” I said.
“That soun
ds good.” He wiped his forehead again. “Will you join me?”
So I went back into the diner, where Zella Fay was still watching us, and sat down in a booth instead of at the counter.
“Can we get two iced teas, Zella Fay?”
She raised an eyebrow at me now, then poured two big glasses of tea and set them on the table before us.
“How ’bout some pie?” She halfway smiled at Brannon. “I got fresh peach pie today.”
“That sounds good.” Brannon smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Has Jenny been in this afternoon?”
“Not since lunch.” Zella Fay waddled into the kitchen, returning with a huge slice of pie, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. “She’s down at the river with the kids from seventeen, the pop-up. Their mama’s with them. She’s all right.”
He nodded before digging into the pie. Zella Fay stood at the table, watching him chew.
“Best peach pie I ever had,” he said, swallowing.
She waddled back to the kitchen, smiling.
“So . . .” He turned his attention to me, that crooked smile thawing the cold places in my past. “Are you from around here?”
I shook my head. “Arizona,” I said.
“Beautiful country,” he said. “How did you end up at the Flying J?”
“Oh, that’s a long story,” I said, laughing. “I’ll bore you with it sometime. How about you? How did you find your way here?”
He took a long drink of iced tea and sighed, relaxing into the red-vinyl booth. “We’ve been moving around for a few years now, my daughter and me.”
“I’ve seen her around the place,” I said. “She’s a beauty.”
He nodded, grinning. “She takes after her mom, that’s for sure.”
“Actually, I think she looks a lot like you . . . at least from what I’ve seen.”
The Seventh Mother Page 1
