by Linda Apple
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Linda Apple
Women of Washington Avenue
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The evening star glinted in the pink and purple twilight. Normally, this was the loneliest time of day for me since Ray died. But now, here with these women, it felt so right and beautiful. I held up my glass. “Here’s to friends, old and new.”
“Amen.” Lexi stuck out her glass. “To being here for each other no matter what.”
Molly Kate raised her glass. “To forever friends.”
My insecurity raised its head. “Forever friends.” I looked around. “That sounds so nice. I wish I’d grown up with you girls.”
Lexi leaned forward and faced me. “Sugar, let me tell you something. You didn’t have to grow up with us to be our forever friend.” She pivoted around. “Ain’t that right girls? Jema is one of us.”
“She sure is.” Avalee stood and held up her goblet. “To the women of Washington Avenue.”
We followed Avalee’s lead, clinked glasses, and drank to friendship.
Lexi opened the last bottle and refilled our glasses before joining Molly Kate on the swing. “Well, Avalee, I have to say, you could have knocked me over with a feather when Ty told me you were home.”
Avalee rocked next to me. “I planned on surprising you after I left Molly’s. But when I saw Ty…” Tears filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks. She took a drink and shook her head. “I know it is silly, but I had to talk to Marc, so I spent the afternoon in the cemetery.”
“Not silly at all, hon.” Lexi got up from the swing and went to her. Wrapping her arms around Avalee, she said, “We do what we have to do.”
Praise for Linda Apple
and
WOMEN OF WASHINGTON AVENUE
“Pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, head to the front porch swing with a copy of WOMEN OF WASHINGTON AVENUE, and let the South wrap around you like a warm hug. Linda Apple’s book is like visiting with old friends—lots of laughs, some heartache, and memories that last long after the final line is read.”
~Roni Adams, author of Under a Rodeo Moon and
The Chauffeur Wore an Evening Gown,
available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Women of Washington Avenue
by
Linda Apple
Moonlight Mississippi Series, Book 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Women of Washington Avenue
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Linda Apple
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by RJ Morris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Women’s Fiction Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-392-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-393-3
Moonlight Mississippi Series, Book 1
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my husband, Neal Apple,
whose idea inspired this book
and who is a constant source of
encouragement and support.
I love you.
Acknowledgements
My love and gratitude goes to my husband, Neal, for the hours he spent with me on the front porch dreaming up ideas, listening to me read this book to him for hours on end and for his input. Also, heartfelt thanks to my momma, Freddie Diehl, and to my grandmother, Cladie Mae, for nurturing me as a Southern woman and for giving me beautiful memories from which to draw.
Profuse appreciation to my daughter, Olivia Apple. Her keen eye, suggestions, and comments were invaluable. Also, thanks to Jan Morrill, Pam Jones, and Ruth Weeks for the insightful help they gave me while in Red River, NM. And of course, I’ll always be grateful to my mentor in writing as well as in life, Velda Brotherton.
Gratitude beyond measure goes to my editor and now friend, Ally Robertson. Finally, to Rhonda Penders and all those who have made this book possible at The Wild Rose Press, thank you for your enthusiasm, support, patience, and above all, for giving this book a chance.
Fried green tomatoes, magnolia blooms, and front porch swing blessings to you all!
Chapter 1
AVALEE
Home
When I left Mississippi, I shook the dust off my feet and vowed to never live there again.
Never say never.
The wind whipped through my hair as I drove my new Mercedes convertible to my childhood home in Moonlight, Mississippi. Not to visit, but to move back in with my mother. I gripped the steering wheel and called out to no one. “Avalee Preston, a fifty-five-year-old spinster moving back in with her mother.”
For heaven’s sake. If that wasn’t pitiful, I didn’t know what was.
Tension built between my shoulders and worked its way up my neck. I wasn’t sure at all about this move. I could count on one hand the times I’d been home since I fled Ole Miss days before the graduation ceremonies and moved to New York City.
Manhattan had been my home for over thirty years. I’d traveled the world lecturing on floral arranging and décor. I’d also written six floral design and gardening books. How would I ever adjust to small—no—Lilliputian town living?
Oh well, no one said this had to be permanent. Still, I couldn’t abandon Momma either. The family floral and garden business was in trouble, and even though I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do, I had to try.
My ancestors had immigrated to Mississippi from Scotland in the late seventeen hundreds and purchased a large parcel of land to farm. But it was my great-grandfather who discovered there was money to be made by growing flowers. Over the years, his little business grew, and by the time my father had taken over, Preston Gardens shipped flowers to florists over a twelve state area and sold fresh flowers, bedding plants, and bushes from the shop close to their house.
When Momma called me distressed about the business’ steady decline since Dad’s passing, I wasn’t surprised. He had the business mind in the family. She excelled in public relations. Numbers were not her strong suit. In all fairness, however, her lack of business sense was not the only problem. When I came home for Daddy’s funeral a few years back, Moonlight was like a ghost town. Stores on the square were boarded up. Factories closed. The beautiful old homes in the historic part of town had been abandoned. Their porch
es sagged; the paint peeled and chipped off. The once manicured lawns were overgrown with weeds.
Even the Norton mansion stood empty after Mrs. Norton died. But Momma said the family had hired a caretaker to tend it. I hoped that was still the case.
A dull throb niggled at the base of my skull. I rolled my head from side to side, hoping it might ease the pain. It didn’t. In a few minutes, I’d be in Moonlight. I made up my mind to stop at the Piggly Wiggly store to buy some Naproxen before heading to Mom’s. She used those nasty headache powders. It’s a wonder she still had a stomach lining.
When I crossed the town limits, I noticed a new sign had replaced the old green and white government one. It was a wood carving of a moon rising over a lake and the words
WELCOME TO MOONLIGHT MISSISSIPPI WHERE YOUR ROMANTIC DREAMS COME TRUE.
Where your romantic dreams come true? Well, how about that? When did the powers that be decide on that slogan for this forgotten little town? In any case, it wasn’t true. At least not for me.
Not for Marc.
I swallowed the regret threatening to suffocate me. Even though it had been over thirty years, I could still hear the voice on the phone telling me Marc had died in a car crash. We were to be married the following week. And instead of the pain easing with time, it deepened. Not for the reason most would assume, but for a reason I had never shared.
Moonlight Lake glistened on my left and beckoned me to visit. I heeded its call and turned in. I wanted to see our spot, our secluded hideaway under a willow tree on the water’s edge we had claimed as teens. I smiled when I saw it, relieved the tree was still there. Only now it was much larger and the curtain of leaves much denser.
Even though Mom was probably waiting for me on her porch, I couldn’t resist staying a while. I parked the car, slipped out, and strolled to the tree. A breeze blew making some of its graceful branches sweep out to me as if to say, “Welcome home, Avalee.” And just as sudden, the wind died causing them to drop in disappointment, as if whispering. “Where’s Marc?”
I plopped down cross-legged on the grass and watched the waves lap rhythmically against the shore. The spicy scent of warm pine needles filled the air. Definitely the smell of home. Nothing in Manhattan ever smelled this fresh or this clean. A noisy blue jay scolded from his perch on a nearby pine interrupting the lake’s soft voice. Annoying birds. Marc used to fling pinecones at them.
Marc.
Memories of long evenings, kissing under the willow’s leafy canopy forced their way into my mind. Recollections of us entwined in an intimate embrace as we watched the moon rise and send a silvery path across the water enticing us to swim in its light. An invitation we rarely refused on those hot, humid nights. Nights we called close because it felt like we literally wore the air.
Amid the deafening noise from thousands of spring peepers and singing night bugs, we splashed in the tepid shallows. The deeper we swam the colder the water grew until it nearly took our breath away. But it didn’t take long to warm up. I still remember the heat of his embrace, the taste of his lips, and staring in his chocolate-brown bedroom eyes.
The lake blurred. I wiped my eyes and hugged my knees. Years had passed since then, but still, it didn’t seem like it. Marc and I began dating in high school. We went to college together. He was my first…and only. In our third year at Ole Miss he proposed. The date was set for June 3, 1978. It was the happiest day of my life. We planned for me to get a job after we returned from the honeymoon and for Marc to start medical school. It was all so perfect, until…
Pain drummed in the back of my head. If I didn’t get to the store soon, this would turn into a full-blown migraine. I pushed against the soft grass and stood. The ground underneath me tilted, and I grasped the willow’s branches to help me steady myself and wait for the sparklies to stop dancing before my eyes. Holding on to the tree’s verdant arm, I took another moment to drink in the lake view. And for what had to be the millionth time since Marc’s death, I whispered, “I’m sorry. So, so, sorry.”
The jay hopped onto a closer branch, cocked his head, and glared at me through his black, beady eye, then began his scolding all over again.
“All right. All right. I’m leaving.” Hateful bird.
Before getting in the car, I brushed the grass off my pants, then slid onto the seat and snapped the seatbelt. Just as a precaution, I checked the rearview mirror. My silly schoolgirl reminiscing probably had mascara tracks running down my cheeks, and I sure didn’t want to have to explain to Momma why they were there.
The subject of love had been put to rest a long time ago. When I first moved to New York, she’d casually bring up the topic of relationships and ask if I were dating anyone. If I said yes, then she’d ask if it was serious or could it possibly be serious.
Each time I said, “No.” Each time I explained how I had a career and it would not be fair to ask someone to settle for second place. Finally, I convinced her I was truly happy being single, and she let the matter drop. Bless her.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had other relationships since Marc. I just never let them go beyond the surface—or get physical. That part of me died when Marc did. To never marry was my choice. Avoiding getting physical was my safe place.
Enough of the past. I wiped the smudges from under my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair. It hung in a limp, tangled mess and was in desperate need of a highlighting touchup as soon as possible. Ugh. How I dreaded the process of finding a hairstylist. But when you have dishwater blond hair, something has to be done to perk it up.
I started the car and left the park. The best I could recall, the Piggly Wiggly used to be at the corner of Evening Shade Drive and Washington Avenue. But it might not be there any longer. The town had really changed. There were cute little shops everywhere. It had the feeling of a romantic artisan village. I wondered if this had anything to do with the new sign. No doubt I’d find out within ten minutes of arriving home. However, at the moment, all I cared about was getting to the grocery store or pharmacy.
Close to the end of Evening Shade, much to my relief, I spied the friendly pig in the red and white striped shirt waving from the store sign heralding me to stop in and shop a while. Thank the Lord. The store had been remodeled and was now a supercenter. Momma must have been in grocery store heaven when that happened.
I pulled into a parking spot and got out of the car. Heat shivered in waves from the hot asphalt. I could feel it through the soles of my shoes. The acrid odor of tar stung my nose. July was never this sweltering in New York.
A delicious blast of cool air welcomed me when the doors slid open. Thankfully, the pharmacy was close to the front. I grabbed the pills and a bottle of water from the cooler by the checkout counter. When I tossed them on the conveyer belt the lady at the register smiled at me.
“Afternoon. Hot one today isn’t it? Did you find everything okay?”
I really did not feel like a conversation. In Manhattan, sales clerks didn’t make small talk. I’d forgotten this about the South. So, even though my head felt as if it were splitting in two, I forced a smile. “Yes it is. And I did. Thank you.”
She glanced at my order and knit her eyebrows together. Peering at me through her wire-rim glasses she asked, “Headache?”
“Killer. It has been threatening since I turned off I-40 in Tennessee.”
“Oh, so you are visiting our little town?” She ran the Naproxen and water over the scanner. “Do you want these bagged?”
“No, I’ll just put them in my purse. Actually, I’m moving back home. I was born and raised here.”
The woman held her hand out to me. “Well then, welcome home. I’m Jema Presley.” She held up a finger. “And no, as far as I know, we are not related.”
“You are a mind reader.” I shook her hand. “I’m Avalee Preston.”
“Not Cladie Mae’s daughter by any chance?”
“The one and only. Only child that is.”
Jema’s radiant smile showed perfect teet
h. “Then I’m your neighbor.” She swept the bangs from her eyes. “Sorry, new haircut. I haven’t had bangs in years, but David, my stylist, told me they would make me look younger. All they have managed to do is drive me crazy.”
Jema looked to be about my age, and I could see us being friends. “I like it. Short and sassy. And we need all the sass we can muster at our age.”
“Oh girl, you just wait until you pass fifty…” She wrinkled her nose. “Something.”
“Believe me, I know. I’ve passed that line years ago.”
She waved me off. “Pshhh. Go on.”
The throb in my head intensified, and I pinched the base of my nose. “I think I’d better get to Mom’s and lie down a while. Why don’t you come by sometime soon?”
Jema’s expression showed genuine concern. “Oh, your headache. You poor thing. I’m so sorry. Better take one of those pills. Here, let me.” She took the bottle from my hand, opened it, broke the seal, and pulled out the cotton. “Here, the directions say you can take two to begin with.” When I took the pills from her palm, she opened the water. “Wash ’em down.”
I did as told. Yes, we would be friends. Good friends. I’d forgotten what genuine friendly was like. Down-home Southern friendly. “Thanks.” After stuffing the bottles in my bag I turned to leave. “See you soon?”
“I’ll come over after you have time to get settled in a bit. Hope you get to feeling better.” She blew her bangs. “Say hey to Cladie Mae for me okay?”
“Sure thing.” I waved and left the store. After getting in the car, I rubbed my neck. Marc could always massage these headaches away.
No. I wouldn’t start that again. I mentally shoved him into the recesses of my mind, took a deep breath, and blew it out before starting the car. By now, Momma was probably wearing out the sidewalk looking for me. “Here I come, Momma.”
****
Just as I expected, she had waited on the porch swing with her gazed fixed on the road like a hawk watching its prey. She leaned forward when my little red car came roaring down the road. I could tell by her posture that she was unsure if it was me or not.
