by Jeff High
PRAISE FOR
THE NOVELS OF WATERVALLEY
EACH SHINING HOUR
“Heartwarming, refreshing, and often amusing, this touching novel about a likable yet conflicted new doctor sent to a rural Tennessee town is a rare gem. A bustling medical practice, a budding romance, and a passel of small-town dramas make this a rich read, but a decades-old murder mystery adds the icing on the cake. The pristine setting and lovable characters will make readers search for Watervalley, Tennessee, on a map and plan a visit.”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of A Long Time Gone
“A young doctor, marking time until he can leave a somnolent farm town for the bustle of a big city, finds more excitement in Watervalley than he bargained for—an alluring woman, or two; an unsolved murder, or two; a crafty banker who knows more than he’s saying; and a cache of . . . well, I’ll let you find that out. Each Shining Hour kept me reading far into the night hours!”
—Ann B. Ross, New York Times bestselling author of the Miss Julia series and Etta Mae’s Worst Bad-Luck Day
“Come back to Watervalley for another endearing tale of Dr. Luke Bradford and the good folks of this small Tennessee town. Heartwarming and tender, Each Shining Hour is a bright and lovely story.”
—Lynne Branard, author of The Art of Arranging Flowers
MORE THINGS IN HEAVEN AND EARTH
“Told through the eyes of Dr. Luke Bradford, a newly minted MD, the story of the little town of Watervalley, Tennessee, and its inhabitants comes vividly to life. Jeff High’s medical background gives him that cutting edge in the technical details of his tale, and his love of his native Tennessee and the human race shines from every page. Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly is delighted to welcome Luke, a transatlantic colleague to be fiercely proud of.”
—Patrick Taylor, MD, New York Times bestselling author of the Irish Country novels
“The best of small-town Americana and the eccentrics who live there is brought to life in More Things in Heaven and Earth. This story warmed me, made me laugh, and then kept a smile on my face. It’s delightful, compassionate, humorous, tightly woven. If you’re looking for a feel-good read, spend an afternoon with Jeff High’s novel.”
—Charles Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Unwritten and When Crickets Cry
“A well-spun story of the mystery and microcosm that is small-town America. Jeff High skillfully captures the healing places, the hurting places, and the places where we so often find out who we are truly meant to be.”
—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of Tending Roses and The Prayer Box
Books in the Watervalley Series
More Things in Heaven and Earth
Each Shining Hour
New American Library
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published by New American Library,
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Copyright © Jeff High, 2014
Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
High, Jeff, 1957–
Each shining hour: a novel of watervalley/Jeff High.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-61837-0
1. Physicians—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 3. Small cities—fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.I368E23 2014
813'.6—dc23 2014017235
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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.
Version_1
Contents
Praise
Books in the Watervalley Series
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Epigraph
PRELUDE
CHAPTER 1: Estelle
CHAPTER 2: Sisters
CHAPTER 3: A Peculiar Discovery
CHAPTER 4: Ancient Rumor
CHAPTER 5: Heart of the Matter
CHAPTER 6: Dinner
CHAPTER 7: The Windup
CHAPTER 8: The Phone Call
CHAPTER 9: Sunflower Miller
CHAPTER 10: The Old Bakery
CHAPTER 11: Connie, Past and Present
CHAPTER 12: The Winds of Change
CHAPTER 13: Lida Wilkins
CHAPTER 14: The 5K
CHAPTER 15: From Morning to Eden
CHAPTER 16: Life on the Farm
CHAPTER 17: An Evening with Old Friends
CHAPTER 18: Fools Who Came to Scoff
CHAPTER 19: Sunday Lunch
CHAPTER 20: The Cemetery
CHAPTER 21: Open for Business
CHAPTER 22: A Good Idea
CHAPTER 23: An Uneasy Feeling
CHAPTER 24: Fearfully and Wonderfully Made
CHAPTER 25: The Getaway Car
CHAPTER 26: Pandora’s Box
CHAPTER 27: Unbridled Passion
CHAPTER 28: Ghosts
CHAPTER 29: Conspiracy
CHAPTER 30: The Calm Before
CHAPTER 31: The Ides of March
CHAPTER 32: The Third Degree
CHAPTER 33: An Interesting Discovery
CHAPTER 34: Unexpected
CHAPTER 35: Connie Knew
CHAPTER 36: An Old Secret
CHAPTER 37: Time Capsule
CHAPTER 38: Every Branch That Bears Fruit
CHAPTER 39: A Good Man’s Story
CHAPTER 40: The Stars Align
CHAPTER 41: The Prom
CHAPTER 42: Sins of the Fathers
CHAPTER 43: Birthday
CHAPTER 44: Finding the Words
CHAPTER 45: The Graduation Speech
CHAPTER 46: The Words
CHAPTER 47: The Garden
CHAPTER 48: Celebration
POSTLUDE
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Readers Guide
This book is dedicated to my father-in-law,
Lloyd George Hartly Bardowell.
A gentle servant of God and man,
he never failed to give his best to each shining hour.
How doth the little busy Bee
Improve each shining Hour
And gather Honey all the day
From every opening Flower. . . .
In Books, or Work, or healthful Play,
Let my first Years be passed,
That I may give for every Day
Some good Account at last.
—“How Doth the Little Busy Bee” by Isaac Watts
And the floors shall be full of
wheat,
And the vats shall overflow with new wine and oil.
I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.
—Joel 2:24–25
PRELUDE
Watervalley, Tennessee
April 28, 1944
The grass was taller here, moist and cool in the dark April night, only a few sloping steps away from the road. He would rest for a while, keeping his hand pressed firmly over the small bullet hole above his right hip. But the handkerchief . . . the handkerchief was getting soaked.
“It must have been a low-caliber pistol,” he whispered. “Perhaps a twenty-two.” It was only a small wound, barely penetrating the soft tissue.
He had been running. His suit was drenched with sweat. As he lay in the fresh, delicate grass, steam rose from him and drifted elusively into the soft air. He breathed in great heaving gasps, staring up into the vast, silent sky, an eternal canopy pulsing with a million radiant stars.
It was the telegram. He had come back for the telegram. He’d thought it was with everything else. But when he’d buried the box, he hadn’t found it.
In his agony, he whispered softly: “Oh Elise; dear, precious Elise.” He would tell her everything. Explain everything. His mind drifted. His eyes wanted to close. Then, down the far reaches of the road toward town, he heard the long, slow wail of a police siren. He stiffened. His thoughts raced. They were coming. Someone at one of the farmhouses must have heard the gunshot. He flattened himself deeper into the tall grass.
The car blew past, flying headlong toward the lake and stopping in the distance, the headlights pouring across the bandstand. No one had seen him. He would have to wait before moving again.
Once more he stared briefly into the infinite heavens. But now the stars were fading. “Elise; darling, beloved Elise. I will . . . I will tell you . . .” His breathing slowed. His eyes were surrendering. They grew tired, heavy, and in his delirium, he spoke tenderly, sliding into the distant language of his childhood. “I will tell you . . . über die Diamanten.”
I will tell you about the diamonds.
CHAPTER 1
Estelle
As I approached, I could see that getting past her was going to be difficult. The woman, bless her heart, was large, blocking part of the grocery aisle. Her askew and drifting cart was barricading the rest of it.
She seemed lost to another world, intensely focused on a midshelf item. And there was something about the red spandex covering her lower half that was difficult to ignore. Even though her vibrant and oversized Christmas-themed sweater hung sloppily past her considerable hips, the spandex was clearly not the most complementary fashion choice, like memory foam that had lost its memory. For anywhere in the South, and especially for here in Watervalley, Tennessee, the outfit took unabashed flamboyance to a new level. Moreover, although the scent was pleasant, she had apparently chosen to marinate herself in perfume.
Absorbed in the moment, she was oblivious to my presence. I was about to utter a simple “excuse me” when suddenly the woman bolted upright. She jerked violently with a convulsion that seemed to start at her ankles and rippled viciously up through her entire body, ending with a fierce shuddering of her head and hands.
“Sweet Jesus,” she exhorted, “that was a big one!” She took a deep breath, regaining herself. After a stunned moment, my doctor instincts kicked in.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
I had startled her, if that was possible given what I had just witnessed, and she gasped lightly. Then just as quickly she responded with radiant animation.
“Oh, hi, sugar! I did not see you standing there.”
“Ma’am, do you need to sit down?”
She smiled broadly and flipped her hand airily toward me. “No, no, no, I’m fine, sweetie. I was just having one of my moments.” I gauged her to be about fifty and despite her robust size she had a lively, pretty face with near perfect chocolate brown skin. She wore no shortage of holiday-colored bracelets and beads and ornate earrings, all of which were adventurous by Watervalley standards but just short of gaudy. And despite her gushy delivery she spoke with a subtle articulation that wasn’t the norm for around here. It had definitely been molded in an urban setting.
She reclaimed her wandering shopping cart and smiled warmly at me again, speaking with another quick gesture of her hand. “You have a nice day!” Then with an emphatic, cheery nod she proclaimed, “Happy holidays,” and was off.
I returned the smile and nodded cautiously. “And you as well.”
She continued at a leisurely pace down the aisle. I paused for a few moments to give her some distance. But after five or so steps, she once again halted and stood straight up at rigid attention with her entire body quaking and shuddering so violently that she rattled her grocery cart.
“Sweet heavens!” she announced in a loud voice.
I immediately left my own cart and dashed to her side. “Ma’am, something’s definitely not right here. I’m a doctor. Are you having some kind of seizure?”
She regained possession of herself, and regarded me with the same engaged, bright face. “Goodness, sugar, are you Dr. Bradford? I have heard just so many wonderful things about you.”
“Well, yes, I am Luke Bradford, but right now, ma’am, I’m more concerned about you. You seem to be having some kind of neurologic episode. By chance are you epileptic?”
She dipped her head, pursing her lips in an adoring smile. “Listen to you. Aren’t you just the sweetest? No, honey, I’m not epileptic. It’s just my silly pacemaker. Sometimes it gets a mind of its own and shocks me for no reason. It usually quits after two or three times. So I’m fine, just fine.”
“Ma’am, if the ICD on your pacemaker is shocking you, it may mean that your heart is in a lethal rhythm. I think we need to get you over to the clinic.” Numerous times in my brief medical career I had had to deal with patients in cardiac arrest. But the heroics needed to care for someone in remote Watervalley made this situation an absolute adrenaline shot. This lady needed critical medical attention, and fast.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can tell when I’m tachycardic because my hair tingles.” She gave a light pat to her head and increased the wattage of her smile.
“Well, you may be right, but I still think it best to get you over to the clinic immediately. We have a pacemaker programmer and I can analyze yours in a matter of minutes.”
She studied me for a brief moment with no break in her effervescent smile. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “Dr. Bradford, it’s really not necessary. But something tells me you’re not giving up on this, are you?”
I grinned, shaking my head.
She exhaled in resignation. “Well, okay. If you insist. So look, I’ve got four more things on my list. Let me just grab those and I can follow you over there.”
I stood dumbfounded. Given the gravity of what was happening to her, this suggestion left me incredulous. “Ma’am, I was actually considering calling the EMTs and having you taken to the clinic right away.”
Once again she flipped her hand at me in dismissal. “Oh, sugar, it is not worth that much trouble. Just let me grab these few items and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
Despite what I considered to be a potential disaster, it was clear that I was not going to win this part of the argument. I sought compromise. “Okay, I’ll help you round up what’s left on your list and then you can ride with me over to the clinic.”
She folded her arms, giving me a look of complete adoration. Her words began in a high pitch of inquiry and then descended lower. “Really? You’re willing to do that? Well, darling, if that’s the case, then you may need to pucker up ’cause I might be laying a little bit of heaven on you.”
I paused, slightly taken aback. “Well, thanks. But I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” I wasn’t certain what to make of that comment or of this incr
edibly colorful, unreserved woman. She was patently unconcerned and, admittedly, was showing no symptoms of cardiac distress. “So, tell me what things you need,” I said.
I collected the last few items on her list and met up with her in the checkout line. Wanting to move quickly, I grabbed her bags and headed for the door. But the woman had other ideas. Her top pace was more of a saunter and her jovial manner was a clear indicator that she saw no urgency in the situation. With pained effort I bridled my steps to keep even with her. Meanwhile, she was talking nonstop about how happy she was to be back in Watervalley, and about the warm day, and about starting a new business, and occasionally injecting some adoring commentary about how kind I was being. Truthfully, I felt more duty-bound than kind. As the only doctor in Watervalley, I knew full well that this woman’s ill health was mine to deal with, either now or later.
Impatiently I walked toward my old Corolla. But as we neared, she spoke up. “Oh, that’s my car next to yours. Do you want to just take it?” Beside my shabby Corolla was parked a late-model BMW with a license plate that read “Bonbon1.”
Driving her car threw too many variables in the mix, so I insisted that we take mine. I tossed her few bags of groceries into the backseat and opened the passenger door, only now realizing that my pocket-sized car might be an uncommonly awkward fit for a woman of her heft. To ease the process, I took her hand and arm to help her squeeze in. With some effort she maneuvered into the front seat and swung both feet inside.
I was just about to release her when a lightning bolt jolted me to attention and zipped up my arm. The world went black.
When I awoke, I was seeing double, lying with my back on the pavement and my face pointed skyward. The large woman was peering over me, but she had two faces. One was leering at me with scornful disdain while the other regarded me with a wide-eyed look of innocent anticipation. Then I realized I wasn’t seeing double. Standing above me were none other than Connie Thompson, my devoted, critical, and—ironically—wealthy housekeeper, and beside her, the walking Christmas ornament lady from the grocery store. Against the clear blue midday December sky, they looked like twins.
