COURTNEY WALSH
A Sweethaven Summer
ISBN 13: 978-0-8249-4519-0
Published by Guideposts
16 East 34th Street
New York, New York 10016
Guideposts.org
Copyright © 2012 by Courtney Walsh. All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company
2630 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 100
Nashville, TN 37214
Guideposts and Ideals are registered trademarks of Guideposts.
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group www.mullerhaus.net
Cover photo by Shutterstock
Printed and bound in the United States of America
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DEDICATION
For my mom, my cheerleader and champion. Thank you for sharing with me a passion for books, and thank you for always believing in me.
And for my dad, who, upon hearing my plan to study theater in college said, “You really should do something with your writing.” I thought, “What writing?” And then went on to discover what God had already shown him. Thank you for being an example of wisdom and common sense…and for praying the boys away from me all those years. (I got a good one!)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing your first novel can be a daunting task. The main thing I’ve learned is that it takes a small army, and fortunately, I have a great team on my side. I would like to thank the following people for the key roles they played in getting this book in print. What would I do without you?
My husband, Adam. You are, without a doubt, my favorite person in the world. I am inspired by your creativity and grateful for your willingness to read my work even though you’re not “my target audience.” You support me, stabilize me, believe in me, love me, and put up with me. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
Sophia, Ethan, and Sam. You remind me what’s really important, share in the excitement of this journey, and make me smile every single day. God has big plans for you. I’m so blessed to be your mom.
My amazing agent, Sandra Bishop, who believed in me in the most inspiring way. I owe so much to you, my friend. Thank you for putting up with my neurosis.
Deborah Raney (my Deb), my mentor and my friend. I know God put you in my life at the most perfect time (and in the funniest way), and I thank Him every day for you.
My wonderful friends and critique partners who’ve read various incarnations of this story: Gwen Stewart, Carla Stewart, Mindy Rogers, Ronnie Johnson, and Cindy Fassler (Mom). Your feedback, encouragement, and thoughtfulness are so greatly appreciated.
Rachel Hauck, always encouraging. Thank you for not laughing when you read the first draft.
Dr. David and Beth Schleicher, whose generosity introduced me to the cottage community of Michigan, and in turn, gave birth to this story in the first place. Oh, and thank you for delivering my babies.
Jeane Wynn. What can I say? Your friendship is a beautiful blessing.
Beth Adams and Lindsay Guzzardo, two incredible editors who took a shot on a newbie. It has been pure joy working with you and shaping these books from day one! Thank you for your patience, your attention to detail, and your excitement for this novel.
Rachel Meisel. I am so thankful for the time and care you’ve put into this novel. Working with you has been a highlight of this entire process. Thank you.
Dianne Craig. They say, “To teach is to touch a life.” It’s so true. Sixth grade was a long time ago, but your encouragement and belief in me at that pivotal time in my life has stuck with me all these years. Thank you.
And of course, my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Thank You for putting this dream inside me and then making it come true. Discovering my purpose and Your plan for my life has been among my greatest joys. I am most blessed to be Your daughter.
PRAISE FOR A SWEETHAVEN SUMMER
“This book captivated me from the first paragraphs. Bittersweet memories, long-kept secrets, the timeless friendships of women—and a touch of sweet romance. Beautifully written and peopled with characters who became my friends, this debut novel is one for my keeper shelf—and, I hope, the first of many to come from Courtney Walsh’s pen.”
—DEBORAH RANEY, award-winning author of the Hanover Falls series and Love Finds You in Madison County, Iowa (2012)
“A Sweethaven Summer is a stunning debut. I fell in love with the characters and the charming lakeside town of Sweethaven and didn’t want to leave. With a voice that sparkles, Courtney Walsh captured my heart in this tender story of forgiveness and new beginnings. It’s certainly a great beginning for this talented author.”
—CARLA STEWART, award-winning author of Chasing Lilacs and Broken Wings
“A Sweethaven Summer is a sweet debut, filled with characters whose hopes, dreams, and regrets are relevant and relatable. A great book club read!”
—SUSAN MEISSNER, author of The Shape of Mercy
“Courtney Walsh has created a town I want to live in. From the first chapter, the characters became my friends, jumping off the page and into my heart. I didn’t want it to end. A masterful word painting, A Sweethaven Summer is a story of loss, regret, forgiveness, and restoration. Novel Rocket and I give it our highest recommendation. It’s a 5-star must-read.”
—ANE MULLIGAN, senior editor, Novel Rocket
“This is a heart-tugging story of hope amid loss, and ultimately grace and acceptance. Novelist Courtney Walsh weaves a captivating tale that taps into the universal desire for belonging and happiness. This delightful debut novel has a bit of mystery, a bit of romance, a beautiful setting, and an intriguing cast of characters. A lovely, satisfying read!”
—MEGAN DIMARIA,, author of Searching for Spice
“A Sweethaven Summer shines with moments of hope and tenderness. With interesting characters, a delightful setting, and a compelling plot, this is one of those stories that stays with you—like the precious pages of a scrapbook. Even after the story ended, I found myself wanting to visit Sweethaven again.”
—TINA ANN FORKNER, author of Rose House and Ruby Among Us
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
PROLOGUE
April 1987
When Suzanne hugged the oversized scrapbook to her chest, a whirlwind of memories flittered by like leaves kicked up in an autumn breeze. Lumpy and full after five years, the square book had become priceless to her. Photos and ticket stubs, notes scribbled on scratch paper—they’d all been attached inside the pages of that album every summer since eighth grade.
She could almost smell the air, heated by the crisp summer sun. If she closed her eyes, she could conjure the wooden planks of the dock stretching out into Lake Michigan, covered by a deep blue sky. The lighthouse she’d painted every year since she was twelve still showed up in her daydreams.
Would her secret taint those memories?
She called Jane, Lila, and Meghan her very best friends, yet even they didn’t know the secret she’d carried with her on the road out of town.
The pages in front of her begged her to come clean—to tell the truth, after all this time. After the months of surface phone calls and brief letters—after pretending everything was okay. But scrap
booking a lie would defile the book. They’d all written their confessions. They’d all been honest.
Now, as she stared at the pages, she knew it was time to tell the truth. She flipped past Jane’s admission that she hated her body and Lila’s painful recounting of a relationship with an indifferent mother. Meg’s scrawling handwriting confided her horror at being the only nondrinker at a high school drinking party last summer. She’d gone with a boy and sipped the same beer the entire night because she was afraid of getting drunk. Suzanne smiled as she read the tiny notes in the margins of happy pages.
Confessions.
They were all such good girls.
All except Suzanne.
These were their secrets. They’d shared them with her on the pages of this journal they’d kept. But they weren’t kids anymore—and even their darkest secrets didn’t compare to the bombshell Suzanne was about to drop.
The scrapbook had been her idea. She’d always been the artist, after all. But now, looking at the blank page in front of her, she wished she’d never made the suggestion. She had been so young, how could she have known it would come to this?
She set down the book and grabbed her art supplies from the bin behind her desk. She removed the lid, and the welcoming colors of the paint greeted her. She’d always been happiest when she was painting. Maybe that’s why she thought a scrapbook was a good idea. A book to chronicle their summers in Sweethaven. A way to remember all that they’d experienced—to save the memories.
She flipped through the first summer’s pages. Jane’s tribute to Flashdance and Lila’s layout about how she imagined “She’s Got a Way” was written for her. Silly, meaningless tidbits that captured history and the innocence they’d all lost since then. As the years went on and the four of them grew up, the entries became more detailed. More heartfelt. They grew closer every summer, so the journal became more private. Full of admissions of their true feelings. Their deepest secrets. Their biggest dreams.
Their scrapbooking parties became tradition at the end of August. Armed with stacks of photos they’d each taken, they overtook Meghan’s kitchen table for an entire weekend and relived the high and low points the previous months had brought.
Childhood dreams radiated from the pages in her hand. Dreams that weren’t likely to come true now. Still, Suzanne carried a sliver of hope in her pocket.
It had been eight months since she’d seen her friends. She’d send the scrapbook to Jane, who would stash it in the bottom of her suitcase and bring it with her when she arrived in Sweethaven at the beginning of June.
Suzanne knew she needed to be truthful in this entry. Her last entry. The one that explained why she wasn’t coming back. Why she had to stay hidden. Why her parents had all but locked her in her bedroom, making up excuses as to her whereabouts.
Like Quasimodo in the Bell Tower, Suzanne was an outcast. And even God couldn’t really love an outcast.
But after eight months, she hoped—she prayed—that her friends could. At least one of them. She knew she could make it if she had just one true friend.
Suzanne scanned her paints until she found a small bottle of hazy blue and held it in her hand. She flipped through a few sheets of paper and settled on five different patterns, then cut them into small blocks and glued them to the blank page. Once the squares were in place, she diluted her paint with a few drops of water and began brushing a thin coat over the paper so the patterns showed through. If only she could swipe such a hazy covering over her secrets.
She stood and walked across the room, then positioned herself in front of the oversized, full-length mirror. She held her awkward Polaroid camera midair in hopes of capturing her own reflection.
Snap. Whirr. The camera spit the shiny, wet photo from the thin slot at its bottom and into her hand. She shook it back and forth until finally the image appeared. She stared at the girl in the photo. Seventeen years old. So much hope. Such big dreams. Dreams of being a real artist. Dreams of galleries and classes and a love story she could tell to curly-headed grandchildren.
Her sense of entitlement to wish for such things had dwindled. The path before her—a path she’d created—didn’t give her the right to happy dreams and girlish wishes.
Using double-stick tape, she adhered the photo to the page she’d just painted. Beside it, she pressed down a solid-colored square, then used a fine-tipped black marker to write her thoughts.
For obvious reasons my parents are forbidding me to come back to Sweethaven this summer. The way they’re talking, I may never be allowed to come back. Or leave my room. It’s okay because I turn eighteen in a few months and then they can’t keep me locked in the house anymore.
I’ve embarrassed them. I’ve shamed them. I’ve let you all down. I might not be able to keep going with the scrapbook, but you guys keep it up, okay? Don’t let me ruin something that’s been so good for all of us.
I don’t know what I’m going to do, but as soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know. I promise.
I love you guys, and I’ll never forget our summers in Sweethaven. I’ll write when I can.
Love,
Suzanne
She held the page in the air and decided it needed something extra. Using a detail brush, she added pink curlicues and orange flowers to the edges of the page. By the time she was done, she was quite happy with her entry. Happy with everything except what she had to write. Happy with everything except the protruding belly on the girl in the photo.
ONE
Campbell
The church smelled like flowers and dead people. Dead person. Just one. Her mom. The visitation the night before had sent her into an unexpected daze. She’d smiled. Thanked people for coming. Pretended she’d be okay.
She stood at the back of the sanctuary, her black skirt clinging to her waist and thighs and then flaring out slightly. Mom had always liked that skirt. She’d even borrowed it once to go on a date. One of the few Campbell had ever known her mother to agree to. It had always been just the two of them—and Mom seemed okay with that. Now, though, Campbell wondered if her mom would’ve fought harder if she’d had someone in her life. Would she still be dead if she’d had more to live for?
Surely a strong-willed daughter wasn’t enough.
Inside, her anger wadded tight at the injustice she’d suffered, losing her mother when neither of them was ready for it.
Orphaned at twenty-four.
It had only been a week ago that Mom had called and asked her to come over.
“I have some things I want to talk to you about, hon.”
Campbell could tell by her tone—a tone that radiated finality—that Mom was squaring things away. Getting those proverbial ducks in a row. Campbell almost refused to go. She’d argued she had to work—do laundry—do anything but talk with her mother about the inevitable.
About her death.
But Mom had one-upped her. “We need to talk about your father.”
The words hung between them as Campbell tried to think of a response.
Mom had refused to talk about her dad, only saying they were better off this way, and despite their close relationship, Campbell had always wondered about him. Who was he? Where was he? Did he know about her?
Campbell pushed Mom’s front door open, expecting the delicious aroma of hazelnut coffee and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Instantly, she knew something was wrong. She called out to her mom but was met with silence.
“Mom?” She called her name again, then walked through the living room and into the kitchen where she saw her mother, lying still on the hardwood floor, her legs bent in an unnatural position, her arms limp at her sides.
“Mom!” Campbell dropped to the floor beside her and found only a wisp of breath on her lips.
Several minutes later, Campbell watched as the paramedics hoisted her mother onto a stretcher and then put her in the back of the ambulance, unsure of how or when she’d even managed to dial 911. Before he closed the door, one of the men gestured for her
to get in. She did, almost robotically. Moving as though in slow motion, she braced herself for the ride to the hospital.
For days, Campbell begged her mom to wake up. Begged her to come back so they could have that conversation over coffee. She had too many questions for Mom to really be gone.
Now, she’d never know what Mom planned to tell her about her father.
Campbell shook the thoughts away and perused the sanctuary, astonished by the number of people who had turned out to pay their respects. The entire staff of Liberty East High School now sat solemnly in the pews. Church friends. Former students. Even the mail carrier who had delivered their mail as far back as Campbell could remember sat on an aisle, his head bowed in reverence as he waited for the service to start.
So many people whose lives had somehow been touched by her mother.
“You wouldn’t believe this if you saw it, Mom,” Campbell whispered under her breath.
Not wanting to make small talk, she pretended to be interested in the program. She wanted to regain her composure. Sometimes the smallest thought popped into her mind, and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears. A glance toward the front of the sanctuary told her this wasn’t a dream. No, she actually stood there, in the back of the church, waiting for her mother’s funeral service to start.
Pastor Scott walked through the foyer and stopped beside her. His kind eyes were familiar after so many years in his church. Even as a rebellious teen when she’d begged to sleep in, her mother had insisted on their going to service. In the end, her faith hadn’t done her any good. God couldn’t heal Mom. Or wouldn’t heal her. And worse, He’d stolen her away at the most inopportune time.
While Campbell hadn’t felt ready to finalize things with Mom, she had to admit, she had questions. Not only about her father’s identity, but about Mom’s childhood—her past. Things Mom had always kept to herself. Things Campbell had stopped asking about for fear of hurting her.
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