by J. B. Hawker
BUNNY ELDER ADVENTURES
Complete Series
By
JB Hawker
Four Full-length Novels
in one convenient bundle
Hollow
Vain Pursuits
Seadrift
…and Something Blue
Table of Contents
BUNNY ELDER ADVENTURES
Hollow
Vain Pursuits
SEADRIFT
…AND SOMETHING BLUE
No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author.
These books are works of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Hollow
Book One, Bunny Elder Adventure Series
JB Hawker
Copyright © 2012 J.B Hawker
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10:
1479156426
ISBN-13:
978-1479156429
DEDICATION
For Ray and Neal for your inspiration and support.
Prologue
A faded black ‘56 Dodge pickup rattles over the empty lanes, carrying its two passengers slowly through the sleeping village.
Hunched over the out-sized steering wheel, the driver peers carefully from side to side, occasionally shaking his head ruefully and muttering, as though searching vainly for something.
Across the cracked brown upholstery his companion seems unmoved by these signs of distress.
Leaning awkwardly against the rusty passenger door, eyes staring fixedly ahead, he gives no response to his chauffeur’s increasing frustration.
Chapter One
All mountains and hills, fruit trees and cedars, every wild and tame animal, all reptiles and birds, come praise the Lord! – Psalm 148: 9 & 10
As dawn blushed the feathery tips of pines looming over the remote Sierra Nevada village of Clark’s Hallow, tattered wisps of night continued to scatter shadows upon the narrow lanes below.
Bunny Elder, her heart pounding, gasped for breath as she scurried along, arms and legs pumping rapidly in her urgency to reach the warmth and safety of her cottage.
Slowing to skirt a patch of thorny blackberry vines, she failed to see a vaguely human shape swaying in the lower branches of a towering sugar pine beside the path.
Head bowed against the morning chill, Bunny was startled to feel bony fingers clutching at her shoulder.
Her agile leap of fright seemed at odds with the tangle of gray curls escaping from her knitted cap.
Gasping for breath, she willed her middle-aged legs to keep up the good work and run, but they merely trembled and gave way, tumbling Bunny into the weedy grass.
Spotting the cause of her terror, she began to blush and looked around to see if there were any witnesses to her attack of foolishness.
“Why in the world do people want to decorate their yards with such nonsense?” she fumed, with more than a touch of chagrin.
“That stupid plastic Halloween skeleton nearly frightened the life out of me.”
Her disappointing over-reaction was proof she was not adjusting to single life as well as she hoped.
Brushing the dirt and leaves from her clothes, Bunny straightened her cap and attempted to retrieve her dignity as the fresh breeze sent a chorus line of autumn leaves tap dancing mockingly down the pavement beside her.
Standing as tall as her five feet one inch allowed, she marched on toward home.
“Only the first week of October and Clark’s Hallow can’t wait to decorate for Halloween,” Bunny muttered disapprovingly, while trying to recover from her spooky encounter.
Bunny was always reluctant to enter into the spirit of this particular holiday.
The celebration this year was making her more unhappy than usual.
Perhaps her recent widowhood was magnifying her customary discomfort about October’s annual glorification of hobgoblins.
Most children seemed to love Halloween with its deliciously spooky atmosphere and candy overload. But, even as a school girl, the scary bits made Bunny uncomfortable and the candy often made her sick.
Dressing-up was fun, but she never liked it when people wore masks. Even her friends and neighbors became just a little bit sinister on Halloween night.
Even now, those uneasy feelings remained.
Many years of marriage to a fundamentalist preacher introduced Bunny to the more sinister aspects of the holiday, as well.
There were tales of Satanic rituals, animal sacrifices and even more lurid devilish goings-on her late husband enjoyed railing against every October.
Looking back, it seemed to Bunny he was more animated by his anti-Halloween sermons than he ever was when preaching of God’s love.
You would almost have thought Halloween was his favorite holiday.
Instead of candy or treats, Eustace insisted on handing out comic-book-style tracts presenting the punishments of Hell to the young Trick-or-Treaters.
Children seldom returned to the Elders’ door once word got around about the sort of treats they could expect.
Bunny never liked those frightening tracts. She was sure Jesus would not have approved of them, either.
Scaring little ones seemed like bullying to Bunny.
Hadn’t Jesus said whoever hurt the least of these would have to answer to him? Well, perhaps Eustace had already had a good talking to from the Lord. Bunny hoped Jesus had not pulled any punches, either.
Her husband needed taking down a peg or two, even in the hereafter.
Bunny sometimes had trouble believing she was actually a widow.
She had resigned herself to enduring a loveless marriage until “death do us part,” without once supposing she would outlast Eustace.
Who could have imagined he would ever be so careless as to drive off a mountainside?
Continuing to walk the, now sun-dappled streets, Bunny observed many houses with traditional jack-o-lanterns, black cats and large inflatable spooks on display.
Clark’s Hallow folks liked to celebrate this first event of the autumn holiday season in a very big way.
City founder, Rev. Evander Clark, would be saddened to see how the modern-day residents of “Hallowed Ground,” as he named it, approached the eve of All Saints Day.
Most of the current population did not even know the town began as a religious retreat. Many assumed the name was an early settler’s misspelling of Clark’s Hollow, because it nestled snugly in a small valley between northern California mountains.
Returning to her home, Bunny stepped into the shabby living room, draped her faded green corduroy jacket over the back of an equally faded chintz-covered chair and touched a match to the paper and kindling waiting in the rustic stone fireplace.
“Ah, that’s better,” she sighed, and turned to warm her back at the blaze.
Living in a series of poorly heated parsonages taught Bunny to appreciate a working fireplace. She adored a real wood fire. Smiling at the dancing flames flaring up around the logs, she admitted to herself the fireplace was the main reason she chose this small rental house after Eustace’s inexplicable accident.
If the deacons had not asked her to vacate the church-owned house when they did, she supposed she mig
ht have stayed on in the drafty parsonage indefinitely, just from inertia.
“This house is so much cozier,” she murmured approvingly of the tiny Craftsman-style bungalow she now called home.
Bunny could feel almost grateful to the church board for her hasty eviction notice. Almost.
The past few months since Eustace’s mysterious death had been painful for Bunny.
She was ashamed to admit it, but after the initial shock, her relief was greater than her grief.
Life with Eustace had been disappointing right from the start.
Although he was never very affectionate, Bunny supposed once they married, his coldly formal manner would change towards her.
In her naivety, she even supposed it to be the result of Eustace’s desire, as a man of the cloth, to protect them both from succumbing to premarital temptation.
Eventually, she was forced to accept a cold formality was the norm for her husband.
Nevertheless, since his death she felt disoriented and confused by her sudden change in circumstances.
When the head of the deacon board came to her one afternoon, not long after the funeral, and explained there was a new pastor coming who wanted to move into the parsonage right away, Bunny had been stunned.
Churches seldom move with such speed when replacing a minister, especially after a pastor’s tragic, accidental death.
Bunny was too nonplussed to protest, however, and immediately began packing up and looking for a new home.
Like most small mountain towns, Clark’s Hallow had a limited supply of affordable rentals. Bunny could have had her pick of any number of elegant summer cabins and chalets, but few homes fitting into her newly restricted budget.
Eustace never believed in financial security, preferring to outspokenly and ostentatiously trust in God’s provision. His philosophy precluded life insurance. It was his position purchasing a policy would have shown a lack of faith, undermining his effectiveness as a pastor.
That conviction certainly undermined Bunny’s effectiveness at paying the bills, now.
She knew she would have to start looking for a job soon, but in the meantime, Bunny relished her unaccustomed freedom. It was freedom to arise early for a long, cold walk, followed by an indulgent cup of hot cinnamon mocha, a cozy chair and a toasty blaze.
It was a delightful novelty to be able to call her life her own.
Early in their marriage, Eustace instructed Bunny that the life of a pastor’s wife belongs first to God, then to her husband and family, then to the congregation.
He failed to mention his belief that if any time remained in her day, it would mean she was not doing enough for the others.
She learned that part from experience.
Bunny was a Christian before marrying Eustace.
She was a believer, not just a “professional Christian” like some ministers’ wives she had known, and she sincerely wanted to please God, but somehow it seemed to mean pleasing Eustace and every member of the congregation, first.
She looked forward to finding a place in the church fellowship where she could worship and serve freely and without resentment, now she was no longer the Pastor’s Wife.
Bunny had very little money of her own.
What she had saved from her housekeeping allowance would have to stretch, somehow, to provide for her needs...until God came through with a major miracle or she found a paying job, and she feared landing that job might take at least a minor miracle or two, considering her age and lack of experience outside the church.
Rising from her chair, Bunny crumpled some more old newspapers and poked them into the now smoldering fire.
The logs seemed to be a little damp this morning.
Bunny did not subscribe to the local weekly newspaper, but her sister, Jean, did and she brought Bunny her old papers from time to time. That came in handy this morning.
It took a lot more paper before the wet logs reignited.
Warming her hands before the crackling blaze, Bunny thought of her sister, and the lovely fireplace in the home she shared with her husband, Nick.
No a fire had burned in that fireplace in over ten years. Jean said it was too dirty.
Bunny felt a mess was well worth it, in exchange for the sweet aroma and snug atmosphere.
Leaving the fire, reluctantly, she left the tiny living room to rinse out her empty coffee mug in the deep sink under the window in her farm-style kitchen.
This kitchen was the largest of her cottage’s four rooms, with just enough space for the round oak table and matching sideboard she inherited from a favorite aunt.
Bunny’s cats, Betty and Veronica, began rubbing themselves around her legs in an intricate double figure eight as she spooned their favorite tuna-flavored cat food into a big brown pottery dish.
Bunny made the dish one winter when Eustace was serving a small congregation near Pierre, South Dakota.
The Pierre High School held adult evening classes to help folks get through the long winter evenings and Bunny took up pottery.
Eustace said she was wasting her time playing with mud.
“Her girls” loved their food dish, though, so it wasn’t a complete waste, after all.
Perhaps the best aspect of her nomadic life with Eustace had been the experience of living in communities all over the country.
Even so, when her husband accepted the call to become pastor of the God’s Truth Baptist Church, in her own hometown, Bunny had been delighted.
The kitchen screen door’s rusty spring squealed, its protestations followed rapidly by her sister’s cheery, “Hi, whatcha doin’, Buns?” as Jean poked her head around the solid inner door.
Jean dumped a bundle of newspapers on the kitchen counter, poured herself a cup of coffee and settled down at the round table.
“Have you heard about the contest?”
“What contest?” Bunny asked.
“The Chamber of Commerce is running a decorating contest for Halloween this year, just like the one they always do for Christmas,” Jean replied with excitement.
“I’ve already ordered some of the cutest lights and yard decorations from the television home shopping network. Wait until you see them. I’m going to get Nick to put them up as soon as they come.”
Jean had a serious relationship with the shopping networks.
Nick liked to joke that if Jean failed to call in for three nights in a row, QVC would call her.
“Are you going to try to win the contest, then, Jean?” Bunny asked.
“Oh, I don’t suppose I’ll win. There are too many really creative folks around here. Some of their decorations last year were like movie sets.”
“I thought they went too far,” replied Bunny.
“A few of the more ‘creative’ efforts last year were more like something out of a Steven King novel. There were a couple of streets I couldn’t step foot on until they changed over to Christmas decorations the week before Thanksgiving.”
“You’re just too sensitive. You always were a nervous little thing on Halloween. Always whining and crying.”
“I wouldn’t have been crying if you and Linda hadn’t left me in the dark to find my way home alone.”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Nick’s taking me to the new mall in Redding. There’s a huge “Pre-Pre-Christmas” sale on at Goldstein’s. See you.”
The screen door slammed behind her and Bunny got up and shut the inside door.
Back in the living room, Bunny put the old newspapers into a large wicker basket she kept near the hearth.
They filled it up quite nicely.
“These should start lots of fine fires for me this week,” Bunny spoke with satisfaction.
A photo on the top of the pile caught her eye.
One of the men pictured looked familiar. The tall, thin man in the photo resembled a gray-haired version of her childhood sweetheart, Max Banks.
As she studied the photo, she remembered scrawling their entwined names
all over her school notebooks.
This distinguished-looking older man with the well-trimmed mustache could never be the consuming passion of her youth.
Max, her first husband, had moved out of the area ages ago, destroying both their marriage and Bunny’s young dreams.
This man did look like an older version of Max, though.
She wondered who he was. Too bad Jean had cut the caption off when snipping out that story about her grandson.
She had shown Bunny the story and taken the clipping for her scrapbook.
“It is funny what can trigger old memories,” Bunny thought.
“I just glimpse some stranger with a vaguely familiar jut to his jaw and my mind is full of images from the remote past.”
After their painful divorce, Bunny had not allowed herself to think about Max.
It would have been all too easy to succumb to despair and loneliness. Max had been her first love and when they married just out of high school, they were both more immature than they realized.
Nevertheless, when the minister spoke the words joining them together as man and wife, it seemed to Bunny they had become a physical unit.
Max’s leaving ripped a piece out of her and left a scar that still ached from time to time.
Just like the quotation in the marriage vows, Bunny felt she had indeed been “torn asunder.”
It took years of self-discipline before she was able to think about Max in the detached and unemotional way she was doing now.
She supposed she must be over him, at last.
Still, Bunny wondered what had become of Max Banks. They had shared some sweet moments once.
“Best let sleeping dogs, even good-looking, long-lost ones, lie,” she thought.
If she remembered rightly, Max had done his share of lying, as well.
Bunny straightened the basket of papers and left the room, thinking the one thing the local weekly was good for, besides stirring memories, was lighting a good, hot fire.
