Between Heaven and Texas
Page 1
Also by Marie Bostwick
Ties That Bind (Cobbled Court Quilts #5)
Threading the Needle (Cobbled Court Quilts #4)
A Thread So Thin (Cobbled Court Quilts #3)
A Thread of Truth (Cobbled Court Quilts #2)
A Single Thread (Cobbled Court Quilts #1)
On Wings of the Morning
River’s Edge
Fields of Gold
“The Presents of Angels” in Snow Angels
“A High-Kicking Christmas” in Comfort and Joy
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Between Heaven and Texas
MARIE BOSTWICK
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Marie Bostwick
Title Page
With Thanks
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
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Copyright Page
With Thanks
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: Writing a book is a team sport. This being the case, I extend my sincere and heartfelt thanks to . . .
The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts (www.vcca.com), a very special place that fuels the creative flame of artists in every medium and where a large portion of this book was written.
Joyce Ely and Sarah Ely, of JEllen’s House of Fabric in Lyndhurst, Ohio, for inviting me into your lives and helping me to more accurately and meaningfully articulate the experience of people with Down syndrome and their parents. You are heroes to me and so many other people. God bless you both.
My darling and wise big sister, Donna Gomer, as well as Michael Kilty, the most interesting farmer I know, for their insight and enlightenment on matters of agriculture and animal husbandry. You were both an enormous help to me.
Another darling and wise big sister, Betty Walsh, who has raised nagging with love to an art form and without whom I’d probably never even have finished writing a letter, let alone eleven books. This is not an exaggeration.
My editor, Audrey LaFehr . . . whatever would have become of me if you hadn’t seen something in my work that others had overlooked all those years ago? I don’t even want to imagine. Thank you for that and for all the cheerleading, championing, and wise counsel you’ve offered in the years since. And most especially for your keen insights, which helped make this a book we can both be proud of.
Liza Dawson, a shining beacon in the firmament of literary agents, and, on so many occasions, my north star. You keep me calm and on course, you push me forward, and guide me home, and always with kindness, humor, integrity, and exactly the right amount of grit. You are the author whisperer, Missus D. You truly are.
And speaking of teams, to the incredible people at Kensington Publishing: Laurie Parkin, Lesleigh Irish-Underwood, Karen Auerbach, Vida Engstrand, Alexandra Nicolajsen, Meryl Earl, Paula Reedy, Kristine Mills-Noble, Martin Biro, and the entire sales division, as well as everyone involved in production, marketing, administration, accounting . . . thank you so much for all you do to help turn an idea and some loose sheets of paper into that most precious of objects, a book.
The writers—Dorothea Benton Frank, Robyn Carr, Kristan Higgins, and Lauren Lipton—for taking time to read the early manuscript and being so generous with your feedback. I took your observations to heart, and it has made all the difference.
And, of course . . .
The readers. In choosing this book, you have honored me with the most finite and valuable asset in your possession: your time. Please know how grateful I am for your ongoing support and encouragement. My very best wishes and humble thanks to each and every one of you.
Marie
Gentle Reader,
Greetings! And welcome to Too Much, Texas, my new favorite spot in the landscape of imagination.
Embarking on a new series of books is something like vacationing in a foreign country. The anticipation of a new adventure is thrilling, but also a little nerve-racking. What if you don’t like the people? The food? The tour guide? Maybe you should have gone to the beach instead. After all, you already know you like the beach. Can this new journey possibly measure up to those you’ve taken and enjoyed in the past?
The answer, I have discovered, is yes. Yes, it can.
Some of you have accompanied me on one, or two, or even five trips to the fictional village of New Bern, Connecticut, the setting for my Cobbled Court Quilts novels, and have fallen in love with that town and those characters. Some of you are reading one of my books for the first time. Whichever category you fall into, longtime reader or rookie, I can assure you that a trip to Too Much, Texas, is absolutely worth taking—just as good as the beach, but different.
After writing five well-received Cobbled Court Quilts novels, some might wonder what made me take this sudden detour to Texas (don’t worry, Gentle Reader, it is a detour. I’m already working on my next Cobbled Court Quilts novel). The answer is easy: Mary Dell made me do it.
From the first moment Mary Dell Templeton—Evelyn Dixon’s best friend from her old life in Texas—walked onto the stage of my first Cobbled Court Quilts novel, A Single Thread (actually, make that barreled onto the stage: Mary Dell knows how to make an entrance!), I knew I wanted to write more about her. She is my absolutely favorite character—funny, unflappable, optimistic, loyal, industrious, creative, and confident, with a style all her own and a heart as big as all Texas. And if you’ve ever been to Texas, you know just how big that is!
If you’ve ever lived in Texas, as I have at various times in my life, you know that list of adjectives could just as easily be applied to the Lone Star State itself. I guess that’s what makes Mary Dell so compelling a character: She really is a microcosm of the state that gave her birth. Just as there’s no state in the Union quite like Texas, there’s no character in my books quite like Mary Dell Templeton.
And when you bring all that personality to the page, then add a supporting cast of characters, cowboys, and quilters—well, all I can tell you is that Mary Dell got herself involved in adventures that surprised even me.
Blessings,
Marie Bostwick
P.S. As has been the case with many of the Cobbled Court Quilts novels, my dear friend and partner in crime and fabric collecting, Deb Tucker, has designed some companion patterns for this book. By the time you are reading this, my registered Reading Friends will be able to download one (and possibly two) new, free patterns at www.mariebostwick.com, not to mention the four free patterns from previous books, designed by Deb Tucker and another friend and fabulous quilter, Chris Boersma Smith.
Also, Deb Tucker has designed a simply beautiful version of the Lone Star project that Mary Dell speaks of near the end of the book. (I saw it come together in my quilting studio just last weekend, and it is amazing!) That pattern and several other companion patterns for my books are available on her website, www.studio180design.net.
P.P.S. I always enjoy connecting with readers, and computers make this easier than ever. You can find me on Facebook and Twitter almost every day of the week (but don’t tell my family—I’ve convinced them that every time I am on the computer, I’m writing. Every single time). You can also write to me via my website, www.mariebostwick.com, or by taking pen in hand and sending a letter to:
Marie Bostwick
P.O. Box 488
Thomaston, CT 06778
CHAPTER 1
Too Much, Texas
1970
Nineteen-year-old Mary Dell Templeton pushed her white lace veil away from her face, knelt down in front of the toilet, and seriously considered vomiting.
She could hear the staccato tapping of her mother’s high heels coming down the hallway and reached up to click over the lock only a moment before Taffy tried the knob and then started hammering on the door.
“Mary Dell? Open the door. I will not put up with any of your nonsense today, young lady. Cousin Organza only knows three songs on the piano, and she’s played them through four times already. People are starting to notice. Do not embarrass me in front of half the town, young lady!”
Taffy Templeton paused, then rattled the knob again. “Mary Dell? Do you hear me? You unlock that door and come out here right now!”
Mary Dell closed her eyes and leaned down, resting her forehead on the cool curve of the porcelain seat. “I can’t. I feel sick.”
Taffy made an exasperated sound. “Well, of course you feel sick. It’s your wedding day. What did you expect?”
It was a fair question.
What in the world was she doing, marrying Donny Bebee? When he’d proposed, she’d immediately said yes, relieved that her problems had been so easily solved by uttering that one little word. But what if marrying Donny wasn’t the solution it seemed to be? What if she was just exchanging one set of problems for another? She barely knew Donny. Four months ago, she’d never even heard his name.
Another wave of nausea hit her as she realized that even now, she didn’t know his middle name. Or if he even had a middle name! How could she possibly promise to love, honor, and cherish until death did them part a man whose middle name was a mystery to her?
Before she’d met Donny, she was unattached and content to remain that way for the foreseeable future. Now she was engaged, nauseous, and crouched in front of the commode in a wedding dress, minutes away from either becoming Mrs. Donald Middle-Name-Unknown Bebee or busting through the bathroom door, knocking down her mother, and making a run for the nearest pickup truck and the Mexican border.
How had she gotten herself into this mess?
CHAPTER 2
As Mary Dell’s maternal aunt, Miss Velvet Tudmore, the executive director of the Too Much Historical Society, would tell you, it is impossible to separate the present and future from the history that precedes it. So to understand how Mary Dell Templeton came to lock herself in the bathroom on her wedding day, you have to take a look back through her personal and family history and, more importantly, the history of the town.
Like a lot of towns in that part of the state, there appears to be no geographic or economic reason to explain the existence of Too Much, Texas. Ninety-five miles slightly southeast of Dallas, it simply rises out of the scrubby brown landscape as though someone of great stubbornness, fortitude, or both simply woke up one day and decided to build a town, like Moses striking a rock and summoning forth water in the desert. According to legend and Miss Velvet, that’s pretty much how it happened.
In October of 1962, Mary Dell Templeton and her twin sister, Lydia Dale, along with the rest of the fifth graders of Sam Houston Elementary, took a field trip to the historical society to learn about the origins of Too Much. It was an important rite of passage, one that the town’s youngest citizens had taken part in for many years.
The day began with a tour of the society’s collection of artifacts, housed in the basement of the courthouse, a mishmash of memorabilia that included a rusty hand plow; a menu from the Blue Bonnet Café signed by Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow, who stopped in for banana cream pie before robbing the First Reliable Bank; the journal of Justine Tudmore Plank, Too Much’s most famous citizen, who wrote a series of children’s books in the 1920s; a pine pulpit that emerged unscathed from the flames when the First Baptist Church burned to the ground in 1912; a wheel and axle from a pioneer wagon; and the black leather bag filled with rusty surgical instruments and glass bottles bearing labels for sterile catgut and chloroform that once belonged to the town’s first licensed physician.
After the tour, Miss Velvet shepherded the children into the town square, ordering them to form a half circle in front of a bronze statue of a slightly scowling woman dressed in pioneer garb with her arms crossed defiantly over her chest. Then she related the tale of Too Much’s founding mother, Flagadine Tudmore, just as she had learned it from her mother, who had heard it from her mother, and so on.
“When Texas was still a republic, George and Flagadine Tudmore and their four children set out from Arkansas to Austin with the intention of claiming the six hundred and forty acres of land that was being offered to new settlers. The journey was hard and long, and George, who never was much of a planner, didn’t start off until high summer. By the time the Tudmores reached the Texas border, the temperatures had been above one hundred for twenty-two days running, and the family’s water supply was dangerously low.
“On the seventeenth night of August, 1840, George picketed his two tired, lame horses out next to a little patch of scrub near Puny Wallow—”
Without raising his hand, Jack Benny Benton interrupted. “Don’t you mean Puny Pond?”
Miss Velvet’s flinty features became even sharper as she scowled at the boy. “No. If I’d meant Puny Pond, I’d have said so. Back then it was a wallow, little more than a mud pit with a couple of inches of brown water at the bottom. Flagadine sieved out the mud and boiled it to use for drinking, bathing, and doing laundry.
“When George was hitching up the horses the next morning, Flagadine, whose thinking had been cleared mightily by rehydration and clean undergarments, grabbed the reins of the bay horse and said, ‘It’s just too much, George. Too much sun. Too much wind. Too much heat. Besides, there’s something about this place, don’t you agree? But whether you do or you don’t, this is as far as I go.’
“And George,” the old woman went on with a proud tilt to her chin, “knowing the kind of woman she was—and being the kind of man he was—figured there wasn’t any point in fighting her. He unhitched the horses while Flagadine unpacked the wagon. And that, boys and girls, is how Too Much, Texas, got its start: on the conviction of a strong-willed woman and the indolence of a handsome but shiftless man. Which,” she concluded with a sorry shake of her head, “pretty well describes the makeup of our population to this day.”
Elbowing the boy next to him, Jack Benny Benton, whose father spent hi
s days sitting on the porch at the Ice House, nursing a bottle of Lone Star and tying knots in a length of rope, asked the plain-featured old lady, “Is that why you never got married, Miss Velvet? Because the men in Too Much are too lazy?”
“Yes,” the old spinster said without a trace of irony. “Yes, it is, Jack Benny.”
When the children lined up for the walk back to school, Jack Benny Benton jockeyed for a spot behind Mary Dell and Lydia Dale. He was about to give one of Lydia Dale’s blond braids a tug when Miss Velvet’s voice rang out from behind.
“Lydia Dale! Mary Dell! Come back here for a minute.”
The two girls ran up to the old woman. “What is it, Aunt Velvet?”
Miss Velvet crouched down low and whispered urgently, “You steer clear of that Jack Benny Benton.”
“Why?” Lydia Dale asked. “He’s all right.”
“And Momma says the Bentons are richer than Midas,” Mary Dell added.
Mary Dell didn’t have a clear understanding of who Midas was, but she did understand that the Bentons, the largest and, aside from the Tudmores, oldest family in town, were rich—at least in comparison to everyone else. It wasn’t that the Bentons owned everything in Too Much, just everything that was worth owning: the Ice House, which sold more beer and whiskey than ice, the Tidee-Mart, the Texaco station, the Feed and Grain, and pretty nearly every commercial building in downtown Too Much, which gave them influence and garnered them a good income without engaging in much actual work.
It was a strange thing that in a town full of lazy men, it was the laziest line of them all that had accumulated the most wealth, but the key to the Benton fortune lay with the Benton women, who were shrewder and tougher than any of the menfolk, and not just the women who were born Bentons, but even the ones who’d married into the family. Jack Benny’s mother, Marlena, born a Pickens, was a case in point. It seemed to be part of their makeup, a trait that ran through their bloodlines. Every family has them. As a student of history, genealogy, and human relations, Velvet knew this for a fact.