Dear Readers, Lynne
Gentry has been a dear friend for a long time. We share a love of writing
novels, and we’ve often served as a confidant and prayer warrior for each
other. I’m thrilled to share this book with you today.
Welcome back, Lynne. Tell
us about your salvation experience.
Growing up going to church every time the doors were open
gave me an understanding of religion. But it was in the wide-open spaces of a
summer camp that I came to love the Lord.
You’re planning a
writing retreat where you can only have four other authors. Who would they be
and why?
That’s a tough one. I love the strong heroines of Kate Quinn.
The romance of Becky Wade. The intriguing character arcs of Kellie Coates
Gilbert. And the heart-pounding action of Lisa Harris…and I’d squeeze you in
too, Lena.
I’d love to retreat
with all of those women. Do you have a speaking ministry? If so, tell us about
that.
My training is on the stage, so I love it whenever I have an
opportunity to stand behind a microphone and share the faithfulness of God and His
unconditional love.
What is the most
embarrassing thing that has happened to you and how did you handle it?
I am a closet perfectionist. Not long after I published Walking Shoes I began to get emails that
said the story was good but all of the typos made it hard to read. I was
mortified. Typos? How could that be? Three editors had poured over that book. Upon
further investigation, I discovered that somehow during the formatting process the
number 2 had been liberally sprinkled over the entire manuscript. In the end,
all I could do was swallow my pride, admit I’d made a mistake, and offer to
replace the glitchy manuscripts.
People are always
telling me that they’d like to write a book someday. I’m sure they do to you,
too. What would you tell someone who came up to you and said that?
Better get started. It’s a lot of work.
That’s the truth. Tell
us about the featured book.
Twenty-five years ago, the Slocum women buried their close
mother-daughter relationship in the Frio
River and went their
separate ways. Sara and Charlotte pretend their weekly long-distance call
fulfills their family obligation until Sara falls and breaks her hip. Now Charlotte must drop everything and fly to Texas. Charlotte’s short-term care-giving plans are
dashed when she realizes her aging mother needs long-term care. While Sara
struggles to regain her independence, Charlotte
grapples with the impossible task of juggling a high-pressure job, a rebellious
teenage daughter, and a slightly demented mother.
Please give us the
first page of the book.
Sara: An Independent
Mother
As usual, you’re being overly dramatic, Charlotte Ann.” I
hug the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder, stretch the cord across the
kitchen, then snag a butcher knife from the wooden block. “Putting a few dents
in a lawnmower is hardly a reason for me to give up my ranch.”
“Mother, you totaled a two-thousand-dollar riding mower!” My
daughter’s anger crackles on the line. “What if you’d been hurt?”
Contrary to Charlotte’s
insinuations, I’m not some fragile, rusty weathervane easily spun by the
changing winds that sweep through these Texas Hill Country valleys. As per the
invariant order of things, my feet have become deeply rooted in the rocky soil.
I’m attached to this land tighter than the fossils that cling to the banks of
the Frio River.
For forty-two years, I’ve been the mother. Charlotte the
child. Simple laws govern our parent-child relationship. I’ll admit, there are
rules that allow for an orderly transition of power, if that sad time should
ever come. But, I’ll not be pushed into speeding things along simply because it
suits Charlotte.
Trading roles with my daughter now would be like winter
unexpectedly giving way to fall. Buds
waiting to bloom would shrivel and die. There’d be no crops to harvest. Birds
would never head north. Nothing would ever be right again. I know, because
twenty-three years ago I was forced to go against the expected order of life.
It was a tragedy that has ruined everything.
“Mother, did you hear me?” Somewhere in Charlotte’s
aggravation, I hear the little girl I used to know, the one who sat beside me
on the piano bench…frustrated that she was having difficulty mastering “Twinkle,
Twinkle Little Star”…worried that she never would.
I shift the receiver and whack a Bartlett pear into tiny pieces. “Don’t worry,
I’ll pay you back.”
“You know this is not about the money!” Charlotte barks.
“Then why did you bring it up?” I ignore my daughter’s huge
sigh and slide a piece of fruit through the bars of my ringneck parrot’s cage.
“Here you go, Polygon.”
My bird waddles his perch shouting, “God save the Queen.”
“Loyal and smart.” I say as I wiggle the pear enticingly.
“You need more roughage in your diet, my feathered friend. Can’t have you
getting backed up again.”
“Mother, could you please stop talking to that blasted bird
and finish our conversation?”
Polygon hops off his perch, wraps his claws around my
arthritic knuckle, and begins to peck at the fruit. Touch is the sensation of
touch I miss more than conversation. Which is strange, considering the
complaints I lodged with Martin when I felt worn out by the constant pawing of
third graders. Guess that goes to show how easy it is to take something for
granted until it’s gone.
I release the fruit and Polygon waddles toward his seed dish
with a full mouth. “At least my bird
listens.”
Charlotte
sighs. “I bought the riding mower to help you. The doctor said the strain of pushing
a mower over that huge yard is putting your heart at risk.” Her continued
exasperation rattles me more than her exaggeration. “Obviously, power equipment
isn’t the answer.”
“Anyone could’ve confused all those fancy pedals.”
“You’re seventy-two, Mother.” She always manages to cite my
age before overstepping the boundaries we’ve set in place. “There’s no shame in
admitting that you can no longer keep up with three hundred acres of rugged
hill country.”
I wipe the window with the sleeve of my robe and gaze at the
pasture dotted with patches of this spring’s fading bluebonnets. “No one was
hurt.”
“This time.” The strain in her voice is as irritating as a
mandatory fire drill.
“You want me to let the place grow up around my ears?”
“Of course not.” She sighs to emphasize the stress I’m obviously
adding to her very busy day. “But since you refuse to consider a move, I have
to hire you some help.”
I bite my tongue. Silence won’t end this conversation with Charlotte, but it won’t
hurt her to believe it’s the only defense I have left.
“I’m worried about you, Mother.”
Charlotte’s
deep inhalation is my cue to take a seat because the recounting of my
shortcomings that she feels honor bound to recite has grown into a rather long
list. “In the last six months, you’ve flushed your dentures down the toilet.”
“Just the lowers.”
“You got lost on the way to town.”
“Winnie found me and hauled me back home.” I add, “Long
before dark.”
“I hate to think what would have happened if you hadn’t run
out of gas along her mail route.”
Overstated dramatics always harden my resolve. Ask any child
who was unlucky enough to have me as their teacher. “No law against trying a
change of scenery.”
“You don’t like change, Mother,” my daughter snips. “That’s
why we can’t seem to have an honest and productive conversation about your
future.”
I sink into the chair and rest my elbow on the table. “Just
because you think the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be…” I cringe at
that I’ve resorted to using slang. “…that doesn’t mean I want to leave my home
of forty-five years and move to Washington,
D.C., Charlotte Ann.”
Surely it wasn’t that many years ago that Martin and I
ignored a weathered No Trespassing sign, climbed an old, barbed-wire fence,
shed our clothes, and jumped from a thirty-foot bluff with the abandon of two
people with more nerve than sense. The moment our naked bodies slid into the
crystal-clear water, we knew the Fossil Ridge Ranch was meant to be our little
piece of heaven.
I’ve loved and lost on this land. I can’t bear to leave any
of it.
“I know this is hard,” Charlotte
whispers.
“How could you know? You only come home once a year.”
“Mother, that’s not true. I’ve flown to Texas four times since Thanksgiving. And if
you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to have to come home in April as well.”
Without following the school calendar dates scramble in my
head. “Four times?”
“Yes,” she says. “I have a job, a teenager, and a marriage
I’m trying to keep together. I can’t keep dropping everything to…”
Her pause is my cue to say something that will soothe her
conscience, to grant a pass that lets her off the hook. That’s been our
unspoken agreement for twenty-some years. I don’t get a pass. She doesn’t get a
pass. That way neither one of us has to forgive the other. Slocums are like
that. Charlotte
may have taken on that fancy McCandless surname when she married a
good-for-nothing playboy, but roots deep as ours are tougher than weeds to yank
out.
Charlotte’s
quiet. But I can hear her ripping the tiny gold treble clef back and forth on
the thin silver chain around her neck. She’s gearing up to issue my ultimatum.
I suppose I should take some consolation in the fact that she still wears the
little trinket I gave her years ago. Perhaps we’re not completely lost to each
other.
“If you want to stay on the Fossil Ridge, then you’ll have
to give this new guy a chance.”
“He’s already mowed over the bluebonnets in my front yard.
They’re beautiful this year, but he cut them down before they could seed. Next
thing you know, he’ll be toppin’ my myrtles.”
“I’ll text him to be more careful. Please, for my peace of
mind, can you just give this new guy a try?” Charlotte’s breathing is becoming more rapid.
Any minute she’ll blow, unable to leave well enough alone. “That’s all I ask.”
“That’s all?” Anger pumps through my veins and I spring from
the chair, a taut rubber band aimed at the class bully. “If you call stripping
my independence guarding my heart, Charlotte Ann, I’ll take my chances with
high cholesterol and a push mower.”
I hang up the phone with a decisive slam and march to the
counter. Sticky juice oozes from what remains of the mutilated mound of fruit.
Whatever happened to family taking care of family? My neighbor
LaVera’s grown son takes care of her. Bo isn’t pressuring his mother to leave
her place, nor does he pawn off his responsibilities on hired help.
I swallow a bite of the vanilla-sweet flesh then poke a
sliver through the bars of the birdcage. “Charlotte
won’t be satisfied until I sign over complete control of my life.”
My bird abandons his preening and snatches his breakfast
with his bright red beak.
“Sweet Moses,” I snap. “Say something, Polygon!”
I know better than to encourage this feathered chatterbox to
speak with his mouth full, but this traitorous deed by Charlotte has me in such a stew I’m willing
to risk the undoing of my bird’s etiquette training.
For once, Polygon behaves and remains silent. Although
pleased the hours I’ve invested in my parrot’s behavior has finally begun to
pay off, I admit that at this very moment a word of encouragement, even a
feathery nod would be a comfort. How many years has it been since I’ve had
someone in my corner?
More than I care to count.
The screaming kettle gyrates above the gas flame. “We’ll
show Charlotte
who can still take care of themselves, won’t we, Polygon?”
I pour boiling water over a twice-used tea bag then wait for
the water to brown. It’s maddening that my life has come to recycling tea bags.
Martin and I had planned to spend our golden years spoiling a passel of
grandchildren. I shuffle to the fridge. My gnarled finger traces the photograph
that curls beneath the World’s Best Teacher magnet stuck to the door.
The little beauty sitting beside me and Charlotte is my only
grandchild. Aria was eight when this photo was taken nearly five years ago. I
haven’t seen this little lioness in months. Busy teenager stuff, her mother
claims. But I can’t help but wonder if Ari has also outgrown her need for me. After
all, she’s probably taller than me by now, and well-past the age of
appreciating anything I could teach her. And I’d planned to teach her so much.
Her times tables. Piano scales. How to tell a barn swallow from a sparrow. The
best way to free a fossil from the limestone that lines the river.
Some dreams are best forgotten.
I return to my tea, splurge and add a cube of sugar, then
lift the rose-patterned porcelain cup to my lips.
My apple-green bird tilts his head, his beady eyes assessing
my brewing storm. I blow steam in his direction. “You won’t leave me, will you,
Polygon?”
“C’mere.” He waddles the length of his perch. “Pretty girl.”
I rest the cup on a saucer and stick my finger through the
wires and stroke the soft down above his beak. “If only family were as loyal.”
I’d give anything to have my Martin pat my fanny as I wash
up the supper dishes. Or have my ambitious Caroline hug my neck after I admire
her work. Or have my sweet Charlotte
crawl into my lap and beg for another song on the piano.
“Thank you for sticking it out, Polygon.” Through tears, I
look my bird in the eye. “Once I send Charlotte’s new hire
packing, we’ll have our life back.”
“Be nice.” Polygon gives my finger a peck.
“Traitor.” I recoil at his siding with Charlotte. “This has to be done, Polygon.
And, no matter what anyone tries to tell me, I’m still the woman to do it.”
I love it, Lynne. How
can readers find you on the Internet?
Thank you, Lynne, for
sharing this story with my blog readers and me. I can hardly wait to read the
rest of it.
Readers, here are links to the book.
Flying Fossils (Women of Fossil Ridge) (Volume 1)
- Amazon paperback
Flying Fossils (Women of Fossil Ridge Book 1) - Kindle
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