How Sweet the Sound Read online

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  LATE 1979

  CHAPTER 1

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 2

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 3

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 4

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 5

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 6

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 7

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 8

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 9

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 10

  Comfort

  LATE FEBRUARY 1980

  CHAPTER 11

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 12

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 13

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 14

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 15

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 16

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 17

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 18

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 19

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 20

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 21

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 22

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 23

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 24

  Anniston

  MAY 1980

  CHAPTER 25

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 26

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 27

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 28

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 29

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 30

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 31

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 32

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 33

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 34

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 35

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 36

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 37

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 38

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 39

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 40

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 41

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 42

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 43

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 44

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 45

  Anniston

  LATE OCTOBER 1980

  CHAPTER 46

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 47

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 48

  Comfort

  CHAPTER 49

  Anniston

  CHAPTER 50

  Comfort

  SUMMER 1981

  CHAPTER 51

  Anniston

  AfterWords

  A Word about Tamar and Survivors

  Book Club Questions

  Author Interview

  Recipes from Bay Spring and the Harlan Family and Friends

  Extras

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You hold this book in your hands because of a grand mix of people who took a chance on me, and an even grander mix of folks who prayed for me—and for you, the reader.

  I’d like to thank a few of them.

  To Judy Mikalonis, who believed in me enough to invite me to Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference in 2009, and to Rachel Williams and all her staff, who nurture writers under the dappled canopy of the great redwoods every year. Saying yes changed my life forever.

  To my writing prayer team, who’ve stuck with me since 2009, even when I offered them chances to jump off this wild and crazy writing train: Mike (“my Gandalf”), Trish, Birdie, Alyssa, Serena, Tami, Glenn, Billie, John, Greg, Christie, Mike, Kara, Carol Lee (“Mrs. C.”), Tera, Ana, Eileen, Amy, Ann, Anne, Cyndy, Debbie, and my “random” Mount Hermon roomie and “twin,” Sherri. Love you all and grateful beyond measure for your support. Any hearts moved by the words in this manuscript are in large part because of the prayers you poured over this sojourn.

  To Pastor Dave and Penny, who shepherded me when I was Anni’s age, who loved and supported me when they learned I was a lot like Comfort, and who, along with Pastor Tim, were gracious enough to read the crappy first versions of this book. To my Wednesday-morning girls: Susan, Mary Susan, Cornelia, Melinda (“Samson”), Lisa, Susan, Cara, Jennifer, Heather, Susan, Anne, Amanda, Sarah, and Amy—I couldn’t and wouldn’t dare do life without you! And to all my friends and family at Grace Community Church for always pointing me back where I belong: at the foot of the cross and in the arms of my Savior, Jesus Christ.

  To my hospital coworkers for your enthusiasm and encouragement for “my other life” as a writer and for always making me laugh. It’s a privilege to work alongside you all.

  To Kathy “Katdish” Richards, Billy Coffey, Karen Spears Zacharias, Mary DeMuth, Barbara Scott, and Rachelle Gardner for being some of the first folks to believe I could make a go of this.

  To my agent, Sarah Freese, and to Greg Johnson and all the good folks at WordServe Literary—I adore you, you are incredible, and I’m not worthy!

  To John Blase for taking a chance on me and to Don Pape, Ingrid Beck, and everyone on the David C Cook team. Your faith and professionalism inspire me to do and be so much more.

  To Amy Konyndyk and the design team for creating a breathtaking cover I can only hope the insides are worthy of.

  To my editor Nicci Jordan Hubert. You scare the living daylights out of me. Thank you for being so thoroughly tough on me and for giving me the permission I need to go to the hard places.

  And to my copy editor, Tonya Osterhouse—it’s the little things that make the biggest difference, and you are the reason this novel shines.

  To my precious sons, Tucker, Charlie, and Isaac, for putting up with me wearing pajamas all day and wearing curlers in the carpool lines, and for giving up your Minecraft time so I can be on my computer all day. For teaching me what no child signs up to teach his parent: what it’s like to live fearlessly and unscarred. And for allowing me to relearn how to love life through your wondering hearts and eyes. God is already changing the world because of each of your brave and beautiful hearts.

  To my husband, Scott, who loves me in spite of everything and still. Who puts me on airplanes when I’m too afraid to go. And who says to me multiple times a day, “You are beautiful.” Someday, because of you, I will believe that.

  And first and foremost, to Jesus Christ, who has, does, and will always make all things new. In Him I move, breathe, write, and owe my entire being.

  To the silent ones.

  Marine experts say that the jubilee is caused by an upward movement of oxygen-poor bottom water forcing bottom-type fish and crustaceans ashore.

  Auburn University Marine Extension and Research Center

  Behold and see

  What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

  And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn

  Through the ashen greyness …

  “V”

  E. B. Browning

  She carries within her a tree of silence

  born from seeds of pain sewn long ago.

  Its roots are now thick as a man’s arm.

  To tear them out would collapse her,

  her body’s posture bu
ilt on the scaffolding

  of things as they should not have been.

  So she walks as if retreating, leaning back

  not in fear but at a slight angle where

  the sun and dark have finally found rest.

  John Blase

  LATE 1979

  Kay koule tronpe soley men li pa tronpe lapli.

  “A leaking roof may fool sunny weather, but cannot fool the rain.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Anniston

  I thought I’d lived through everything by the time I was thirteen.

  Hurricane Frederic nearly wiped the southern part of Alabama off the map that fall, and half of our family’s pecan orchards along with it. Daddy said we were lucky—that the Miller pecan farm down the road lost everything. The Puss ’n Boots Cat Food factory supplied our whole town of Bay Spring with ice and water for nearly a week until the power and phones came back on along the coast of Mobile Bay. Anyone who could hold a hammer or start up a chain saw spent weeks cutting up all the uprooted trees and azaleas, pounding down new shingles, and cleaning up all that God, in His infinite fury, blew through our land. Like most folks who lived along the coast, we’d find a way to build back up—if we weren’t fooled into thinking the passing calm of the eye meant the storm was over.

  If I’d only known this about Hurricane Frederic—that the drudging months leading up to Thanksgiving would be the only peace we’d see for some time. Weren’t no weathermen or prophets with megaphones standing on top of the Piggly Wiggly Saturday mornings to shout warnings of storms and second comings to us.

  The only warning was the twitch of my grandmother’s eye.

  “Happy Thanksgiving!” Mama, Daddy, and I said in unison.

  Princella pulled the front door open to let us in, kissing us each coolly on the cheek as we passed. Her graying hair was twisted into a tight, smooth bun on top of her head, and a purple suede pantsuit hung on her too-thin frame.

  “Thank you. Oralee, Ernestine will help y’all take that food on to the kitchen.”

  “How are you, Mother?” Daddy had grouched around the house all morning as we readied ourselves to go to the big house.

  “Why, I’m fine. Thank you, Rey. Your father is in his den.” Princella nodded toward the book-lined room to the left of the foyer.

  I followed Daddy. Though I loved peeling potatoes and painting butter on yeast rolls as they came steaming out of the oven, I didn’t feel like being around Princella, who preferred I call her by her proper name, saying she felt too young to be called Grandma. I couldn’t figure her out. Then again, who could? Mama called her an enigma. I called her old and bitter.

  The thick, wide shoulders of my granddaddy, Vaughn, filled every inch of the leather chair behind his desk. Wire-rimmed spectacles sat on the tip of his nose, and he rubbed his neatly trimmed moustache as he concentrated on the thick ledger open in front of him. As soon as he saw Daddy, he got up and threw his arms around him hard, patting him on the back. “Good to see you, Rey.”

  “You, too, Daddy.”

  “And how’s Miss Anniston today?”

  “Fine, sir.” The sun caught on the silver bevels of a sword sitting on Vaughn’s big wood desk, sending shards of light dancing across the walls and ceiling.

  “Wow, I haven’t seen that in a long time.” Daddy gently picked up the sword and let his fingers glide along the blade, down to the tip and back again. Carvings of horses and soldiers wrapped around the thick handle.

  “My granddaddy gave me that sword. Belonged to his granddaddy, Gabriel Harlan, from before the War.” Vaughn picked up the case, the name Harlan inscribed deep into the worn, cracked leather. “I intended to wait until later, but I might as well give it to you now.”

  Surprise spread across Daddy’s face, ruddy from all the days working outside in the orchards, but softened by the kindness in his eyes, which were heavy with the love I saw when he read to me each night, even still, before bedtime. “I always thought this belonged to Cole next.”

  Vaughn stood up and peered out the window overlooking the orchards. “Granddaddy helped Gabriel plant most of these. Helped him plant the trees, babying them until they pulled in a crop. While they waited for the trees to yield enough to live off of, Gabriel oystered and fished and worked for lumber companies, making an honest living and providing for everyone—including the freed slaves—who lived on this land. One of only a few abolitionists back then, he paid his black workers a fair wage, sometimes choosing them over white workers who needed a job, and at the expense of ridicule and putting his family in danger. He retired from the Confederate Army before the War, so he never fought in it. Granddaddy told stories about how Gabriel wouldn’t have fought in that war if he’d died refusing, because he hated slavery so.” He turned to face Daddy. “He stood up for what was right and for the weak. Raised me to do the same. And that’s how I believe I’ve raised you.”

  “Daddy—”

  Vaughn held his hand up, and to my surprise, a tear rolled down the side of his face as he kept talking. “Been thinking a lot about this family lately, how I done you and your sister, Comfort, a disservice over the years by feeling sorry for Cole. Listening to your mother when she said I was too harsh with him, when harsh was what he needed. I felt sorry for him, I suppose, not having his real daddy around. I never listened to you or your sister, or anyone for that matter, who voiced concern about his choices and actions. And now I see those actions have taken a toll on all of you, and I’m sorry for that. I brought him in and raised him as my own—and I would do it again—but you and Comfort … You’re my flesh and blood.”

  He took the sword from Daddy’s hands and slid it into the leather case. “When my daddy gave Gabriel’s sword to me, he said it stood for peace, not war. That it should be given to the firstborn son, a son raised to believe in freedom. Someone who will fight injustice with courage and truth.”

  Quiet fell over the room, except for the ticktock of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

  “Take it, son. Will you?”

  “What’s going on in here?” Princella’s unexpected voice struck us like a whip across our bare backs. “What are you doing, Vaughn? That’s Cole’s sword.”

  Vaughn walked right up close to Princella until he stood about an inch from her face. “Something I shoulda done a long time ago.”

  “Hey, everybody!”

  My aunt, Comfort, and her long-time boyfriend, Solly, burst through the study door, giggling like a couple of kids my age. But their faces fell when they saw Princella and Vaughn standing there in obvious disagreement.

  “I’m—I’m sorry. Were we interrupting?”

  Princella turned sharp and stomped out of the room.

  “Sorry, Solly. You’re fine,” Vaughn said. “Please come in.”

  “Welcome to the festivities,” Daddy simpered.

  “Comfort!” I ran and hugged her despite the tension I felt in the air.

  “Hey, darlin’,” Comfort said in a tempered voice, hugging me back. Despite my affection for T-shirts, boy shorts, and flip-flops, her outfit, as usual, was to die for. Beneath a striped, fringed poncho, she wore flared white trousers, a bright-orange halter top, and orange plastic platform shoes that matched. Her hair was done up in a high bun tied up with a matching orange-and-white scarf that trailed down her back.

  “What about me? Don’t I get a hug from my girl?” Solly, a burly fellow with curly dark hair that fell over his ears and glasses, caught Daddy’s eye as he yanked me into a bear hug. He looked handsome as ever, dressed in what appeared to be a brand-new pair of jeans, a plaid, button-down western shirt, a black cowboy hat, and black boots.

  Thank goodness they came when they did. If Princella wanted to be in a snit, fine. But with Comfort and Solly there to brighten the mood, maybe she wouldn’t ruin the whole of Thanksgiving Day.

  Bo nan bouch, men pè
dan.

  “Kiss the mouth, but fear the teeth.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Anniston

  The mess during everyone’s arrivals redeemed itself over the sizzle of fried turkey, yeast rolls melting in our mouths, and the crunch of crawfish-pecan dressing. The sweet potato soufflé settled as Vaughn finished carving the turkey.

  “Rey, would you do us the honor?”

  “Amen,” we said in unison after Daddy finished thanking God for blessings past and yet to come.

  “Somebody pass the giblets,” Vaughn said with a gleam in his eye.

  “Saved some just for you.” Princella winked at him, one of her few ways of showing affection, as she passed the bowl of steaming bird innards. How anyone ever ate those, I never could understand.

  “Princella, your cranberry mold is beautifully done. It must’ve taken you forever to get it to set like that.” Mama took a bite of the scarlet jelly.

  “Thank you for noticing, Oralee. It did take quite awhile.”

  “And the silver. I’ve never seen it shine so,” said Comfort.

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve dreamed of your yeast rolls since last year, Mama,” said Daddy.

  Princella smiled at them both, all the while holding her neck up high, stiff, and hawk-like, perched over the rest of us as if we were the meal. Thankfully, the centerpiece, a vase stuffed to overflowing with every shade of rose you could imagine—reds, pinks, peaches, yellows from Princella’s garden—nearly hid me as I pushed pieces of turkey around my plate.

  Princella and I had a complicated relationship, not the warm-milk-and-cookies type most of my friends had with their grandmothers. On the rare occasions I spent the day with her, I caught glimpses of kindness, even sympathy, especially as she tended her rose gardens or brought food to church shut-ins. But most days, she acted matter-of-fact and strict in matters of fashion, manners, and social standing—especially when it came to my life.

  The back door opened and shut with a boom that rattled the crystal, and my uncle, Cole, barged into the room. Princella stood up so fast she nearly knocked her plate off the table. “Welcome home, son!”

  “Mama.” He held her by the shoulders, kissed her on the forehead, then stood back and glared at the rest of us. The outline of his thick chest muscles pushed against the Alabama Southern on the front of his T-shirt, and his face was a mess of unshaven stubble. Though he coached football at Alabama Southern, Cole often moved back and forth without notice, never settling here or there.