Where the River Runs Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  PART I

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PART II

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART III

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  AUTHOR NOTE

  More Praise for Losing the Moon

  “Henry’s beautifully written debut romance is meant to be savored, with its poetic descriptions and settings deftly mirroring the emotions of the characters. Readers who enjoy the lyrical voices of Patricia Gaffney and Mary Alice Monroe will also be drawn to this talented newcomer.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Patti Callahan Henry joins the ranks of Anne Rivers Siddons and Pat Conroy with this debut novel. Losing the Moon is lyrical, sensual, and as delicate as a seashell. Lovely and poignant.”

  —Deborah Smith, New York Times bestselling author of Charming Grace

  “I loved Losing the Moon! Patti Callahan Henry’s engaging story and compelling characters captured my heart from page one, and stayed with me long after the final, satisfying conclusion. Don’t miss this wonderful book.”

  —Haywood Smith, New York Times bestselling author of The Red Hat Club

  “A dazzling example of the new style of fiction writing to come out of the South. Chosen as the first book in the Margaret Mitchell House and Museum’s Emerging Writers’ program, Henry has been hailed as being included first in the ranks of important Southern writers such as Pat Conroy and Anne Rivers Siddons. If this debut novel is any indication of what we can expect from Patti Callahan Henry, we can look forward to many years of reading enjoyment to come.”

  —Times Record News (Wichita, TX)

  Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

  Visit us online at www.penguin.com.

  ALSO BY PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY

  Losing the Moon

  NAL Accent

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

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  First published by NAL Accent, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2005

  Copyright © Patti Callahan Henry, 2005

  Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005

  All rights reserved

  FICTION FOR THE WAY WE LIVE

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Henry, Patti Callahan.

  Where the river runs / Patti Callahan Henry.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11833-7

  1. Married women—Fiction. 2. Fires—Casualties—Fiction. 3. South Carolina—Fiction. 4. Secrecy—

  Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.E578W47 2005

  813’.6—dc22 2004027449

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  There is a Gullah saying, “When you are here, you are home.”

  With deep love, this book is dedicated to home: my husband, Pat Henry,

  and our children, Meagan, Thomas and Rusk.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is a collaborative effort of many who possess both dedication and admiration for the art of story and the written word. Although words are the tools, heartfelt gratitude is the emotion for all those listed below.

  I must thank my agent, Kimberly Whalen, whose unflinching belief in my work has been an inspiration. I am grateful to New American Library and all those involved in publishing my work: Kara Welsh, Claire Zion and Leslie Gelbman. My editor Ellen Edwards’ sharp sense of story and dedication to accuracy have been invaluable. I can never find enough ways thank Carolyn Birbiglia and her amazing PR skills, which have allowed us to get my stories into the reader’s hands.

  I am indebted to the booksellers who have supported my work. I am humbled by the support of Mary Rose-Taylor and the Margaret Mitchell House and Museum’s Center for Southern Literature. Thank you to Amy; George and Sara at Chapter 11 for their indefatigable love of books; to Chris Stanley at Bay Street Trading Company in Beaufort, who believed in my story and offered me invaluable resources on the Gullah Culture; to Denise at Barnes and Noble in Norcross, for making sure they never ran out of my books; to Patti Morrison at Barnes and Noble in Charleston, for making me feel so comfortable that I wished I lived there; to John and Linda Stern at Port Royal books in Hilton Head, for an island signing. Appreciation is extended to Nancy Berland and her brilliant ideas.

  My heart is overflowing with gratitude for the support of my beautiful friends, who not only encouraged my work, but also came to every signing and event possible. There is no way to list all of you here—but I love all of you. Special thanks go to Sandee Bartkowski, Susan Clark, Jennifer Cook, Vicky Day, Teri McI
ntyre, and Heidi Sprinkle, for shoring me up when I needed it the most. Innumerable hugs to Tara Mahoney; I could not have written a single page without you this summer—even if you did warp my children’s taste in music. And to my long-time friends who have always known the real Patti, and are the inspiration for the fun-loving, young friendships in this novel: Beth Hamilton, Laura Kaye, Cate Sommer and Beth Fidler.

  I’m beholden to my incredible family, not for what they do, but for who they are: to my parents, George and Bonnie Callahan, who believe in me more than I do. To my sisters, Barbi and Jeannie, and their husbands, Dan and Mike. To Gwen and Chuck Henry, who offer a place of respite in this crazy world. To Kirk and Anna Henry—I could not and would not have chosen any different in-laws. I love all of you.

  I have been humbled by and grateful to all my readers who write me, email me, buy my books and pass them on.

  PART I

  “It was when I was happiest that I longed most. . . . The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing . . . to find the place where all the beauty came from.”

  —C. S. LEWIS, Till We Have Faces

  CHAPTER ONE

  “If you don’t know where you are going, you should know where you came from.”

  —GULLAH PROVERB

  A sweet, hollow nest below my heart tells me there is more as I stand at the dock’s edge where the flowing river rounds the bend past my home to meet the sea. The wind caresses my face. Two dolphins, mother and baby, rise in synchrony; then their silver bodies disappear below the rolling surface of pewter water. I throw my arms wide, begging the world to bring to me everything I long for. It is my twelfth birthday. Mother and Daddy have given me a pink banana seat bicycle with tassels hanging off the handlebars. Yet this gift just doesn’t seem like enough—sacred enough.

  I turn from the river and jump on my bike. I am wearing my lime green party dress and I stand on the pedals, careful not to rip the tulle. I am eager for what all the boys on the street already have—the freedom a bike offers. I’ve learned to ride on my neighbor Timmy’s bike. I ride past my home on the long river road that will end in a cul-de-sac. Mother is standing on the porch yelling at me to come back right this instant and change clothes before I run off on the horrid bike. I push down harder on the pedals. Mother screams to my daddy in the shrill cry of exasperation I often bring to her, “Dewey, I told you we shouldn’t have gotten her a bike. She’s wild enough already.”

  “Oh, Harriet, let the girl have some fun,” Daddy says.

  I never hear Mother’s response; I am long gone, rounding the bend of the dead-end street. I can’t go too far away, as we live on a street shaped like the curled water moccasins running below our land and marsh—a twist to the left, then the right, then the left again—one long street following the curl of the river until it meets the sea at the tip of the land. Even after I learned that the expanse of blue river behind my house ran to the sea, then across to Africa, I did not believe it. I don’t believe many things adults tell me. They have obviously stopped living life—always worried about things like their hair, or their car, or what party they’re invited to.

  I screech to a halt—a moving van with a dented black ramp stuck out like a tongue from its open mouth fills the end of my street in front of the Carmichaels’ old house. Large men, completely soaked in the heat of the Lowcountry, unload boxes labeled “Danny’s Room,” “Living Room,” “Library” in large black letters. I prop my bike up with my legs on either side, my green tulle skirt puffing out like a dented balloon.

  The door to the gray-silver shingled house stands open and another ramp leads to the front porch. A man, taller than most I know, appears in the doorway. He looks straight at me and waves, wipes his brow with a white handkerchief. I wave back. He holds up his finger in a hold-on motion and takes a step out onto the porch. “Daniel,” he calls out.

  A boy appears from behind a bush, jumps up onto the bottom step. “Yes, sir?”

  “Looks like a friend has come to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

  The boy turns. His face is splattered with freckles. His eyes are so blue I see the color from where I stand. He wears tattered blue jean shorts and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. Oh, Mother would just die. I smile, wave.

  The boy turns back to his father. “She’s a girl.”

  The large man laughs, slaps the boy on the shoulder so hard he stumbles forward. “You’re brilliant, son.”

  “Dad, I don’t want—”

  The man holds up his hand, motions for me to come up to the porch. I drop my bike and join them.

  “Welcome to the neighborhood,” I say, nervous in an unfamiliar way—like I’ve eaten too many raw oysters. “I’m Meridy McFadden and I live up the street and today is my twelfth birthday.”

  The man leans down, puts his hands on his knees. “Well, hello there. Happy birthday to you. You look like a little fairy. I’m Chris Garrett and this here is my son, Danny.”

  I stick out my hand toward Danny. “Nice to meet you. Where’d you come from?”

  Danny grabs my hand, shakes it loosely, drops it and turns to his daddy.

  “Answer her, son. Cat gotcha tongue?”

  “Birmingham,” Danny says.

  “Alabama?” I stand on my tippy-toes—I think it makes my legs look longer and this boy looks down at me.

  “Is there another one?” The boy named Danny turns away from me.

  “Yep. There is. In England.” I try to stand taller, but can’t. I trip, stumble on the front porch.

  Danny glances over his shoulder. “Do we look like we’re from England?”

  “Son.” Mr. Garrett cuffs Danny on the ear. “That was rude.”

  “Sorry.” Danny blushes and his freckles blunder into a red mass.

  “Wanna go for a bike ride? I’ll show you the whole street,” I say.

  “The whole street. Wow, that should take about five seconds,” Danny says.

  I feel like a puppy that has been kicked. I skip down the steps to the wilted summer grass—I won’t show my embarrassment.

  “Wait, little fairy.” Mr. Garrett’s voice follows me.

  I turn. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re gonna have to forgive my son. He’s a little pissy about the move. He’d love to take a bike ride.” Mr. Garrett points to a rusted blue Schwinn at the side of the porch. “Wouldn’t you, son?”

  “Dad, not with a girl . . . what if someone sees me?”

  “Go on, son, and that’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Danny slouches down the steps and grabs the bike, mounts it, then takes off down the driveway toward the road.

  I jump on my bike and follow, calling after him, “Wait, wait. . . . You’ll get lost. And it’ll take more than five minutes—the street is two miles long.”

  We race up the street with nowhere else to go as Danny’s house is at the very end of the road, surrounded on both sides by water. I catch up with him, come alongside him. “Hey, you don’t know where you’re going.”

  “Doesn’t look real complicated to me,” Danny says, stopping.

  I jump off my bike. “It is. If you go too far that way”—I wave to the left—“you’ll be seen by Mrs. Foster and then she’ll come outside and you’ll be obliged to have tea and cookies with her. You have to go on the other side of the tree line. And”—I point—“if you go too far on the right side there, Mad Mr. Mulligan will come out and start screaming at you about grenades coming and getting back under the foxhole. Mother says he thinks he’s still in World War Two. I think he drinks too much whiskey. There’s lotsa things you need to know about riding your bike here. You can’t just go pell-mell up and down the street.”

  “Pell-mell? You sound like an old lady.” Danny stands with his legs wide on either side of the bike.

  “Yeah, well, then catch me.” I jump back on my bike and pedal as hard as I can down the length of the road. Wind and marsh-sweet fragrance envelop me. The warmth of the sea-soaked air mixes with a sudden, piercing thought—Danny
Garrett will fall in love with me. Why else would he show up on my birthday, on the day I received my first bike? Life is finally coming to me instead of me running after it.

  The rush of his tires whirs behind me. I imagine I feel his breath, although I only hear it. He is trying to catch me—I won’t let him.

  My skirt flies out from the sides of the bike, my tangled blond hair flaps in my eyes, and I believe I am exactly what Mr. Garrett called me: a fairy. Then the tires make a terrible screeching sound. The ground rushes up at me and I soar through the air. My skirt catches in the chain of the bike and my face crashes onto the gray-sand dirt at the side of the road.

  I roll on the ground and the bike flips over my head, bangs the side of my temple with a pain similar to the time Daddy used the spoon on my bottom when I’d told Mother to shut up. I curl into a ball and wait for the pain to pass, wait for Danny Garrett to be swallowed into the earth so he won’t have to see me sprawled on the ground.

  Laughter pours over me, but I won’t open my eyes to see him. I want to fade away right there on my twelfth birthday before I am ever loved by the freckle-faced boy who is laughing at me.

  Then the sound becomes familiar and I open one eye and look up at Timmy. “Meridy McFadden, what in the tarnation you doing?” Timmy Oliver, my next-door neighbor, childhood rival and best friend rolled into one, stands over me.

  I jump up. “I’m fine . . . fine.”

  “Your mama is going to just kill you.”

  I look down at my party dress, smeared with dirt, rock and torn pieces of lime tulle. I groan.