The Thorny Path Read online

  © 2006 Sharon Downing Jarvis.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company, P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 30178. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The Fairhaven Chronicles

  Book 1: A Fresh Start in Fairhaven

  Book 2: Mercies and Miracles

  Book 3: Through Cloud and Sunshine

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Jarvis, Sharon Downing, 1940– A thorny path / Sharon Downing Jarvis.

  p. cm. — (The Fairhaven chronicles ; bk. 4)

  ISBN-10 1-59038-612-4 (pbk.) ISBN-13 978-1-59038-612-5 (pbk.)

  1. Mormons—Fiction. 2. Bishops—Fiction. 3. Southern States—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series: Jarvis, Sharon Downing, 1940– Fairhaven chronicles ; bk. 4.

  PS3560.A64T47 2006

  813'.54—dc22 2006009843

  Printed in the United States of America Malloy Lithographing Incorporated, Ann Arbor, MI

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For all who find themselves treading a thorny path of whatever kind

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  * * *

  “Arise, ye Saints, and set them free!”

  He enjoyed the fragrance of summer rain. More especially, he enjoyed the fragrance of summer rain falling on cement and filtered through a screened door as he breathed it now, watching from his family room the drops splashing on the uncovered portion of the patio behind his house.

  “Smells good,” Bishop James Shepherd remarked. “Takes me back to my childhood.” He turned back into the room, where his wife, Trish, four months pregnant, lay curled on the sofa.

  “Makes me sleepy,” she replied, not opening her eyes. “Low pressure always does, especially when I’m pregnant. I get lazy.”

  “Rest while you can,” he advised. “Nobody expects you to keep up your normal pace right now, least of all me. What can I do to help?”

  “Nothing, at the moment. You deserve to relax, too. When you can, you might want to sort through your clothes for the trip, decide what you’re taking, and see if anything needs washing or cleaning.”

  “We’ll only be gone four or five days. I won’t need much. How about Jamie? Can I help get his gear ready?”

  “I’ve already packed his and Mallory’s, with strict instructions that they are not to open their bags until we get to the first motel. In fact, I stashed them in the trunk already, so they won’t be tempted.”

  He chuckled. “Good thinking.”

  Trish yawned. “I just hope nothing happens to keep us from going on this trip.”

  “In the ward, you mean?”

  “Mmm. Seems like something always comes up.”

  “I know. But I have two good counselors, and they’ll both be in town. Besides, this trip is almost mandated, you might say, by President Walker. I do believe he’s got me off my duff at last, genealogically speaking.”

  His stake president, President Walker, had announced a year-long emphasis on family history and temple work, requesting the bishops to set the example for ward members by making a concentrated effort to expand their knowledge of their own ancestral lines and provide temple ordinances for as many deceased relatives as possible. On the other side of the coin, he had also gotten the younger generation involved, both in learning to do research and in doing baptisms for the dead. Several young people from the ward had participated, including the bishop’s daughter Tiffani and Thomas (T-Rex) Rexford, who was still experiencing residual dizziness from the head injury he had sustained in a motorcycle accident the previous Christmas.

  “I cain’t take that constant dunkin’, Bishop,” T-Rex had told him. “It makes my head swim. How ’bout I just sit there and be confirmed? I mean, I’d purely hate to puke in the baptism font!”

  The bishop had agreed. He would purely hate to have that happen, too.

  Following his priesthood leader’s request, Bishop Shepherd and Trish had prayerfully examined his family records and identified his mother’s paternal line as the one that needed the most research. His grandfather, Benjamin Rice, had lived in a small town in southwestern Georgia and had died a young man, leaving his small family to fend for themselves until the widow remarried—and that was pretty much the extent of the bishop’s knowledge about the Rice connection. His mother, who had taken her stepfather’s name, had never known much about them, and he remembered her saying that her stepfather didn’t like her mother to tell the two older girls about their real father, feeling that it caused a division in the family and undermined his authority and claim to their affection.

  He had tried to search for Benjamin Rice on the Internet, but with no success. True, there were numerous people by that name, but none of them was the right one. Finally, he and Trish had determined to make a short family vacation out of traveling to southwestern Georgia and searching out in person whatever might be found concerning Benjamin and his forebears. They had also promised the children that they would have some fun along the way and stay at nice motels with swimming pools whenever possible. The bishop himself wasn’t very interested in the prospect of swimming, which could be done any day except Sunday in the Fairhaven Community Pool, but he found he was excited to track down Benjamin—could hardly wait, in fact, to get going.

  “Dad,” his six-year-old daughter said, in an uncharacteristic whining tone, “I don’t want to go away and leave Samantha. Can’t she go with us? I’m scared that lady’ll get her again.”

  He turned to see Mallory with her arms full of a purring but squirming Siamese cat. “Oh, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen, Mal,” he reassured her. “Mom’s got that all taken care of, don’t you, hon?”

  “M-hmm. I told Muzzie all about what happened, and she and the girls know to keep a close eye on Samantha when they come to feed her. She’ll be fine.”

  “Well, I don’t care if Mar-greet wants to pet her, but I don’t want that lady to even see her.”

  “That lady” to whom Mallory referred was Mrs. Maxine Lowell, a next-door neighbor who the previous winter had captured Mallory’s beloved pet and secretly dropped her off at an animal shelter.

  Marguerite, the Lowells’ adult daughter, seemed fond of both Mallory and Samantha, but the bishop had to admit to himself that he and his family had made little progress in befriending the parents in the months since the Lowells had moved in on the corner and disturbed what had heretofore been a comfortable, tolerant, and friendly neighborhood. Mrs. Lowell, in particular, had taken exception to the notion that Mormons—members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—had the right to call themselves Christians and to live in peace and harmony with their fine neigh
bors of all religious persuasions. To the bishop’s mind, her behavior left a good deal to be desired in a person who, herself, claimed to worship the Lord and to have taken His name upon her.

  It had become a source of some concern to him to set a good example for his family regarding how to behave in the face of persecution and how to get along with antagonistic folks. He had to admit, however, that he hadn’t exactly scored any resounding successes in that department. It wasn’t such a problem for him to deal with her snipes at him personally, but when she attacked his wife and children and tried to turn other neighbors against them, he found it difficult to maintain a very high level of love and tolerance. Not only that, he didn’t care for the uneasy feeling he seemed to have so much of the time when he was at home, as if some malevolent force had taken possession of the house next door and was waiting to spring out upon him and his loved ones at an unguarded moment. He chided himself for such childish fantasizing, and he continued to pray for the ability to love and forgive the Lowells, but so far, he couldn’t see much progress in himself.

  * * *

  “So, Dad—you said we’re coming back Saturday afternoon, right? What time?”

  “I don’t know exactly, Tiff—I reckon it’ll depend on where our search takes us, and where we are when we start back. We’re kind of playing this whole trip by ear, if that makes sense. And I sure hope it’ll be harmonious!”

  “Cute pun. But, see, the thing is—if we get back early enough that I have time to shower and get ready, I can go out with Billy. Or even better, if we could possibly make it home on Friday afternoon, then he and I could double with Claire and Ricky to the square dance at the Community Center. Wouldn’t that be cool?” Tiffani gave her father a raised-eyebrow look of hopeful pleading.

  He didn’t yield. “No promises, Tiffi. This trip is for a special purpose, as you know, and I just can’t tell ahead of time how things will go. Plus, it’s probably the only family vacation we’ll get this summer, and I don’t want to cut it any shorter than we have to.”

  Tiffani sighed. “I know. It’s just—if we don’t make it on time on Saturday, at least, it’ll be a whole week until Billy can go out again. He’s only allowed to date on Friday and Saturday.”

  “You and Billy seem to be getting pretty close.”

  “What do you mean? We’re just friends.”

  He could see her hackles beginning to rise. Of late, Tiffani had grown defensive about her friendship with Billy Newton. He liked Billy—liked him a lot, in fact—but he was uneasy having the two young people spending too much time together. Tiffani was only sixteen and Billy not much older.

  “Billy’s working construction this summer, isn’t he?”

  “Uh-huh. His uncle’s a contractor, down in Birmingham.”

  “You know, construction’s really exhausting work, especially in the heat. I expect by Friday night, Billy’s ready to kick back and go to sleep watching TV.”

  “No, he’s not! Dad, he’s the one who asked me to go to the square dance. Doesn’t sound to me like he’d be too tired, if he wants to do that!”

  “Well, he may just have to do-si-do with somebody else this time around,” he replied, and immediately could have bitten his tongue.

  “Exactly—and he probably will, too!” Tiffani said, and pounded up the stairs to her room. “And don’t tell me about how absence makes the heart grow fonder!” she yelled over the banister. He could hear the latent tears in her voice and then the slam of her door.

  “Open mouth, insert all four feet,” her father muttered to himself. “Way to go, Dad.”

  * * *

  “First one to say ‘Are we there, yet?’ will be the last one in the pool!” the bishop announced cheerfully as they left the Fairhaven city limits and headed southward. Jamie and Mallory immediately clapped their hands over their mouths, but Tiffani drawled in a bored tone, “Are we there, yet?”

  “Tiffi’s last in the pool!” Mallory crowed.

  “I think she wants to be, silly,” said her brother.

  “Like I care,” Tiffani said. “Who needs green hair from all the chlorine they dump in those pools to kill everybody’s germs?”

  “Oh, cool!” Jamie said. “Mom, does your hair really turn green?”

  “Never fear. I brought our special shampoo that gets chlorine out,” Trish said patiently. “And our sunblock. And our beach towels. And Mallory’s water wings. And our suits. And . . .”

  “Shoot,” said Jamie. “I thought green hair’d be rad.”

  “Are we there, yet?” asked Mallory, giggling.

  “Ha-ha! Mal’s last in the pool!”

  “Nuh-uh. Daddy said first person to say that. I was second.”

  “Did I remember to set the sprinkling system?” Trish wondered.

  “Nope, but I did,” her husband replied, reaching to cover her hand with his. “And the doors are locked, and I saw you give Muzzie a key. And the stove is off, and you put the iron away, and you left a light in the downstairs hall, and I have my cell phone and its charger and my razor and toothbrush and camera and my notebook on Benjamin—and we’re on our way at last. Whoop-de-doo! The Shepherds are on vacation together!”

  “Whoop-de-doo,” he heard Tiffani echo under her breath from the backseat. “What could be more exciting? Just can’t wait to get to those courthouses and graveyards.”

  He smiled to himself. It was exciting enough for him.

  * * *

  They picnicked in a park for lunch, swam at the motel pool, and relaxed in the cool of their room while they consumed a pizza for dinner. While the children watched TV and Trish indulged in a lengthy shower, the bishop sat at a round table by the window and pored over maps and notes. They would hit the courthouse first thing in the morning, to look for land records and for a record of Benjamin’s marriage to Annie Josephine Burke. Dying so young, Benjamin would likely not have left a will—the bishop wasn’t sure if, in fact, he had even owned the land he was reputed to have farmed—but the deeds should tell him that. Why, he wondered, had he not been able to find him on the on-line census records? He wasn’t sure of the dates of his grandfather’s life, but it was reasonable to assume he should appear as a boy with his parents in 1900 and 1910, and possibly as a young married man in 1920. But no appropriate Benjamin Rice had turned up in those census years in Georgia—and the bishop had searched for him as Benjamin, Ben, Benj., Bennie, and B. It was perplexing. His mother had seemed certain that her dad had been a Georgia boy, and a farmer, though she knew little else about him.

  “Dad, can I borrow your cell phone?” Tiffani asked. “And is it okay if I sit out by the pool for a while, to make a couple of calls?”

  He wondered why she needed to contact her friends so soon; it had been less than twenty-four hours since her last visit with them.

  “Sure, honey,” he told her, handing over his phone. “Just don’t let it go swimming.”

  After she left, he opened the drapes a bit so that he had a view of the pool area. A dad couldn’t be too careful, these days.

  * * *

  The next morning, after a quick breakfast in the lobby, they piled into the car for a short drive to the county seat and courthouse.

  “Now, guys, this is where it gets interesting for me and kind of dull for you,” he advised, as he parked the car in a shaded slot. “I know it’s warm out here, and I’ll try to be as quick as I can. Maybe no one will mind if you and Mal play under these trees, Jamie, and Mom and Tiff can take turns watching you and helping me, inside. Now—who’s on research duty first?”

  “I’ll go first,” Tiffani said with an air of pained boredom. “I’ll get my half hour over with. Maybe,” she added, brightening, “there won’t be any stuff you need, here.”

  “Sounds like you’re hoping that’s the case.”

  “Not really. It just all sounds so deadly dry and boring.”

  “Hmm. These folks have been dead for a while, true—I expect they’re just dry bones by now.”

  She g
iggled. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

  They ventured into the office of the county clerk and explained their mission.

  “Well, now, our staff doesn’t have the time to look up family history for folks, if that’s what ya’ll want,” the clerk behind the counter drawled. “And you should know that our courthouse has suffered three burnings in its history—one during the Civil War, one in 1891, and another in 1917. So we’ve had a lot of record loss.”

  “Wow,” said the bishop. “That’s really unfortunate. What we were hoping to find here was the marriage record of my grandparents, and any land records that might be in my grandfather’s name. We don’t expect anyone to do the searching for us, but if you allow it and can just point us in the right direction, we’ll be happy to look for ourselves.”

  “Marriage records are right here in this office, those that we have. They’re pretty sketchy. What year were your people married?”

  “I’m not totally sure. I’d guess between 1912 and 1918.”

  The woman looked doubtful. “Most of those years were destroyed in that 1917 fire. We can look, but I can’t promise any success. What was the groom’s name?”

  “Benjamin Rice.”

  She took down a smallish, blackened ledger with ragged edges. Fire had eaten away about half of each page.

  “You see what I mean,” she said, displaying the volume. “This is our index to the marriage records from 1892 to 1917.” She set the book carefully on the counter and opened it gingerly. The binding made an ominous cracking sound. Using the tip of a retracted ballpoint pen, she carefully turned to the page containing grooms whose surnames began with “R.”

  “You’ll notice they didn’t index them alphabetically except for the first letter. They just listed chronologically all the ‘R’ grooms as they took out licenses. Let’s see . . .”