Home to Walnut Ridge Read online

  Cover design by OBT Graphix

  Front cover photo: © NadyaPhoto│iStockphoto.com

  Front cover barn photo: used with permission

  from David Arms, of the

  David Arms Art Gallery,

  Leipers Fork, TN

  Teacup photo: public domain

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Home to Walnut Ridge │ Book Three of the Teacup Novellas

  Copyright © 2013 by Diane Moody

  Published by OBT Bookz Publishing at Smashwords

  All rights reserved.

  To Sharon Jacob

  For your amazing gifts of

  inspiration and restoration;

  For always seeing the potential beauty

  in old furniture (and people too);

  For your contagious passion for life,

  and your sweet, gentle spirit . . .

  How blessed I am to be your friend.

  On the third day, He will restore us

  that we may live in His presence.

  Hosea 6:2b

  If you do a good job for others,

  you heal yourself at the same time,

  because a dose of joy is a spiritual cure.

  Dietrich Bonhoeffer

  Prologue

  It’s Monday morning and I desperately need to get to work. A few minutes ago, I made a fresh pot of Earl Grey and poured it into a unique and intriguing teacup. It’s a part of the collection of teacups I inherited recently from my beloved Aunt Lucille. And just like when I wrote my two previous novellas inspired by these family heirlooms, I can already feel her smiling down on me as I begin this newest tale.

  So why am I still staring at a blank page on my laptop screen? Why am I having so much trouble staying focused this morning? Well, if you must know, I’ll tell you.

  Last night, at long last, I went out to dinner with Mark Christopher, my hunky UPS guy. And we had the most wonderful time.

  Actually, it was what you’d call a rain-check date after a false start on Saturday night when I completely forgot about our double date with my brother and his girlfriend until the last possible minute; at which point I busted tail to get myself ready just in the nick of time, only to have Mark show up in his company browns telling me he had a work emergency and needed a rain check . . .

  Wait. I think that last paragraph might just qualify as the second longest run-on sentence on earth. The first, of course, penned by Victor Hugo on numerous pages in his masterpiece, Les Miserables. I once tried to read the unabridged version, but finally gave up after dear Victor took an entire page for one sentence. One sentence! Now, I love Jean Valjean as much as the next guy, but Victor‌—‌a little brevity is not a bad thing now and then. Just sayin’.

  But I digress.

  Bottom line, I should be in the deep end of my next novella by now, but instead I’m chasing rabbits here, there, and everywhere while suffering from a severe case of what I shall call the Monday Morning Mushbrain. And if I’m honest, this sheer lack of discipline all points back to last night’s date with Mark. So why not cut to the chase and just blame it on him?

  I really can’t remember the last time I went out on a bona fide date. My brother Chad says the characters in my books have more of a life than I do. And I think that’s the problem. I get lost in all these colorful stories, and I’m consumed with their dramas. I get weak-kneed telling their sweet love stories and describing their breathtaking romances.

  Then some Joe the Loser wants to take me out for gas station corn dogs and call it a date? No, thank you. Give me fiction. I’m much more comfortable in the LaLa Land of storytelling.

  Still, I admit I was rather enchanted when I heard Mark wanted to go out with me. I knew he was a nice guy, and I’d always enjoyed his delivery visits. But frankly, since I work at home and never bother with the whole hair and make-up thing before “going to the office” each day, he always catches me beauty-challenged, shall we say. Not exactly a guy-magnet, if you know what I mean. On the other hand, his adorable dimples and tanned muscular calves have always caught my eye. And did I mention he has a great laugh?

  Yes, but where was I? Oh, yes. The date.

  Can I just say that Mark is quite possibly the nicest guy I’ve ever met? That sounds so clichéd, but I’m pretty sure they broke the mold with this one. How do I know? As an author, I keep an ongoing list of character traits and descriptions in a little notebook I keep stashed in my purse. Let’s just say I had to sit on my hands so as not to write down all the thoughtful things he said, the sound of his easy laughter, and his subtle kindnesses. Like when I came to the door wearing the exact same dress and shawl as the night before when he’d rain-checked me. I felt awkward about it, but right away, he smiled.

  “Wow, Lucy, you look amazing. Is it okay if I tell you I was really hoping you’d wear that little black dress again?”

  “You had me at wow, big guy.”

  Okay, no. I didn’t say that. Honest.

  But see what I mean? And I think what I enjoyed most about Mark was his positive outlook on life. Not in a fake cheesy kind of way (think four-for-a-dollar powdered mac ‘n cheese mix). It’s just who he is. He looks for the best in people and situations. It made me realize how rare that is these days. Which made me feel pretty darn lucky to have those baby blues looking my way last night.

  After dinner, we walked to a little pub down the street. He casually took my hand then spoke my love language‌—‌ “Best bread pudding on the planet,” he said. “Lucy, it will rock your world.”

  He was right. We shared a serving big enough for four NFL linebackers.

  “I think I just found my new office,” I said. “I could set up shop right here in this booth with my trusty laptop, downing four or five of these decadent bad boys every day. Would you swing by with your forklift to pick me up after work?”

  And there was that laugh again. I decided then and there that Mark’s unrestrained laughter was one of the happiest, most contagious sounds I’d ever heard. And that’s why, without so much as a thought, I leaned over and kissed him.

  I have no idea what came over me. And for the record, I’ve never done anything like that before. Ever! It just seemed so perfect, so right. And guess what he said, after our perfect, first kiss?

  “Whoa . . . thanks, Lucy.”

  Be still, my heart.

  Which is why I’m not worth squat today. Which is why I can’t stop smiling and looking forward to seeing him again. Which is why I’m addicted to Amazon’s two-day free delivery . . . by way of UPS.

  But enough with the excuses. Time to work. No, really.

  And as much as I’ve procrastinated this time, I’m really looking forward to writing this next novella. There’s a “story within the story” this time around and that always makes it fun. A little history, a little mystery, a little romance . . . throw in a Harley or two, and I’m ready to roll.

  So to speak.

  Chapter 1

  With a deep cleansing breath, Tracey Collins closed her eyes. The decision had come quickly once she’d finally been honest with herself. She’d known all along this was what she needed to do. How naive I’ve been, she thought. How easily I’ve been fooled, thinking I could ignore the constant warning bells sounding off in my head. Thinking I could withstand the subtle overtures day after day.

  Gently shaking her head to banish the thoughts, she opened her eyes and placed her hands on her laptop keyboard. And as she did, Tracey’s mind flashed back to th
e reception she’d attended last night at the White House. Standing at the beverage bar, she’d just stirred cream into her coffee when he approached her, his voice hushed.

  “Tracey, you look amazing tonight.”

  The warmth of his breath so near her neck had sent a shiver skittering down her spine. Refusing to acknowledge Morgan’s presence, she’d smiled at the waiter and thanked him for the coffee, buying herself a moment. Turning around to face the other guests in the East Room, she’d avoided eye contact with him. “I sent your draft of the Ledford Bill to Senator Crawford’s assistant before I left the office. She assured me he’d take a look at it and get back to you tomorrow.”

  “Tracey, I don’t want to shop talk tonight,” he said, still facing the bar, his arm brushing gently against hers as he took a sip of his wine. “C’mon. I just gave you a compliment. Don’t you want to tell me how handsome I look?” he’d said, arching his eyebrows.

  She’d continued, doing her best to ignore him. “Also, I went over everything with Paul to get him up to speed on the projects needing attention while I’m away.”

  He blew out a sigh. “So you’re still planning on taking the next couple of weeks off?”

  She leveled her gaze at him. “Yes, Morgan. I’m taking the next couple of weeks off. You’ve known that for three months now.”

  He looked sideways at her, his glass at his lips. “I know, but I was kind of hoping you’d change your mind.”

  “Give me a break, Morgan. You sound more like a spoiled child than a United States Senator.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know,” he teased.

  She started to walk away. “Very funny.”

  “Wait,” he said, catching her arm.

  She glanced down at his hand then faced him directly. “Do you mind?” she whispered.

  “It’s just that there’s something we need to discuss before you leave.” He motioned her toward a corner of the room by a large floral arrangement.

  “Fine, but make it fast. There are several people here I need to speak with tonight.”

  He led the way, lowering his voice. “I was hoping you’d come back to the office with me tonight.”

  She studied his face, alarmed by the unmistakable look in his eyes. She’d seen it before, a gaze so tender, so inviting.

  It would be so easy . . .

  And so, so wrong.

  Morgan Thompson had always stood for things she believed in. He fought for causes she was passionate about. Family Rights. Religious liberty. The ongoing battle against those who would stomp on the Constitution. When he hired her fresh out of Vanderbilt’s grad school, his alma-mater, she worked tirelessly beside him while getting her feet wet learning how things worked inside the Beltway.

  Staring into those warm blue eyes, she knew precisely why he wanted her to go back to the office with him. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked away. “Morgan‍—‍”

  “Hey, you know I hate it when you use that tone with me.”

  “That’s because you know what I’m going to say.”

  He leaned closer. “Please, Tracey. How many ways can I say it? I need you.”

  She wadded up the small embossed beverage napkin then stuffed it in her half-empty cup. She returned her eyes to his. “No, Morgan. Not tonight. Not ever. Go home to your wife.” She shoved the cup and saucer into his hand and turned to walk away.

  She’d cried all the way home. Not from a broken heart, but because of the implications of his invitation. He’d never been so transparent. Had she somehow inadvertently encouraged him? Morgan Thompson‌—‌the face of family values in Washington‌—‌what could he possibly be thinking to come on to her like that? Did he just assume she’d fall for him and no one would ever know?

  As if any secret was safe in Washington?

  But worst of all was the intense betrayal washing through her. Amanda Thompson had welcomed Tracey to Washington the day she arrived, taking her under her wing, helping her navigate the perilous waters of the nation’s capital. But more than that, Amanda was her friend. They attended the same Bible study at church. They baked together. They shopped together. Tracey had twice stayed with their kids when Morgan and Amanda had last-minute trips come up.

  Now, as her flight headed homeward, she couldn’t help but wonder. How has it come to this? Has he lost his mind?

  She shook her head again, trying to refocus on the task before her.

  Morgan,

  I’ve done a lot of thinking since last night, and there’s something I need to do. I should have told you this in person before I left town, but the coward in me won the toss, so I’m writing you instead. We’ve both known this day would come. I wanted so badly to believe I could maintain a professional relationship and continue working alongside you for as long as you remain in Washington. However, it’s quite obvious that’s no longer possible.

  If I’ve done anything to cause you to think of me in any way other than professionally, I can assure you it was unintentional. Over the past several months, I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop making advances toward me. In all honesty, I should have reported such harassment. But out of respect for Amanda, I decided not to do so. Your wife is my best friend, Morgan. Are you really that heartless?

  You’ve given me no other choice, so please accept this as my two-week notice. I have no plans to return to Washington. I’ll be in touch with Paul to finalize my departure from the office and square things away with personnel.

  In the beginning, it was an honor and privilege to serve with you. That’s no longer the case. I truly hope you’ll find your way back to the man you used to be. You owe that to Amanda, to your kids, to your constituents, but most of all, to the God you purport to serve.

  Tracey

  Tracey keyed in the address of Morgan’s personal email account and clicked SEND. There was one more note she needed to write. She quickly opened a new message page and began typing.

  Dear Amanda,

  I owe you a long phone call and an explanation, but for now, I just wanted you to know I’m resigning from my job as Morgan’s assistant for personal reasons . . .

  Her hands froze on the keyboard. For personal reasons? How benign that sounds. Amanda knows me too well. She’ll pick up the phone and call the minute she reads those words, then pelt me with a thousand questions.

  Tracey wasn’t ready for that. She quickly deleted the email, shut down her laptop, and slipped it back into her leather bag. A long sigh eased from her lips as she rested her head against the seat back and looked out the small oval window beside her. No sooner had she done so than the calm voice of the pilot interrupted her thoughts.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re on final approach to Nashville International Airport . . .”

  He continued the usual announcement which was followed by the obligatory end-of-flight instructions by one of the flight attendants. But Tracey tuned them out. She leaned closer to the window, wishing the autumn landscape below would refresh her weary soul. She felt detached. Strangely adrift. As if she’d finally broken free of the tangled mess lodged somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

  So why is there so much sadness creeping through my veins?

  As the 737 gently banked toward home, Tracey uttered a silent prayer.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  “Tracey Jo! Over here!”

  She heard her father’s voice just as she grabbed her bag from the conveyor belt. Turning to search him out, she found herself buried in a bear hug, his familiar laughter encircling them.

  “Oh, sweetheart! It’s so good to see you!”

  Tracey clung to him, her face buried against his chest. “Hi, Daddy. It’s good to be home!”

  As she pulled back, she got her first look at him. “Dad! What‌—‌I mean, how . . . good heavens, look at you!”

  “Yeah, I know‌—‌my hair’s a little longer than last time you saw me. Right?”

  “That’s a huge understatement.” When he turned his head, sh
e all but gasped. “You have a ponytail?!”

  Buddy Collins flashed her his signature crooked smile and dancing eyes. He flipped his head back and forth, causing the long salt and pepper mane to whip from shoulder to shoulder. “Pretty cool, huh?” He hoisted the smaller bag over his shoulder and grabbed the handle to her rolling suitcase, starting toward the sliding doors. “C’mon. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  She followed him, eyes still wide as she looked over this strange new version of the father she loved. He wore a black leather jacket with some kind of insignia on the back. His faded blue jeans were frayed at the hems over black boots studded with silver.

  He turned around, stopped abruptly, and tilted his head to one side looking back at her. “What? Did you forget something?”

  “No, no I got‌—‌Dad, what’s happened to you?”

  “To me? What do you mean?”

  “The last time I saw you, your hair was a bit shaggy, but‍—‍”

  He started walking again. “Ah, sweetie, it’s no big deal. I just thought it’d be fun to grow it out‍—‍”

  “And when was the last time you shaved?”

  He jutted his chin out, showing off his close-cropped white beard. “Not bad, eh? I just got tired of the routine. It’s a nuisance, having to shave every morning, sometimes twice a day. I figured, who cares if I have a few whiskers?”

  “I know, but‍—‍”

  “I mean, it’s not as if I’m gonna have a bunch of nosy deacons calling to complain about it. Know what I mean?”

  She finally caught up with him just as sunlight glistened off the general vicinity of his ear. She stopped, grabbing his arm and pulling him to a stop. “Is that . . . is that an earring?!”

  He parked the rolling bag and reached for his earlobe. “Yeah! You like it?”