Rain Song (Heart of Carolina Book #1) , livre ebook

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131 pages

English

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Extrait

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Nicole Michelin avoids airplanes, motorcycles, and most of all, Japan, where her parents once were missionaries. Something happened in Japan...something that sent Nicole and her father back to America alone...something of which Nicole knows only bits and pieces. But she is content with life in little Mount Olive, North Carolina, with her quirky relatives, tank of lively fish, and plenty of homemade pineapple chutney. Through her online column for the Pretty Fishy Web site, she meets Harrison Michaels, who, much to her dismay, lives in Japan. She attempts to avoid him, but his e-mails tug at her heart. Then Harrison reveals that he knew her as a child in Japan. In fact, he knows more about her childhood than she does...

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 octobre 2008
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441205681
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0259€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2008 by Alice J. Wisler
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 04.18.2016 (VBN), 04.29.2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-0568-1
Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by B iblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Cover design by Andrea Gjeldum Cover photography by T. Schmidt/Getty Images, Inc.
For Rachel, Benjamin, and Elizabeth, and in memory of Daniel, my reason for waving to heaven.
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”
—H ELEN K ELLER
A ME, AME
FURE, FURE
KAASANGA
JANOME DE
OMUKAE
URESHIINA
—A Japanese children’s song about a mother who comes in the rain to pick up her child
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
A Japanese children's song
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
The McCormick Family Recipe
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Questions for Conversation
Books by Alice J. Wisler
Back Cover
Chapter One
M OUNT O LIVE , N ORTH C AROLINA 1999
When they suggest changing the location of the family reunion, I am first to speak. I clear my throat a few times—something that irritates me when anyone else does it—and then, with my eyes focused on the crystal vase of scarlet roses centered on Ducee’s kitchen table, I begin. I remind them that we’ve always had the reunion in North Carolina; why break tradition? Tradition is big in the McCormick family.
I see Ducee nod, which gives me courage to continue. Since there are more family members in this region, I add, making all of us fly to Wyoming would be senseless. Wouldn’t it be easier and much more logical for the Wyoming group to fly here? They are younger. I mean, should Ducee really fly at her age? And her heart condition, don’t forget that.
Cheyenne, Wyoming, residents Aunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, who are spending the weekend with Ducee, look uncomfortably across the table at each other. In unison they blurt, “Oh, Nicole, of course Ducee shouldn’t fly.” Then they apologize to Ducee for even making the suggestion.
“Oh my, what were we thinking?” Aunt Betty reaches her round pink arm across the table toward Ducee, tipping the flower arrangement; Uncle Jarvis grabs the vase just in time. Aunt Betty croons, “Oh, Mother, I don’t know what came over me.”
I gnaw on a thumbnail and stand to wash the dishes. They don’t need to be apologetic about their idea; they just don’t need to give it any more consideration.
So nothing has changed, and once again, this July, the family reunion will be here in Mount Olive. We’ll make the usual food—potato salad, chicken salad, honey-baked ham, corn on the cob dripping with butter, green bean casserole, delicate egg salad sandwiches on white bread, and of course, traditional homemade pineapple chutney. We’ll spread the checkered tablecloths over the rickety picnic tables in my grandmother Ducee’s backyard and cover ourselves with insect repellent and eat until the stars flicker out one by one. Great-Uncle Clive will swing the great-grandkids in the tire swing as Maggie, Ducee’s white-pawed donkey, brays and nibbles at ripe blackberries growing over the edge of the wooden fence.
The Wyoming group—Aunt Betty and Uncle Jarvis, Kate, Linda, and their spouses and children—will inevitably wonder how we handle the humidity and tell us a few dozen times that the air is less sticky in Cheyenne, until Cousin Aaron drives them in the church van to the coast. Then, after splashing in the salty waves as they watch the sun set over the Atlantic, they will smile and say how lovely the ocean is and what a blessing it is for us in Mount Olive to be so close to this spectacular view. For a moment, they will envy us, their bodies not at all bothered by southern summer stickiness.
Ducee knows, though. She lifts her chin and adjusts her bifocals and I know she knows. She’s thinking that Nicole doesn’t care if we have Japanese squid and octopus at the reunion, as long as it means keeping the gathering here in Mount Olive. Just don’t make her get on an airplane. That’s what Ducee is thinking as she nods and wipes her pale lips with a pastel linen napkin.
No plane ride for me. Ever.
Last time I was on a plane I threw up three times. I was only two and don’t remember it, but I’m sure things haven’t changed. Just the sound of planes racing overhead is enough to pump fear into my veins and churn my stomach.
Great-Aunt Iva says that everyone is entitled to at least one phobia. She adds that if you have any Irish McCormick blood in you, you are most certainly entitled to even a few more.
———
On a crisp February afternoon, Iva, Ducee, and I sit around the kitchen table with bone china cups of tea. They ask how I am. We’ve just made three gallons of pineapple chutney and we’re still in Mount Olive pickle green aprons. We’re pretty wiped out; that’s what this chutney-making tradition does to you. Hours and hours of slicing pineapple and adding spices while standing over a simmering pot can really sap your energy. That’s why, after the chutney is sealed in jars, we allow for plenty of time to relax with hot ginger tea.
Ducee adds black tea leaves to freshly ground ginger root and seasons the mixture with lemon juice and sugar. She boils this concoction with distilled water because she is convinced that distilled water creates the best tea. She says it’s common southern knowledge.
“I’m fine,” I reply. Quickly, I take a long drink. The tea scalds my tongue.
Ducee glances at me, raises an eyebrow, and waits.
She can wait all afternoon; I am not about to tell her anything more. I reach for a grape from the fruit bowl and admire the carnations in the crystal vase.
“You’ve been in another world,” Ducee says. Her greenish-blue eyes soften as she studies my face.
I force a smile. “Really, I’m okay.” Sticking my thumb into my mouth, I chew a ragged nail. Nail-biting and fear of flying are my two known weaknesses. The other ones I work at hiding from everyone else.
Iva lights up a Virginia Slims, stretches her long, slender legs, and crosses her ankles. When she does this, it’s as though she thinks she’s the original Ms. Virginia Slims. She says she hopes we can have cucumber sandwiches at the reunion. “You know how much I like cucumbers thinly sliced on white bread.” She exhales and adds, “Peeled, of course. Never did like the skin of a cucumber, not even the ones we grew growing up on our farm.”
Ducee shakes her head, causing her gray curls to bounce. “Not at all proper.” She enunciates each word as I do when teaching. “I told you before, Iva. It isn’t done.”
Iva asks, “And why not?”
“You can’t have both egg salad and cucumber sandwiches at the same party.” Ducee states this as though it’s a fact, like the population of Mount Olive, which happens to be 4,427.
Iva’s hazel eyes widen behind her silver-rimmed glasses. “Says who?”
“It’s common etiquette. All southerners know this. Take pimento cheese, for example. Our southern classic. However, it cannot be eaten with egg salad, either.”
“I’ve never heard any of this before and I’ve lived in North Carolina all my life,” Iva says, her voice laced with aggravation.
I roll my eyes at Iva. There is no point in my aunt continuing with her desire to have cucumber sandwiches. When Ducee mentions etiquette, it’s useless to argue. My grandmother thinks she is the queen of etiquette, at least southern etiquette.
Once, as a young girl visiting her during summer vacation, I asked Ducee what the name of her book was. Puzzled, she questioned what I meant.
“Your book you wrote,” I said. “The one about how to wipe your mouth on a cloth napkin and how to kiss cheeks.”
Ducee played along. “Oh, my book of important Southern Truths.” She patted my arm. “Yes, that’s it, yes. They are written somewhere, I’m sure. Emily Post or Mrs. Vanderbilt.”
I was nine before I realized Ducee had not written a book on etiquette; she just liked to talk about certain ways one should conduct oneself—her renowned Southern Truths . I do admit I was disappointed and couldn’t bear to tell my classmates at my elementary school in Richmond, Virginia, that my grandmother in Mount Olive, North Carolina, had not authored a book, even though, yes, one day in third-grade show-and-tell I proudly shared she had.
As the afternoon sun shifts behind a cloud and darkens the kitchen, Iva takes a slow puff on her cigarette. She exchanges the cucumber-sandwiches topic for her grandson-in-law. “I just don’t know what Grable is going to do about Dennis. She’s having to live the life of the single parent.” Grable is Iva’s granddaughter who is thirty-five, four years older than I am.
I know nothing about marriage, since I’ve never been married. I would like to be married, I think. But some nights, I watch my aquarium of saltwater fish swimming in their tranquil patterns and wonder why I’d want to bring chaos to our home. My fish and I are doing quite well without a human male mate.
Iva inhales, blows out a smoke ring, and says, “I knew Dennis was no good from the get-go.”
“Yes, yes,” Ducee chimes, a frown encompassing her brow. “We all know that he reminds you of Harlowe.”
Harlowe, named after the river in