Lesley Kagen - Tomorrow River

© 2010

Thanks from the bottom of my heart to:

My editor, Ellen Edwards.

Publishers Brian Tart and Kara Welch.

The hard-working advertising, art, publicity, production,

promotion, editorial, and sales teams at Dutton and NAL.

My agent, Kim Witherspoon, for her unrelenting optimism.

The diligent team at Inkwell Management.

Stephanie Lee, Jeanine Swenson, Hope Erwin, Eileen Kaufmann,

and Rochelle Staab for their valuable feedback and friendship.

Legal beagles, the Hon. Darcy McManus, Bruce Rosen, J.D.,

and Casey Fleming, J.D.

Madeira James, for creating and maintaining my Web site.

Mike Lebow, you know why.

Book clubs. What a gift you are!

Booksellers. Especially, Next Chapter Books,

my home away from home.

My husband, Pete, who is a saint for putting up with my nonsense.

Casey and Riley, my adorable, incredibly bright, and

good-looking children.

Lexington, Virginia, for the literary license.

If you’d had the occasion to come calling on the Carmody clan of Rockbridge County that long-ago summer, being a stranger and not familiar with our twisting mountain roads and all, you might’ve found yourself pulling into the Triple S for directions. So there you’d be, perspiring from your every pore, waiting on the owner to come rushing out, thrilled to meet your every need. But my oh my, how disappointed you would’ve been. Because proprietor Sam Moody? He would’ve stayed sat on his station porch until he was darn well ready to come sashaying your way. And you? Awfully put off by his barely brown boldness, you’d’ve already formed the impression that the man was some sort of ill bred and wished you’d stopped at the Shell out on the highway instead.

But let’s just say, as I’m attempting to set the scene for you here, that you gathered your wits together long enough to inquire, “The Carmody place? Lilyfield?” And let’s further say that Sam, still not thrilled, but certain you meant us no harm, replied, “Past the woods, make a left on Lee Road.” So off you’d go, pressing pedal to metal, relieved as hell that you came from somewhere else that boasted cooler air and more courteous help.

But I guarantee you, the moment you braked at our wrought-iron gate, thoughts of the unbearable heat we’d been having and the station that hadn’t been very serviceable would’ve fled your head. “Will you look at that,” you’d’ve muttered as your eyes journeyed up our impressive tree-lined drive and came to rest on the magnificent house. “This Carmody place is fine. Real fine.”

But just how you were thinking only moments ago about Sam Moody being nothing more than a gumptious high-yellow Negro, I’m afraid your first impression of Lilyfield would’ve been way off as well. Once you’d come closer, looked deeper, you’d’ve seen that our place wasn’t at all fine and neither were we Carmodys.

The lady of our house had vanished.

During the course of all our lives, there comes a time when something or someone very dear to us will break beyond repair. Growing older teaches us we have no choice but to humbly accept that no matter how hard we try or how many tears we shed we’re powerless to glue those precious pieces back together again. But during the summer I went searching for our missing mother, I was just a girl. I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. No. It wasn’t until the damage was done that I truly understood the meaning of “Pride goeth before a fall.”

Then again, maybe my hindsight could borrow your eyes for a bit.

I’m sure you’ve heard it said that a person can’t begin to understand another’s troubles until they take a stroll in their shoes. So maybe you’d… would you do me the favor of slipping on my little gal sneakers and taking forty giant steps backwards in time? Go stumbling around the summer of ’69 the same way I did? Once you see what I was up against, I’m hoping you’ll come to believe that my heart was tender and my intentions pure, and that’s got to count for something.

Assuming you’re willing, allow me to offer a bit of advice before we get under way. Try to keep in mind what I mentioned to you earlier on. Because even though I’m still torn about the way I dealt with Mama’s disappearance and more than likely will meet my Maker being so, I am dreadfully certain about one thing. Those first impressions? They can be dead wrong.

We got one heck of a view from up here.

Under less heartbreaking circumstances, I might even describe it as astronomical and that’s not just me waxing poetic, which I am prone to do. I got the Monacan Indians to back me up on this. According to one of their legends, the beauty of our Shenandoah Valley so impressed the stars gazing down from above that they held a celestial powwow and agreed to cast the brightest jewels from their twinkling crowns into our abundant waters, which was real nice of them, if somewhat shortsighted. We got a whole lot more than rivers and creeks to merit their stellar attention. The Blue Ridge Mountains cradle us in a glorious blanket of green. If you breathe in deep, the smell of Christmas trees fills your nose no matter what time of year it is. Horses run faster. Flowers grow taller. Even the birds tweet sweeter.

I believe my father, Judge Walter T. Carmody, a gentleman well-known in the Commonwealth of Virginia for rarely making mistakes, pulled a real doozy when he named me after this heavenly valley on earth. Shenandoah means “beautiful daughter of the stars.” That’s what His Honor should’ve called my sister instead of Jane Woodrow, because I don’t think I am. Beautiful, that is. Not like Woody. We’re supposed to be identical twins, but we’re not entirely so. My blond hair kinks in the heat and my green eyes look like they sprouted from a slightly different family tree than hers. From a distance, though, hardly anybody can tell us apart. Unless I smile. Got a gap between my two front teeth and who cares, I get all A’s.

My sister and I are snuggled up in the strongest branches of an old oak that’s eighty-two steps from the back porch of the house, depending on how much of a hurry we’re in. Papa built us this fort. Carved his name in the trunk of the tree like an artist so proud of his work. Back when he still called my sister and me his “little Gemini,” we’d lie with him on the fort’s floor. So happy to breathe in the smell of English Leather that ran along his jaw. Overjoyed to hear his heart beating steady beneath the pocket of his starched white shirt while he pointed out Orion, the Hunter, or Ursa Major, the Great Bear. I could almost always make out those sky pictures, but Woody couldn’t. Instead of saying, “Oh sure, there’s the Little Dipper,” the way I did to please him, my sister would begin humming along with whatever tune our mother was crooning while she washed the supper dishes, her angel voice floating out of the kitchen window below.

But everything changed after Mama disappeared.

Even Lilyfield.

That’s the name of our house and the fifty rolling and wooded acres that it sits on outside of town. Not that long ago, anybody who knew the Carmody place would’ve told you it was pretty enough to win a pageant prize the same way Mrs. Murdoch did. She was a runner-up in the 1937 Miss Virginia contest, but has sort of slowed down to a walk these days. Don’t get me wrong, Lolly Murdoch still turns heads. You just got to look harder to see the beauty that’s lying beneath her weathered skin. Same with Lilyfield.