Nancy Thompson - True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

She’s a Southern belle through and through—gracious, steadfast and honest. She’s ready to offer you a tall glass of sweet tea, or a piece of her mind, whichever best suits the situation.

I suppose the Villa Magnolia is a Southern belle in her own right, too, because beneath her peeling paint and red tile roof that’s mildewed green-black, she stands graceful and proud.

She is a survivor.

I could learn a thing or two from both of them.

Sarah rests her head against the passenger window as if it’s too much for her to open her eyes and take a peek at our new home.

I want to turn to her and say, “Baby girl, I know you hate me for uprooting you, but it’s going to be all right.”

It has to be all right.

Award-winning author Nancy Robards Thompson lives and writes in Florida, where she spent three years serving on the PTSA board at her daughter’s school. Along the way, she encountered a couple of “Stratford Wives” in the ranks of the general membership, but her overall PTSA experience was quite pleasant, thanks to the dedicated ladies with whom she served on the board. She holds a degree in journalism and has worked a myriad of jobs, including television-show stand-in; production and extras casting for movies; newspaper reporter; and several mind-numbing jobs in the fashion industry and public relations. Much more content to report to her muse, Nancy has found nirvana doing what she loves most—writing women’s fiction full-time. Critics have deemed her books “funny, smart and observant.” True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA is her fourth NEXT novel.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Isn’t it interesting the different people we meet along life’s path? Those with whom we bond instantly and others who remain distant enigmas. Sure, it’s easier to feel connected to those with whom we share common interests and thoughts. But sometimes the “difficult” people teach us the most about ourselves—even though at times it seems as if they were simply put on this earth to annoy us.

That’s the case in True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA. Three women—Maggie, Barbara and Elizabeth—forge an unlikely friendship in the midst of personal storms too dark to weather alone. In the process, the bonds of their alliance are stretched and relationships are tested, but in the end, they emerge stronger women because of it.

I hope you’ll find a piece of yourself in these three courageous women and come away knowing that through faith, love and friendship anything is possible. I love to hear from readers, so please visit me at www.nancyrobardsthompson.com and let me know what you think.

Warmly,

Nancy

This book is dedicated to my father, Jim Robards, for being the best dad a girl could wish for. Daddy, thanks for making laughter such a big a part of our lives.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Tammy Strickland for taking time away from her own writing and nursing career to advise me on high-risk pregnancy.

Hugs and appreciation—

To Sarah M., Sandy M., Evelyn S., Tyler J., Janet W., Cindy P., Debi W., Danella S., Donna S. and Polly R., who made my PTSA service an enjoyable experience. Ladies, it was an honor and a pleasure to serve with you. Your dedication to our school is what makes it such a wonderful place.

To Beverly Brandt for sharing the Bob joke!

To Kathy Garbera and Teresa Elliot Brown, who always know the next move when I’m stuck.

To Michael and Jennifer, who are my world.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

Maggie

It’s easy to look back and pinpoint what you should’ve done differently, to think of words you could’ve said, or a path you should’ve taken if you’d only trusted your intuition.

What’s not so easy is looking forward, past the shouldas and couldas, straight into the eyes of the here and now.

I stop the car in front of the wrought-iron gates surrounding the Villa Magnolia, this place I visited so many times as a child, and I take a good look at the here and now, forcing myself to drink it down like bitter medicine.

Funny how you can look at something for years and never really see it. As far back as I can remember, my aunt Barbara has lived in the sprawling, lakefront estate, the home where Barbara and Mama grew up.

My granddaddy made and lost a fortune in the citrus industry, and the house was all he managed to hang on to. Due to family tensions I never understood, Mama was disinherited. Granddaddy left Barbara the Villa Magnolia, and left Mama and me to survive on our own the best we could. The only thing I know is that it had something to do with Granddaddy not approving of Mama’s boyfriend, the man who would eventually get her pregnant with me.

All my daddy left me was his olive skin, lush lips and dark curly hair.

The trinity of his legacy.

Today, as I sit here, with the sun shining through the dense, leafy branches of the old magnolia tree, I realize I’ve come back seeking answers. I haven’t quite figured out all the questions, but they’ll come. Yes, as sure as the sword fern has invaded the grass between the driveway and the fence, the questions will come.

Barbara’s the one responsible for my daughter and me moving back. She just wouldn’t rest until she got us here. It took a year of her badgering me, but I lived in a daze for the first nine months after my husband Tim died. In that big old house in Asheville, just my daughter Sarah and me.

Sometimes I’d hear or read something that would make me think, Oh, I have to call Tim and tell him—and a split second later, the realization would set in that I couldn’t call Tim and the only way I could cope was to take a sleeping pill and put a pillow over my head so I could obliterate the pain.

It was bad enough that sometimes I’d sleep until it was time to pick up Sarah from school; but the wake-up call came after he’d been gone five months—the morning the knife I was using to butter Sarah’s toast slipped out of my hand and slid underneath the refrigerator. I got down on my hands and knees to fish it out and found a note in Tim’s handwriting caught in the dusty coils.

Maggie, morning, hon, had to head out to an early meeting. Didn’t want to wake you. Forgot to mention that my blue shirt needs to be spot-treated when you take it to the cleaners. See you tonight. Love you, Tim

No, I wouldn’t see him tonight. He’d wrapped his white Infiniti around a telephone pole and was never coming home again. Not that night or any other.

In a stupor, I went upstairs to the spare bedroom and dug that blue shirt out of the boxes of his things I’d packed up but couldn’t quite bring myself to take to the Salvation Army.