Gone South
Authors: Meg Moseley
Praise for
Gone South
“Meg Moseley follows her stellar debut with this lovely dive down south where her colorful characters will make you feel southern even if you aren’t. When Tish, on a whim, lands in an old family home, she realizes there are secrets to be discovered in small-town Alabama. With a spark of romance, a friend who seems to always land in trouble, and a few healed scars, this inspirational tale is destined to be another winner.”
—J
ULIE
C
ANTRELL
,
New York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author of
Into the Free
“What happens when a Yankee ventures south, expecting warm southern hospitality but getting a shoulder as cold as the Michigan winters she left behind? Filled with quirky, endearing characters and a heartwarming story about taking risks and finding reward,
Gone South
will delight you.”
—M
ARYBETH
W
HALEN
, author of
The Wishing Tree
and director of
SheReads.org
“
Gone South
is a prodigal story about second chances, the importance of family, and the complexities of the human spirit. In this compelling novel, Meg Moseley reminds us all that we are more than our reputations and that God truly does make everything beautiful in its own time.”
—K
ATIE
G
ANSHERT
, author of
Wildflowers from Winter
and
Wishing on Willows
“In
Gone South
, Meg Moseley has created a cast of characters that captured my imagination and drew me into their world. As their stories unfolded, I found myself caring deeply for Tish and George and especially young Mel, whose foibles and shortcomings made her all the more endearing. I have a feeling the folks of Noble will stay with me a good long while!”
—A
NN
T
ATLOCK
, award-winning author of
Sweet Mercy
“Some people write books; some tell stories. Meg Moseley does both, drawing the reader into the lives of strangers who, by the end of the novel, have become friends. She captures a southern town that can be as ornery as it is beautiful, and through it shows that ‘we all do terrible things.’ Things that only a loving God could grant us forgiveness and grace.
Gone South
is not to be missed.”
—C
HRISTA
A
LLAN
, author of
Walking on Broken Glass
and
The Edge of Grace
“Meg Moseley’s sophomore novel is the perfect blend of southern charm, fast cars, and endearing characters. With a new twist on the prodigal child,
Gone South
is a literary delight from start to finish!”
—C
ARLA
S
TEWART
, award-winning author of
Chasing Lilacs
and
Stardust
“On the spur of the moment, in a bit of northern naiveté, a young Yankee woman moves south to the town where her ancestors lived during the Reconstruction period and opens up a whole can of worms. Get ready for a fun and thought-provoking ride, as powerful as the story’s Corvette. In
Gone South
, Moseley spins a lovely tale of prodigals and prejudices and of a courageous young woman who refuses to take the easy way out.”
—E
LIZABETH
M
USSER
, author of
The Swan House
and
The Sweetest Thing
BOOKS BY MEG MOSELEY
When Sparrows Fall
GONE SOUTH
PUBLISHED BY MULTNOMAH BOOKS
12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200
Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921
The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Meg Moseley
Cover design by Kelly Howard; cover photo by Ian Cook
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by WaterBrook Multnomah, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House Inc., New York.
Multnomah and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Random House Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Moseley, Meg.
Gone south : a novel / Meg Moseley—First Edition.
pages cm
eISBN: 978-0-307-73081-7
I. Title.
PS3613.O77876G66 2013
813′.6—dc23
2013003030
v3.1
This book is dedicated to the memory of Joseph Moseley, recently departed for a far better world; and to Lizzie, Karis, and the other grandchildren who will join our family someday. I will always love you and believe in you, no matter what
.
Contents
No doubt it was the last time they would ever meet at the hole-in-a-wall Greek place for gyros, but brooding wouldn’t help. She had arrived first, as usual, so she placed their regular orders at the counter and settled into a bright orange booth by a window. Wrapped in the cocoon of clatter from the kitchen and an ancient Motown song on the stereo, Tish McComb rested her chin in her hands and watched headlights zip past on the big hill that descended into the south end of town.
Snow flurries twinkled down from the sky, a reminder that the first serious snow would arrive soon. As much as Tish loved the way a winter storm could swaddle an ordinary little Michigan town in a sparkling blanket of white, she wasn’t fond of driving in it.
A gust of wind blew a flock of faded autumn leaves past the window. Her mother followed at a trot with a gigantic handbag on her arm and a red scarf hugging her neck. No gloves, probably because she loved to show off her new wedding ring. She pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside, smoothing her rumpled gray curls with her left hand.
Spotting Tish, she smiled. “You’re always too punctual. Did you order for me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Thanks. Did you remember my avgolemono? And extra tzatziki sauce?”
“Of course,” Tish said with a trace of envy. She’d blow up like a blimp if she ate like that. She didn’t have her mother’s petite figure.
Her cheeks flushed, Barb Miller plopped down on the other side of the booth and unwound her scarf. She looked both wired and tired.
“Pretty scarf,” Tish said.
“I knew you would like it. And I see you’ve been thrifting again. Cute jacket.”
“I found it online. It’s from the forties, but it still has all its original hardware, see?” Tish patted the brass buttons that marched down the jacket’s smooth, bright blue wool. “It has some tiny stains that won’t come out, but I couldn’t pass it up.”
“We vintage items always have our flaws. They’re part of our charm.”
Tish smiled at her mother, a woman whose gentle wrinkles were like those of a well-ripened persimmon. “Part of your charm is the way you describe how charming you are,” she teased.
Mom ignored the quip. “That’s a nice blue on you. It goes with your eyes.” Peering at Tish’s hair, she said, “I wish you wouldn’t keep your hair skinned back tight like that. You know it’s gorgeous, so turn it loose. Let it frame your pretty face.”
Tish refrained from rolling her eyes at her mother’s predictable comments. “You know I have to look businesslike for my job, Mom. How’s the packing coming along?”
“Slowly. Charles hasn’t moved a lot, so he hasn’t weeded out a thousand times like we did. It’ll be a miracle if we finish before moving day.”
“I’ll come over a few more times to help,” Tish offered. “And I’ve put in for that week off so I can make the trip with you.”
Her mother frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t waste your vacation days to help a couple of old fogies move their junk. You should round up some of those
nice girls from your church and go someplace special. Someplace warm. Puerto Vallarta, maybe. Isn’t Fran a traveler? I bet she’d love to go on a trip.”
“Yes, she would.” Tish loved Fran, but when they’d roomed together at the over-thirty singles’ retreat, she’d snored like an overweight trucker. “But I want to see your new place and help you unpack. It’ll be fun—and warm.”
“Not as much fun as Puerto Vallarta, but … oh, all right. Thanks, honey.” An impish smile overcame the frown. “You know I’m pretty well organized, but I’m still cleaning out your father’s storage unit. Yesterday I found a blender in a box he’d labeled ‘garden stuff.’ ”
Tish laughed. “Typical.”
“This morning I hauled out a box labeled ‘miscellaneous,’ and you’ll never guess what he’d tucked away with his electric car research.” Her mom reached for her bag.
“You’re right. I’ll never guess.”
“A treasure, just for you.” She pulled out a large manila envelope and offered it to Tish. “Ta-da!”
Tish sucked in her breath, recognizing that loose, loopy penmanship. “The McComb Letters,” her father had written, and he’d underlined it twice.
She took the envelope. “Oh my goodness. Finally, I have my chance to read the letters. He always kept them out of sight, like he thought they’d be stolen or something.”
“I still haven’t run across the other papers—the genealogy and whatnot—but I’ll find them eventually. Will you want them too?”
“Sure. Thanks, Mom.” Tish unfastened the metal clasp and reached into the envelope. She smiled at how meticulously he had wrapped the letters in acid-free paper.
Tish slid the packet back into the envelope. “I won’t look until I get them home. I’d hate to get grease on them. Or lemon soup.”
“Heaven forbid. Your father would roll over in his grave.”
“They’re for me to keep?”
“Of course. You’re the one with McComb blood, not me, and you’re at least a little bit interested in family history.”
“I haven’t given it much thought since Dad passed away, though.” Tish closed the envelope again and tucked it carefully between her purse and the wall.
