Lucky in Love (23 page)

“Damn couch!”

The End

Although Karina Gioertz has been writing for most of her life, it never quite registered with her as something out of the ordinary or worth pursuing, because it was so closely connected to who she was. It wasn’t until she became a stay at home mom and finally took the time to write an entire book from beginning to end, that she understood what all of those ideas she had been jotting down all those years were really for. Since then, she has written several books, including Country Girls, Lucky In Love and Blood Bound.

While writing and motherhood have become her main focus over the years, she also enjoys many other creative activities such as painting and photography. Most sunny days she can be found in her courtyard working feverishly at painting and refurbishing old furniture…that is, of course, only if it wasn’t a suitable day to spend at the beach. ;-)

Karina resides in sunny Florida with her family and two dogs and can be contacted via Facebook (www.facebook.com/friedgatortail) Twitter (
www.twitter.com/friedgatortail
) and at
www.friedgatortail.wix.com/karinagioertz

Below you’ll find an excerpt from her debut novel Country Girls ~

Country Girls

By Karina
Gioertz

                My name
is Emma Wilson
. I’ve spent most of my life living on our family ranch in the small town of Angie, Louisiana. It’s not a bad place to call home, although, as with most small towns, it can be rather hard to keep a secret. Unless of course, you’re a Wilson. We Wilson’s have some of the best kept secrets around, but then we learned early on that some things are better left unsaid. 

              However, no matter how tightlipped we may have been, it never seemed to keep the town from talking. Naturally, this only encouraged us to give them
more
to talk about, but I’m getting off point.

             Of all the tales that have been told about us Wilson Girls, there’s no denying that the most noteworthy of them all, was the one that came about after the summer of 2001.  I wish I could say that it was all just town gossip - wildfire lies stemming from big mouths and loose lips. But the truth is, it
ain’t. 

              As the oldest of us three, it only seems right that I would be the one to tell you about what really happened all those years ago.
Afterall, I was there for most of it and what I didn’t see for myself or find out from Harry, I heard around town many times over. Seems there wasn’t a person in all of Angie who didn’t feel the need to buy me a beer at one point or another just so they’d have an excuse to tell me their side of the story. Even grumpy old Carlton had his turn. And then there was Bruce Thomas whose nephew was a cop all the way out in Mississipi…anyway, you’ll see how it all ties together, but suffice it to say, he gave me quite an earful. In some strange way, I think they all found it excitin’ to be tied  to us and what had happened that summer. Truthfully, it probably
was
the biggest thing to ever happen in our little town.

               Then there’s Eli, my sister and in a way she was at the center of it all…not counting her, there are only two people in the entire world who know her side. I’m one of them.

Rise Above The Ashes

1976

This story
begins in the deepest of darkness, as so many stories do. It is only from the darkness that we strive to see the light, that we overcome what can’t be overcome, that we stand after we have fallen and we rise above the ashes. This night was as it was every night, pitch black. The only light for miles was the glowing, red blaze of flames ferociously devouring a small farm-house in the midst of an open and seemingly endless field of corn. These flames were matched only by the frantic flashing of lights that stemmed from the fire truck. It had arrived shortly after the fire had reached the ceiling and spread to the roof. By then, neighbors had been able to see the crimson glares in spite of the nearly hundred acres that separated their houses from the one going up in flames.

It wasn’t long before rescue workers were rushing around trying to save what was left of the home. They wouldn’t succeed. At the center of devastation and chaos, there I stood, a young girl, no older than seven. I was dressed in a flannel nightgown that came all the way down to my bare toes. The pattern had been pink and purple hearts, but it no longer showed through the layers of ash and dust that had covered my entire body. My long blonde hair was a tangled mess
,
and the ends kept getting thrown in the wind and would come flailing back to whip across my face.

In my arms I held a small bundle. A baby. I clung to her tighter than one might cling to a life-preserver while floating out at sea, as if I knew that this baby, my sister and the youngest of us three, was a sign of life. The beginning of life. Life that was still meant to be lived. I knew I had to make sure of that.

I stood there watching the fire fighters; I held my breath as I saw one of the men coming out of the house. I had been inside when the fire started, but as the flames grew, I had made a run for it. I hadn’t had a single thought. It was like something inside of me flipped a switch and I was on autopilot. Maybe it was panic, maybe it was survival instinct, I didn’t know. I did know that while I was holding the baby, our sister was still inside, as were our parents. I had little reason to believe that my sister and mother would make it out alive and secretly hoped that my father wouldn’t.

Now as I stood there frozen, watching the fireman who had come out of the house cradling something small in his arms, I was afraid to look at what it was, or who it was, he was holding. The fear of having hope only to be wrong
was so debilitating that I couldn’t not look either. I simply couldn’t move. I heard the man yelling back and forth to the paramedics that had pulled up in their ambulance just seconds before. For a few moments, it seemed that time stood still. Everything appeared to move in slow motion and the deafening sounds of the sirens and crackling fire had ceased to exist all together.

Then I saw my sister’s small fist swing through the air, and I heard the sound of her voice as she was screaming ‘No!’ at the men working to save her life. Finally, I released the breath I had been holding in. The world began to spin again and the silence was broken. The three of us had lived. We had found our way through the darkness. We had survived the fire and we would rise from the ashes. Somehow.

Soon after we arrived at the hospital, a woman showed up. She was older than my mother and reminded me of one of my teachers. She had short, curly, black hair, big brown eyes and a warm smile which she greeted me with as she introduced herself as Miss Margo the social worker. I had heard of social workers and foster care and assumed that our future would entail something of the sort. I had also heard from a boy at school that they didn’t always keep siblings together in these types of situations.

The idea of being separated from my sisters was more terrifying to me
than facing that fire had been. My sister, Eli, was still being treated for the burns she had suffered in the fire.
Baby Evey
had been brought to the nursery for observation and rest. I had seen the doctor
but had been cleared of any fire-related injuries immediately and had been shown to the waiting area where nurses kept coming by to check on me. Now that Miss Margo was there, I assumed that would stop. She sat down with me and started asking me about the fire.

I don’t come from a family that does a lot of talking, especially to strangers, so I didn’t find myself having very much to say. To try and earn my trust, Miss Margo decided to take me down to the cafeteria for some chocolate pudding. I had three cups and we sat there in silence the entire time I ate. When I finally decided to speak, it was only to ask about my sisters. Miss Margo assured me that they would be fine and proceeded to ask me more questions, which I proceeded not to answer. She finally caught my interest when she mentioned a man named Harry Wilson. A man she claimed was our grandfather. A man I had been told was dead.

“Harry is dead. He died the same time as my Grandma. I remember because I heard my mama talkin’ on the phone one night. She said her mama had died, so Harry was dead to her, too. And she didn’t ever call him our grandpa. She jus’ called him Harry. I don’t think she liked him very much.”

Miss Margo looked at me for a moment. I think I had caught her off guard by stringing together so many sentences at once. Until then, my vocabulary had been very limited. When she was able to collect her thoughts she said, “Emma, Harry’s not dead. I spoke to him before I arrived at the hospital. He’s on his way here from Angie, Louisiana right now.”

She paused and looked down at her hands, which she kept folded on the table. She appeared to be contemplating whether or not to tell me more. I guess she decided that in light of what I had just experienced there wasn’t much left that I wasn’t grown up enough to hear.

“The way I understand it, your mama and her daddy had a falling out many years ago, but I promise you, he loved your mama very much. Just like he loves you girls.”

I sat there staring at my empty pudding cups, not sure what to make of any of this. “Can I go see Eli now?” I asked, looking at her earnestly.

Miss Margo reached across the table and held out her hand. “Yes, I think that’s exactly what we should do.”

A few days passed before I actually saw Harry. Either he had decided to walk there from Angie, or he had gone into hiding once he arrived, much like he had been throughout the years we had been alive. I could only assume that facing us was going to be as hard for him as it was for us, and I silently thanked him for waiting as long as he could.

They had allowed me to stay in the room with Eli while she healed. Every afternoon they would bring Evey in to see us. Miss Margo came by every day too, only to find that Eli was even less chatty than I was. Looking back, I realize Miss Margo was sincerely trying to help us, while we were doing nothing but creating more challenges for her. I suppose at the time we had been wounded and scarred in a way that led us to stick together and trust no one. We would remain true to that for many years after.

Harry Wilson was a man in his fifties. He was a working man
who had spent the majority of his days
working outdoors around dirt and livestock. His hair had begun to gray and his face was unshaven. I could tell by watching him with Miss Margo that he was much like us in the way of words. He had a liking for keeping things simple. Harry looked rough around the edges, but in his eyes I recognized the same kind of hurt I saw
when I looked in the mirror. Almost instantly I felt at home with him. A wave of relief rushed over me as I realized that my sisters and I would be able to stay together and that we would be safe. Harry would take us. I was sure of it.

Down the hall from our room, Harry and Miss Margo were deep in conversation. They had left the door open, so I crept up to it and peeked out. I could see Harry and hear every word they said.

“I can't take them.”

“You have to. There's no one else.”

Harry looked down at the ground and began to move his feet around in the dirt that had fallen from his boots. Finally he looked back up at the social worker and said, “I don't know the first thing about raising young girls.”