Nazareth's Song
© 2004 by Patricia Hickman.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Warner Faith
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com
First eBook Edition: June 2004
ISBN: 978-0-446-51023-3
Contents
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF PATRICIA HICKMAN
NAZARETH’S SONG
“Hickman’s deft touch in this poignant tale of selfless denial and truth will squeeze the hearts of those who read NAZARETH’S SONG and coax them on a journey to the very essence of serving God. Her writing sings.”
—LOIS RICHER, AUTHOR OF
DANGEROUS SANCTUARY
“Patricia Hickman has created a very special town filled with characters we love spending time with. This story beautifully illustrates the challenges and rewards of unselfishness, forgiveness, and loyalty. . . . I couldn’t put the book down until I found out which side won.”
—JANELLE SCHNEIDER, AUTHOR OF
BRITISH COLUMBIA
“NAZARETH’S SONG is rich with characters living real in hard times. Jeb Nubey seeks God by trial and error like most of us. Fresh and triumphant.”
—LYN COTE, AUTHOR OF
WINTER’S SECRET
“Written in Hickman’s unique and captivating style, NAZARETH’S SONG offers a wise portrait of a man who learns that doing right comes at a cost. Full of insight and compassion . . . a rich, satisfying read.”
— GAYLE ROPER, AUTHOR OF
WINTER WINDS, AUTUMN DREAMS
“Hickman, a writer with a flair for exacting and lyrical, but never cumbersome, description, delivers fresh-picked words again and again. I love the way she writes! You will too.”
— LISA SAMSON, AUTHOR OF
THE CHURCH LADIES
AND
THE LIVING END
FALLEN ANGELS
“A humorous and poignant parable of how man plans and God prevails. I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
—FRANCINE RIVERS, AUTHOR OF
ATONEMENT CHILD
“I was instantly charmed! No writer can transport a reader to the South quite like Patricia Hickman. Touching, funny, and filled with love,
Fallen Angels
will be one of the best books you’ll read all year.”
— ROBIN LEE HATCHER, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF
FIRSTBORN
“Hickman’s prose rings with gritty authenticity and stark, lyrical description.”
—LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, AUTHOR OF
THORN IN MY HEART
“A new book by Patricia Hickman is always an occasion for delight. She is a gifted author with a deft touch at all the elements of fine storytelling.”
—T. DAVIS BUNN, AUTHOR OF
WINNER TAKE ALL
“Hickman kicks off her new series with this gentle, enjoyable yarn about four misfits cast adrift in Arkansas during the Great Depression. . . . [She] tells her story with warmth, humor, and some lovely descriptions. . . . The ending . . . is sweetly satisfying. Hickman is a talented writer, and readers will likely sympathize with her unlikely ragtag group of characters.”
—
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“I love Patty Hickman’s vivid language and rich descriptions. Her characters pop off the page and, in this latest novel, steal your heart.”
— LISA TAWN BERGREN, AUTHOR OF
WINDCHILL SUMMER
“In a carefully and beautifully written story of home and family, Hickman reminds us that even when we hide, love finds a way.”
—LYNN HINTON, AUTHOR OF
FRIENDSHIP CAKE
“A haunting tale of innocence, greed, and spiritual awakening.”
— RANDALL INGERMANSON, CHRISTY AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF
OXYGEN
AND
THE FIFTH MAN
“Only Patricia Hickman could move from humorous simplicity to poignant epiphany on the very same page.
Fallen Angels
will charm its way right into your heart.”
— BRANDILYN COLLIN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF
DREAD CHAMPION
AND
CAPTURE THE WIND FOR ME
“A heartwarming read, both humorous and achingly real. A beautiful testimony to the truth of the human condition and the parts we play. Her characters are artfully unmasked to reveal ourselves.”
— KRISTEN HEITZMANN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF
TWILIGHT
AND THE DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES SERIES
“Both touching and funny to read. . . . I am looking forward to the next book.”
—FAYE DASEN,
THE PILOT
“This is an entertaining historical fiction. . . . The characters hook readers with their plight.”
—
HARRIET KLAUSNER BOOK REVIEWS
“
Fallen Angels
is a wonderful and heartwarming look into a sad time in our nation’s history. . . . Flawless characterization and dialogue in the midst of a gripping story make the pages turn quickly to the end. . . . Hickman has written a charming and humorous story that brings a smile to the heart. . . . Not to be missed.”
—ROMREVTODAY.COM
“A solid seven.”
—ROBERTA PAGE,
LEBANON DAILY RECORD
“Inspired and inspiring,
Fallen Angels
is a kaleidoscope of emotional hues—especially the emotions of laughter and joy. Can a story of the Great Depression lift your spirits? Can a con man teach you truths about life? Read this novel. It will make a believer out of you.”
— JIM DENNEY, AUTHOR OF
ANSWERS TO SATISFY THE SOUL
AND THE TIMEBENDERS SERIES
“Patty’s innate ability to dish up a captivating tale with authentic Southern flavor is truly impressive! . . . This charming story is truly unforgettable.”
— MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OF
ARMANDO’S TREASURE, LOOKING FOR CASSANDRA JANE, BLOOD SISTERS
, AND
FINDING ALICE
To Lou Davis, a dear aunt who loves God through loving others
I
wish to thank April Goff of the Arkansas Historical Archives for her tenacity in helping me locate all those difficult-to-find facts, books, and maps of Arkansas during the Great Depression years. Also a warm thanks to Howard Hattabaugh for his extensive knowledge of history of the lumber industry in Arkansas. Much heartfelt appreciation to the tour guides of the Hot Springs National Park Visitor Center and the Fordyce Bath House for sharing their amazing history. And thanks to them as well for the historic Hot Springs maps. Thank you also to the Warner team for their commitment to the Millwood Hollow series. And again, thank you to my wonderful father and mother-in-law, Ken and Gaye Hickman, for allowing me to pick their brains regarding Arky-isms and the customs and traditions of the ordinary folk of 1930s Arkansas.
M
illwood Hollow cast the kind of dreamy mood that drew women into its center, the way morning trickled through the pale green mist of dawn and the trout stream meandered in an elegant train around two hundred tree trunks. The quiet veil of virgin light belonged to Millwood Hollow, just as the noise of rattling Model-As and newspaper boys shouting into the dry September air belonged to Hot Springs. The leaves hung soft and green on the thick limbs, each overlapping another, strung from the sky to the earth like happy fabric squares cut and laid out for a winter quilt.
Such a place might rekindle schoolteacher Fern Coulter’s interest in him, Jeb Nubey thought, although he did not know for certain. Fern could not be figured out in an instant. Jeb knelt on one knee and practiced a speech, careful to bar any idle flattery. Fern’s intellect would not buy into sentimental sweet talk, and if he so much as hinted at manipulation he would lose her altogether.
He remembered the afternoon she had dumped him. On the hottest August day that swept dust and shimmering ghosts of heat through town like a mean spirit, Fern had confessed, “Jeb, it’s a crying shame, you know, the way I fell in love with an ideal and not a man. I blame myself, not you.”
“I’ll be making preacher soon, Fern, if that’s your worry.” He had realized too late he might come across a mite anxious.
“Something good will come of all this,” she had said. “You’ll move on, make something of yourself. I am proud of you, so don’t get the wrong idea.”
“Gracie says I’ll be getting a certificate from this school in Texas he hooked me up with.” Jeb had stopped short of saying he would have it framed. He could feel his legitimacy spilling out of him like he had sprung a leak there in plain sight of Fern. Looking back, he should have walked away right then with what little dignity remained.
“The last thing you need is someone loving you for what you’re trying to become.” She had worn a pair of jointed earrings that kept tapping the sides of her face like the forelegs of a praying mantis. “You deserve better.” She picked up a sack of something she had bought that morning at the Woolworth’s, then climbed into her rattling Chevy coupe and tooled off to start the next hour of her life without him.
Jeb had tried to tell Fern how he reached for her same ideals with the muster of a fighter pilot. But he was left watching her drive away as he fumbled for words that would not come.
Fool that you are, he had thought to himself.
Fern’s blunt here’s-the-deal, take-it-or-leave-it way of letting Jeb down had left him grasping for another chance, although his oldest charge, Angel, had judged him duly demeaned.
Now, in the secret chapel of daylight, he balanced on one knee until it came to him that his posture suggested matrimony. If Fern so much as laid eyes on him in such a position, she would turn and walk away before he had the chance to explain his lesser intent of starting over with courtship. So he found a place to sit on a fallen tree and spent several minutes piecing together a speech that might convince Fern to give thought to the idea of seeing him again—over coffee at Beulah’s. No. Dinner. Dinner would be better, since their first go-around had taken them past the stage of coffee and a biscuit.
How well he remembered the night she had come nigh to giving herself to him. That alone had much to do with Fern’s gradual pulling away from him, along with the fact she had said she loved him—before the truth came out, that is. That Jeb was not who he said he was.
Jeb slumped down, exhausted by his thoughts. His year under the tutelage of Philemon Gracie had taught him how to bring out the message inside the Scriptures, picking away at every word until the application rose from the story like a bubble below the lake’s surface. Gracie had taught him porch chatter—how to yammer on about everything from the best place to buy buckshot to how to feed six children on three dollars a week. But Philemon, not a minister to dabble in matters as impractical as romance, had not mentioned how Jeb could win back the affections of the schoolteacher who hated him for pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Even knowing he was working to become a legitimate preacher had not improved her trust in Jeb. The history they shared smacked of too much bitter and not enough sweet.
Returning to his orations, Jeb practiced a few well-turned phrases, got up, sat back down, then threw open his arms and said to the trees, “Fern, I’m not the same man you once knew. I’ve learned the difference between what is right and wrong. I want to ask you to forgive me and . . .”
His voice weakened at the sight of Angel, his fourteen-year-old charge, staring at him from across the rear of the acre behind the church. Her gaze held a pitiable anticipation, as though she expected every last ounce of his manhood to wither up and blow away. She shrugged and called over to him, “I liked you better as a liar. At least you was believable then.”
