Prayers and Lies
Authors: Sherri Wood Emmons
More advance praise for Sherri Wood Emmons and PRAYERS AND LIES
“
Prayers and Lies
is a sweet, revealing tale of family, friendship, long-held secrets and includes the all-important ingredients of forgiveness and love.”
—Kris Radish, author of The Shortest Distance Between Two Women
“A strong debut … Emmons has a rich voice that pairs well with the earthy setting … and the characters are wonderfully drawn.”
—Publishers Weekly
“When I was reading
Prayers and Lies
,
the voice was so genuine, so sincere, I felt like Bethany was standing right before me, barefoot, earnestly telling me her story, alternately laughing, crying, wondering, confused, and scared. I was on the edge of my seat, listening, every scene coming in to full, bright, Technicolor detail as one prayer was heard, one lie was shattered, one family’s raw, haunting life laid bare. I loved it.”
—Cathy Lamb, author of Such a Pretty Face
“Prepare to stay up all night reading! Sherri Wood Emmons perfectly captures the devastating impact of family secrets in her beautifully written—and ultimately hopeful—debut novel. With its evocative setting and realistically crafted characters,
Prayers and Lies
is a must read for fans of rich family drama.”
—Diane Chamberlain, author of The Lies We Told
PRAYERS
AND LIES
SHERRI WOOD EMMONS
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KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
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Copyright © 2011 by Sherri Wood Emmons
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eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6794-8
eISBN-10: 0-7582-6794-0
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: February 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
To Kami—
you are my sunshine
Contents
22 New Beginnings and Old Baggage
Let’s start with two clichés that happen to be true. First, writing is a solitary venture. Second, it takes a village to raise a child. I alone wrote this book, but I was not alone in the process. I am grateful to so many people who helped along the way. And so …
To the members of my writers’ group—Gail Whitchurch, Egan Dargatz, Ron Shipman, Ploi Pagdalian, and especially Kathleen Martin—who saw the potential in this story before I did, thank you.
To Steven Scholl, Janice Lineberger, Steve Brite, and Beth Browne, whose careful readings and thoughtful critiques helped shape the story, thank you.
To my agent, Judy Heiblum, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, who took a chance on an unknown and whose suggestions and ideas made the story so much stronger, thank you.
To Joy Simpkins, whose attention to detail and thoughtful copy-editing should win an award, thank you.
To my dear friend Tina Burton, who read every word of every draft and who fed me body and spirit during the writing, thank you.
To my children, Zachary and Kathryn Spicklemire and Stephen Emmons, who put up with my long absences and wild mood swings, thank you. I am so proud of the terrific people you have grown up to be.
To my husband, Chris, who loved me through it all and still does, thank you. I can’t imagine it all without you, and I don’t even want to try.
From my grandmothers, Minnie Chafin and Irene Wood, I learned to work hard and love fierce. Their lives stood as testimony to the power of perseverance and family.
Finally, thank you to my parents, Thomas and Peggy Wood, who taught me how to pray.
I love you all.
The Bible says that the sins of the fathers are visited
upon the sons to the seventh generation
. But I believe it’s the daughters who bear
the brunt of most family sins.
At least that’s so in my family.
W
e always knew when Bobby Lee came home. Folks up and down the Coal River Valley heard the roar of his motorcycle on the gravel road long before he tore around the final bend, turning so sharp he lay nearly sideways on the ground. Sometimes he’d be gone weeks at a time, sometimes just a few days. But his homecoming never changed.
He rode into the valley like a conquering hero. And Jolene, his wife, would come flying out of their shabby cabin, long red hair streaming behind her, just as Bobby Lee pulled into their little dirt yard. He’d be off the huge bike in a flash as she ran down the two broken and patched steps and into his arms. And then there would be the kiss—scandalous for that rural West Virginia community in the 1960s. We children would stand on our own porches or in the road, gaping at the two of them, our mouths and eyes wide.
Usually, Reana Mae was waiting on the porch, too, but Bobby Lee didn’t notice her right off. His wife was such a whirlwind of red curls and short skirts and hunger that their daughter—thin, freckled, and silent—went unnoticed. After the kiss would come gifts, if his haul had been a long one. Sometimes, Bobby Lee drove his rig all the way from Charleston to California, and he brought Jolene and Reana presents from places like Los Angeles and Las Vegas. Usually a toy or coloring book for Reana. For Jolene, he brought clothes—shocking clothes. Like the halter top and hot pants he brought from San Francisco. Or the lime green minidress from Chicago. Jolene strutted around like a peacock in them, while the rest of the valley folk shook their heads and whispered to one another over their fences and laundry lines. Jolene was the first woman in the valley to go braless, her round, full breasts barely contained beneath the tight T-shirts and sweaters she wore.
After the gifts and the hellos and the “What’s happenin’ in the world?” talk, Jolene would send Reana Mae off to her great-grandma’s, then disappear into the house with her husband for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes, Reana spent the night at her Grandma Loreen’s before Jolene remembered to come for her. Loreen would make up Jolene’s old room, and she’d fry pork chops and boil potatoes with green beans and bacon fat like Reana wanted, and she’d sing her the lullaby she used to sing to her own babies. And so, on those days, Reana Mae got cherished a little bit.
Jolene wasn’t from the valley, though her people were. She’d spent most of her childhood up north in Huntington with her mama, EmmaJane Darling. Her father, whoever he might have been, was long gone before Jolene made her appearance at Our Lady of Mercy Charity Hospital in Huntington. Jolene came to live with her grandparents, Ray and Loreen, after EmmaJane died, and she was a handful.
