She’s Gone Country
Read She’s Gone Country Online
Authors: Jane Porter,Jane Porter
“SHE’S GONE COUNTRY is a celebration of a woman’s indomitable spirit. Suddenly single, juggling motherhood and a journey home, Shey embodies every woman’s hopes and dreams. Once again, Jane Porter has written her way into this reader’s heart.”
—Susan Wiggs,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Summer Hideaway
Praise for the Novels of Jane Porter
EASY ON THE EYES
“Porter just keeps getting better and better. Timely issues and realistic characters propel the story.”
—
RT Book Reviews
“Touching and unpredictable,
Easy on the Eyes
is a real winner.”
—
Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star
(VA)
“Entertaining, gratifying chick lit distinguished by a realistic look at aging in a business that values youth and beauty above all else.”
—
Booklist
“A great summer read… Porter doesn’t disappoint in this novel.”
“[Jane] Porter ensures that
Easy on the Eyes
is fortified with a stimulating intellect and emotional message, strong conscience, and pure heart.”
—Honolulu Advertiser
“Jane Porter is a master of the buoyant, blissful read, often incorporating issues that almost all women face in a highly readable way… this is a breezy read about the entertainment industry and its never-ending fascination with youth and beauty.”
“An entertaining tale.”
—
Bellevue Reporter
(WA)
“Delightful women’s fiction with strong romantic themes.”
“Jane Porter writes endlessly entertaining and yet deeply thoughtful novels.
Easy on the Eyes
is a perceptive, tender page-turner—a joy to read.”
—Laura Caldwell, author of
Red Hot Lies
“A page-turning novel about love, loss, friendship, aging, and beauty (not necessarily in that order). I couldn’t put it down.”
—Karen Quinn, author of
Holly Would Dream
and
The Ivy Chronicles
“Jane Porter knows a woman’s heart as well as her mind.
Easy on the Eyes
is a smart, sophisticated, fun read with characters you’ll fall in love with. Another winning novel by Jane Porter.”
—Mia King, national bestselling author of
Good Things
and
Sweet Life
“Witty and observant—Tiana’s search for love and meaning amidst shallow celebrity will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading.”
—Berta Platas, author of
Lucky Chica
“A fun, poignant story about searching for life and love on the other side of forty.”
—Beth Kendrick, author of
The Pre-Nup
MRS. PERFECT
“Great warmth and wisdom… Jane Porter creates a richly emotional story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Porter’s authentic character studies and meditations on what really matters make
Mrs. Perfect
a perfect… novel.”
—USA Today
“Porter scores another home run.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Fans will appreciate Ms. Porter’s strong look at what happens to relationships when the walls come tumbling down.”
—Midwest Book Review
“More poignant than the standard mommy lit fare.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Compulsively readable… a delicious treat.”
“Real life hits trophy wife right in the Botox, in Porter’s empowering page-turner!”
—Leslie Carroll, author of
Choosing Sophie
and
Play Dates
ODD MOM OUT
“Jane Porter nails it poignantly and perfectly. This mommy-lit is far from fluff. Sensitive characters and a protagonist who doesn’t cave in to the in-crowd give this novel its heft.”
—USA Today
“With a superb sense of characterization, a subtle sense of wit, and a great deal of wisdom, Jane Porter writes about family and friendship, love and work.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Funny and poignant… delightful.”
—Stella Cameron
“
Odd Mom Out
is an engaging tale that examines important issues of today’s world. Behind the entertaining, witty prose are insightful observations about real life.”
—Woodbury Magazine
“Marta is an intriguing heroine.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keenly emotional and truly uplifting.”
—Booklist
FLIRTING WITH FORTY
“A terrific read! A wonderful, life and love-affirming story for women of all ages.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Calorie-free accompaniment for a poolside daiquiri.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Strongly recommended. Porter’s thoughtful prose and strong characters make for an entertaining and thought-provoking summer read.”
—Library Journal
Also by Jane Porter
Easy on the Eyes
Mrs. Perfect
Odd Mom Out
Flirting with Forty
The Frog Prince
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Jane Porter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
5 Spot
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
5 Spot is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing.
The 5 Spot name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First Edition: August 2010
eISBN: 978-0-446-56912-5
For my boys
Jake, Ty, and Mac
You own my heart
Contents
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t have done this one without the girls—the girls in this case being my friends, my family, and my fans.
This past year was a challenging one as I juggled my passion for my career with my desire to add a baby to the family.
Grateful thanks to my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my agent, Karen Solem, for being so patient and supportive during the process. Big thanks to Emily Cotler and the Wax team for always making me look good even when I didn’t know which end was up. Massive thanks and love go to Jamette Windham, Lee Hyat, Alaia Davies, Emily Lanfear, and Kari Andersen for the hours of help, encouragement, and TLC.
To my Bellevue friends Lisa Johnson, Lorrie Hambling, Janie Lee, and Kristiina Hiukka for feeding me and checking on me and making sure I knew I was loved. To Sinclair Sawhney for believing there was one more baby, and giving me all those shots to make the miracle happen.
To my sister, Kathy, and all the incredibly smart, successful women in my family. You make me proud to be a member of the Porter/Lyles family.
And finally to my writer friends who are always there for me and help me remember what’s important in fiction and in life: Megan Crane, Liza Palmer, Lilian Darcy, CJ Carmichael, and Barbara Dunlop.
To all my readers—you really are the best.
And one last shout-out to my four boys—Surfer Ty, Jake, Ty, and Mac. I love you all so much.
S
hey Lynne, you’ve been here three months now and not once have you taken those boys to church.”
I look up from the bacon frying on the 1950s-era Sears stove to see my mother standing in the kitchen doorway with her blue wool coat over her arm and her ancient black vinyl purse on her wrist. It’s hot out and humid, yet Mama’s got her coat—and it’s an old coat, not one of the gorgeous ones I’ve given her. My mother has a closetful of designer pieces she’s never worn. I don’t know why she won’t wear them, but I swear, it’s as if she takes pride in rejecting everything nice I give her.
“No, I haven’t, and I’m not,” I answer, grease sizzling and splattering the back of my hand. Mama’s been here eight days, and it’s been a power struggle from the moment she arrived. But she’s going home later today, and I can keep my cool for another few hours. “You know I don’t make the boys go to church. If they want to go, great. If they don’t, fine. It’s their choice.”
But my mother, the daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher, fixes her cool blue gaze on me in silent rebuke. “If you went to church, then maybe they’d go.”
The grease splatter burns, and I press my hand against my side. I don’t want to argue with her, not today, not after the fight my son Bo and I had last night. “I know it shocks you, Mama, but I haven’t gone since you sent me away to St. Pious to finish high school—”
“Then I failed you, Shey Lynne.”
I shake my head. My mother can do guilt like no other. “You didn’t fail me, and God’s not going to blame you for whatever mistakes I make. But I’d be a hypocrite to make the kids go to church now when it’s something I don’t even do.”
“I’d call it being a good role model. Your boys could use some religion along with some serious attitude adjustment.”
I grit my teeth to keep from saying something I might regret. I love my mother, I really do, and I appreciate everything she’s done for us since we moved back home after Cody’s funeral last June—loaning us her house here in Parkfield, giving me Pop’s old truck. But I’m not a kid anymore, I’m a woman with children of my own, and I’m going to raise my kids my way.
Mama sees my silence as a chance to press her case. “The Bible commands us to come together and worship—”
“I
know
what the Bible says!” Impatiently, I turn the heat down beneath the cast-iron skillet before reaching for the chipped ceramic bowl with the waffle batter. “I grew up going to church every Sunday and youth group every Tuesday night and Bible camp every summer. That’s how you raised all of us, but John and I chose to raise our boys differently—”
“And maybe that’s why you’re in this mess, Shey Lynne. Maybe that’s why your boys are out of control.”
Oh, those are fighting words. They are. I face her, bowl clutched to my middle, one hand on my hip. “They’re not out of control!”
“I’ve been here a week, Shey Lynne. I’ve heard plenty.”
It hurts biting my tongue this hard, but I do it for the sake of peace, as well as the preservation of my sanity. It’s been a rough year. It pretty much broke my heart, but things will improve, things are improving. “Mama, go to church. Brick and Charlotte will be here any minute. You’ll feel better once you’re out of the house and heading to the service, and frankly, I’ll feel better, too—”
“Shey Lynn!”
Great. I’ve offended her
and
wounded her.
I set down the bowl, but I don’t go to her. We’re not a touchy-feely kind of family. Stiff upper lip. German-Irish-Scandinavian stock. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you, and I don’t want to be disrespectful. But I’m trying so hard and I don’t feel like you even care—”
“Of course I care! I’m worried sick about you all. I lie awake at night, unable to sleep with all the worrying.”
“I don’t want you to worry. Worrying won’t change anything. The only thing that will get us through is getting through, and we’re doing it, Mama, one day at a time. It might not be pretty, but it works, and I’m lucky. My kids are good kids. Yes, they’re having some problems adjusting to all the changes, but they’re twelve, fourteen, and fifteen, and boys. Life’s not easy for them right now.”
“You aren’t the only one to raise boys. I raised three, too…” Her voice cracks, and she falls silent. We’re both suddenly, achingly aware that although she raised three, we just buried Cody, the brother closest to me in age and my best friend growing up.
The loss is still too new, the grief too raw. It was hard enough losing my brother. I can’t even fathom losing a son.
My mother has paled, but she finds her voice. “Boys need discipline. They need a firm hand.”
“And I’m trying.” I feel a surge of fury. Fury at John for falling in love with someone else. Fury at the economy that went south just when I had to become financially self-sufficient. And most of all, fury at me for coming home. I don’t know why I thought coming back to Parkfield would be a good idea. I don’t know how I thought moving back to Texas after Cody’s death would help anything. It hasn’t. I’m the first to admit that I shouldn’t have left New York. Don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t know that I
am
thinking. But I don’t need Mama rubbing it in my face. “I have a different relationship with my boys than you had with yours.”
Mama’s chin lifts, hands clasped prayerfully together. “You don’t think Bo was disrespectful last night? Shouting at you? Cursing at his brother? Slamming doors?”
“I think he’s fourteen and he melted down. He lost it. It happens.”
“Your brothers would have never shouted at me, or slammed a door in my face.”
I throw up my hands. “You’re right. My brothers wouldn’t have talked back to you, not with Pop around. But my boys’ dad isn’t around, and I have a different relationship with them than you had with Brick, Blue, and Cody. I want my kids to talk to me—”
“Talk back, you mean.”
I never fight like this, never raise my voice, and I hate that I feel so out of control now. “I’ve never been able to please you. Nothing I do is right.” My eyes burn, but there are no tears. I haven’t cried since last December, when I discovered John wanted out. I couldn’t even cry at Cody’s funeral. “But I’m not useless, Mama. I’m smart and strong, and I’m going to get my boys through. You just watch me.”
I’m saying the right things but I’ve used the wrong tone of voice, and my mother’s lips press tight. She’s not hearing anything I’m saying, only the way I’m saying it.
Mama, Louisiana born and educated, is a true southern mama, and she throws back her shoulders. “God doesn’t like your tone, Shey Lynne.”
That’s when I give up—arguing, that is. She’s going to win this one. But then she always wins. I don’t know how to fight with my mother. “No, He might not, but maybe today when you go to church you could remind Him that I’m doing the best I can considering the hand I’ve been dealt.”
With the faintest shake of her head, she marches out of the kitchen, back stiff, silvery blond head high, down the paneled hallway for the front door, where my brother Brick is probably waiting to take her to church.
I lean my weight against the counter, eyes tightly closed as I gulp a breath, and then another.
This is not the life I wanted.
This is not the life I planned.
But this is now the life I have, and I’m going to make it work, so help me God, I am.
Eyes still closed, I hear the front door open with a squeak and then shut. Mama’s gone. I exhale, and sagging with relief, I reach for the waffle batter.
Ladling the buttermilk batter onto the sizzling iron, I hear an engine and see a flash of blue as Brick’s Chevy passes on the way down the drive.
Thank God she’s gone. And thank God for Brick. Firstborn, eldest son, he’s always done his best to take care of Mama. But I know it’s not easy. He hates going to church. He goes only because it makes her happy, and when she’s in Jefferson at my grandmother’s, he doesn’t attend.
A few moments later, Cooper, my youngest, slinks into the kitchen, shoulders hunched. He’s only twelve but already five ten, and it’s a body he can’t quite figure out. “Gramma gone?” he asks, still in the rust-colored T-shirt and jeans he wore during his morning ride.
“Yeah.” I rescue the bacon from the frying pan and line up the pieces to drain on a stack of paper towels. “What do you want to drink for breakfast, milk or juice?”
“Juice.”
“Then go ahead and pour it, and call your brothers to the table. Breakfast is almost ready.”
He fills his glass with orange juice and drains half before even bothering to shut the refrigerator door. “Gramma doesn’t like us much, does she.”
I’m pulling off the first waffle and am about to ladle more batter onto the griddle when I hear him. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and it makes my chest squeeze. “Grandma
loves
you,” I say fiercely, looking at him over my shoulder.
Cooper at twelve has my height and pale complexion, along with a smattering of freckles across his nose. He and Bo could probably have handled being tall and thin if they’d escaped the Callen red hair. But both of them inherited it, and being a redhead is about the worst thing they can think of.
Coop’s shoulders hunch further. “Doesn’t sound like she loves us. She makes us sound like we’re the spawn of Satan.”
“Her daddy was a preacher, Sugar. Grandma was raised in the church, going to church, and she’s just worried about us.”
“ ’Cause we don’t go to church?”
“That, and Daddy’s and my separation, as well as Uncle Cody’s death.”
“And going to church will change all that?”
“No. But it’d make her feel better.” I drop a kiss on the top of his head. Another few months and he’ll be taller than me. And he’s my baby. “Go get your brothers. Breakfast is ready.”
Brick calls me on his cell about an hour later. “That was the most boring sermon ever, Shey. You owe me.”
I grin at the misery in his deep voice. He might be the oldest and I might be the youngest, but we’ve always been tight. “You don’t have to pretend to like church just because she’s here,” I answer, taking a step outside the house to stretch and stand on the screened porch with its view of the oak-lined drive. More oak trees dot the pasture between the house and the six-stall barn. There’s not a lot else to see but trees, cows, and land. Mama and Pop lived here for fifty-some years, and Pop’s parents before that.
“It makes her happy,” he says.
“That’s why you’ll go to heaven and I won’t.” I laugh and ruffle my hair. I’ve always gotten along well with all my brothers, but I enjoy teasing Brick most, probably because he takes his job as the oldest so damn seriously. “You all on your way home now?”
“No. We’re going out for breakfast. Mama’s still worked up, and Charlotte thought a good hot meal would put her in a better mood, especially since she’s driving back to Jefferson this afternoon. Don’t want her on the road when she’s in a mood.”
“No, we certainly don’t. So where are you going, and are we invited?”
“Um, Shey, you’re the reason Mama’s in a bad mood. You’re probably better off staying at the house.”
“Gotcha.” My lips twist in a rueful smile. My mother and I have a funny relationship. Given that I’m the only daughter and the baby of the family, you’d think we would have been close. Only it didn’t work out that way. Mama prefers boys. But I can’t complain. I certainly wasn’t neglected growing up. I had three brothers to chase after and always was the apple of my daddy’s eye. “We’ll see you later, then, and don’t rush your meal. We’ll be here when you return.”
I pocket the cell phone in my snug-fitting jeans and push through the screen door to step into the yard. Now that I’m back on the ranch, I wear only jeans, T-shirts, and boots, which makes getting dressed every morning easy.
The heels of my cowboy boots sink in the muddy drive as I walk from the shade of the house into the sun. We’ve had a few days of rain, which is good for the land but not so great for the property. The driveway is more mud than gravel these days, and the mud sticks to everything.
The Sleepy Acre Ranch hasn’t changed since I was a little girl. Pop never saw the point of spending money to fix up the house or yard—this is a working cattle ranch, after all—and when Brick married Charlotte twenty-five years ago, they built their own house on our family ranch, and that’s where Charlotte’s energy and design skills go.
Now kicking around the scraggly front yard, I wonder yet again how I could have thought the answer to our problems was moving back home.
How could I have imagined that Parkfield, Texas, population sixty-seven, would solve anything?
But then I am a Texas girl, born and raised on our ranch—literally born on the ranch, since for the birth of her fourth baby, Mama didn’t even bother going to the hospital—and when I came home last June for Cody’s funeral, I felt better than I had in a long time. I’m crazy about all the fields and oak trees and big sky, and I love the relaxed pace as well. Even the boys seemed happy to be out of New York, and they’re East Coast, private-school-educated, field-hockey-and-lacrosse-playing kids.
But three months into our new “adventure,” I’m beginning to question my impulsive decision to relocate us all here. Cooper has settled in fine, but Bo and Hank are struggling. They miss their friends and their sports—no one here plays lacrosse or field hockey—and I can’t help wondering if maybe I shouldn’t move us back to New York.
