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Authors: Carla Stewart

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Stardust A Novel

BOOK: Stardust A Novel
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Copyright Page

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To my four sons—Andy, Brett, Scott, and James.

You’ve filled my life with joy.

[ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ]

 

The inspiration and journey of each of my books has been so different that it’s difficult to know where to start in paying homage to those who’ve influenced me along the way.

I’m thankful and grateful for the constants in my life—Max, for sure, who bears the brunt by being married to a writer. Thank you for your unwavering love and being willing to suspend disbelief and accept that life is normal when meals come in takeaway bags and soggy boxes. Andy, Amy, Brett, Cindy, Scott, Denice, James, and Allison—what a joy to have such an amazing group of kids to enrich my life. Drake, Nash, Seth, Davyn, Jorgen, and Jeremy—you make me smile and remember what is important in life.

Camille, Courtney, and Myra—your friendship is precious to me. So are your virtual red pencils that have made the prose better, the sentences stronger. Kellie, thank you for sharing a great weekend in East Texas and brainstorming until the wee hours.

The FaithWords team—you all have my deepest gratitude. Special thanks to Christina Boys and Lauren Rohrig, whose insights and encouragement made this a better book. A nod, also, to Laini Brown, Sarah Reck, Shanon Stowe, Jody Waldrup, and the design team. It is a joy to work with you.

Sandra Bishop. My agent and friend. Your insights and encouragement go above and beyond. Thank you.

Jeane Wynn, you astound me and bless me with your support on my behalf.

To those in the town of Jefferson, Texas. You opened your arms with Southern hospitality and shared your anecdotes. I don’t even know all your names, but you helped shape the fictional town of Mayhaw. Thanks to Bob and Pam at Delta Street Inn, Kathy Patrick at Beauty and the Book, Tiajuana, Allison, and the ladies from the First Methodist Church and the
Books Alive!
weekend. A handshake to the riverboat guide who showed me the ways of the bayou, and the folks at the Jefferson Museum. I hope I’ve done justice to your neck of the woods. Any mistakes are mine alone.

A special note of gratitude to Kathryn Black, who bravely told her story,
In the Shadow of Polio
(Perseus Publishing, 1996). Her writings about the polio epidemic in the first half of the twentieth century, the work of the March of Dimes, and the eventual development of the vaccine that would stop this crippling disease were invaluable to me in my research. Her vivid descriptions and compassion gave me great insight and reminded me of two of my own relatives who were childhood victims of polio and bore the physical manifestations their entire lives.

Thanks to my dad, Mike Brune, and my sisters, Donna and Marsha, for your willingness to listen and for the cherished memories you’ve given me. You are loved.

To those who’ve taken time from their busy lives to read my books and share them with others, I’m so grateful. Your letters have brought me great joy and a few tears as you’ve told me your own stories. You make it all worthwhile.

For Jesus, I thank you for loving me in my weakness and allowing me the opportunity to write stories. I pray they will be used for your eternal glory.

[ CHAPTER 1 ]

 

 

April 1952. Mayhaw, Texas.

 

M
y marriage to O’Dell Peyton was already over when he washed up on the shores of Zion. Of course, no one knew it was O’Dell when the little boy came running from the bayou, bellowing to Cecil at the tire shop that he’d discovered a drowned body. Fact is, no one even knew O’Dell was missing. If someone had asked where he’d been keeping himself, I would’ve said, “Oh, you know O’Dell. He’s got
The Book of Knowledge
encyclopedia route for all of East Texas. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s sold to half the people in Tyler by now. Goes over to Kilgore some, too.”

The truth was O’Dell left me and our two girls the second week in February. I found the note tucked in the sugar bowl, telling me he’d met a woman who appreciated him. I’d spent two months chewing on that, hot as a pistol one minute, crumpled in grief the next, trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong.

Aunt Cora said, “Georgia, there are plenty of men out there. You’re lucky you found out now, while you’re still young and have your looks.” Aunt Cora, bless her, had yet to find a man in Mayhaw suitable—or willing—to marry her. And looks had nothing to do with it. She could still be a movie star pinup.

Which was totally immaterial in light of O’Dell’s drowning. I only mention it because you have a whole different knot on the inside from a husband who’s unfaithful than you do from one who’s dead.

We buried O’Dell on the second Friday in April. Mary Frances, his mother and a widow herself, clung to me like cellophane. Two bereft figures bobbing for air on the surface, entwined by grief at our roots. Still, it felt unnatural for me to plan the funeral in light of the circumstances. Mary Frances should have had the honor, but widowhood had not been kind to her, and her fragile constitution rendered her incapable. We all breathed a sigh of relief when she showed up in matching shoes and wearing a dress instead of her usual bathrobe.

A motley pair we made. The anguished mother and the betrayed wife sharing a pew, each wrapped in our own thoughts. If she knew O’Dell had deserted me, she’d not once let on. I still took the girls to see her on Sunday afternoons and had baked her an angel food cake for her birthday on St. Patrick’s Day.

Aunt Cora told me the morning of the funeral, “Georgia, I didn’t raise you to forget your manners. O’Dell might’ve been a two-timer, but you’ll carry your head high and make me proud. His poor mother don’t know up from sic ’em, and she needs you to lean on today. I’ll take care of the girls.”

So I sat with Mary Frances while Aunt Cora sat between Avril and Rosey and drew pictures of Peter Rabbit to keep them quiet during the service. Afterward, Aunt Cora shooed me into the Garvey’s Funeral Home courtesy car with Mary Frances. She and the girls hitched a ride with someone else, and I heard later they stopped for ice cream at the Sweet Shoppe on the way home.

The cemetery sits on a rise outside of Mayhaw, inland from the bayou but nestled in its own sheltering grove of sweet gums. The funeral procession wound snake-like along the road, past the courthouse on the town square toward the outskirts. Cecil’s Auto Repair and Bait Shop on the right. The Stardust Tourist Cottages on the left. And beyond that, Mayhaw’s backyard neighbor, Zion, huddled along the banks of the cypress swamp. Wavy pencils of smoke rose from Zion, thinning to nothing as they reached the sky. I squinted to see if I could get a peek, but dense pines cradled whatever lay inside, the undergrowth like swaddling clothes. My heart inched up a notch knowing the boy who found poor O’Dell lived in that tangle of forest. Must’ve darn near scared him out of his britches.

Beside me, Mary Frances sat rigid, hands folded across the handbag on her lap. Her face, stuporous with grief, mirrored my own unspoken turmoil. Did O’Dell call my name as he tumbled through the murky waters? Or that of his new lover? What he was doing in the rain-swollen bayou was a mystery in itself. Perhaps he’d come to his senses and gone out on his fishing boat to figure out a respectable way to come crawling back to me and the girls. It’s easy to give a dead man the benefit of the doubt. Trickier, though, was the burning question: Were we still married in the eyes of God when O’Dell capsized?

Our courtesy car jerked to a stop inches from the hearse that carried O’Dell. A look of alarm flashed on Mary Frances’s pasty face. “What’s happening?”

I craned my neck. “Looks like a logging truck ahead of us. Creeping along like a box turtle. Guess it’ll take awhile to get out to the cemetery. You want a mint?” I pulled a Starlight mint from my pocket and held it out.

She shook her head, sighed, and then snapped open her purse, took out a blue glass bottle with a milk of magnesia label, touched it to her lips, and took a swig. I was feeling dyspeptic myself, but I knew it wasn’t milk of mag in the bottle. Mary Frances had her own kind of medicine. Pretending not to notice, I rolled down my window and looked at the Stardust.

Weeds had grown up over the winter. No travelers in front of the units, which were in dire need of freshening up. A feeling, akin to pity, twisted my gut. Guilt, too. I’d not been out to visit with Doreen and Paddy in a month of Sundays, Paddy being my uncle twice removed on the Tickle side. The
other
branch of the family, according to Aunt Cora. The way Paddy told it, he seized the opportunity when he saw it. Before the Depression, lots of folks passed through Mayhaw, needed a place to stay. I thought it was brilliant, and although he hadn’t made a fortune, he’d done all right. Until he found out about the lung tumor.

My mind went back to the day when cherry-red paint outlined each window and washtubs full of geraniums greeted guests by their front doors. A magnificent neon sign pulsed red, blue, and yellow lights then, visible from one end of town to the other as it beckoned the weary travelers. The sign still rose to the heights, but now one point of the star had cracked, and no neon flickered.

My own heart sputtered. Cupping my chin in my hand, I crinkled my eyes, almost able to imagine when Mama and Daddy had first brought me to Mayhaw, and we stayed at the Stardust. We’d been in cottage number five, right in the middle. I ran my fingers over my cheek remembering the pattern the chenille bedspread left on my face while I was supposed to be taking a nap. Mama and Daddy were arguing, screaming at each other, so I kept my eyes shut tight until Daddy slammed out the door. Later we changed clothes, found Daddy out in the car smoking a cigar, and went to visit Aunt Cora.

BOOK: Stardust A Novel
13.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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