The Splendor of Ordinary Days

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF WATERVALLEY

THE SPLENDOR OF ORDINARY DAYS

“Vivid characters, humor, and touches of mystery create a delightful story that perfectly captures Southern small-town life.”

—Mary Ellen Taylor, author of the Union Street Bakery series and
At the Corner of King Street

EACH SHINING HOUR

“Heartwarming, refreshing, and often amusing, this touching novel about a likable yet conflicted new doctor sent to a rural Tennessee town is a rare gem. A bustling medical practice, a budding romance, and a passel of ­small-­town dramas make this a rich read, but a ­decades-­old murder mystery adds the icing on the cake. The pristine setting and lovable characters will make readers search for Watervalley, Tennessee, on a map and plan a visit.”

—­Karen White,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Sound of Glass

“A young doctor, marking time until he can leave a somnolent farm town for the bustle of a big city, finds more excitement in Watervalley than he bargained ­for—­an alluring woman, or two; an unsolved murder, or two; a crafty banker who knows more than he's saying; and a cache of . . . well, I'll let you find that out.
Each Shining Hour
kept me reading far into the night hours!”

—­Ann B. Ross,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Miss Julia series and
Etta Mae's Worst ­Bad-­Luck Day

“Come back to Watervalley for another endearing tale of Dr. Luke Bradford and the good folks of this small Tennessee town. Heartwarming and tender,
Each Shining Hour
is a bright and lovely story.”

—­Lynne Branard, author of
The Art of Arranging Flowers

“You open this book and you can't close it. The characters are so realistic . . . a wonderful book.”

—­Night Owl Reviews (Top Pick)

MORE THINGS IN HEAVEN AND EARTH

“Told through the eyes of Dr. Luke Bradford, a newly minted MD, the story of the little town of Watervalley, Tennessee, and its inhabitants comes vividly to life. Jeff High's medical background gives him that cutting edge in the technical details of his tale, and his love of his native Tennessee and the human race shines from every page. Dr. Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly is delighted to welcome Luke, a transatlantic colleague to be fiercely proud of.”

—­Patrick Taylor, MD,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Irish Country Doctor novels

“The best of ­small-­town Americana and the eccentrics who live there are brought to life in
More Things in Heaven and Earth
. This story warmed me, made me laugh, and then kept a smile on my face. It's delightful, compassionate, humorous, tightly woven. If you're looking for a ­feel-­good read, spend an afternoon with Jeff High's novel.”

—­Charles Martin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Unwritten
and
When Crickets Cry

“A ­well-­spun story of the mystery and microcosm that is ­small-­town America. Jeff High skillfully captures the healing places, the hurting places, and the places where we so often find out who we are truly meant to be.”

—­Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of
Tending Roses
and
The Prayer Box

“One of the best books I've read in years. Really. And I read a
bunch
of books. This is the book you should give to your mother and your best friend at Christmas. After you read it yourself, of course. . . . High has a gift for capturing the humor of ­small-­town life . . . captures the joy and richness of living where your family has sunk its roots deep into the soil. As I read this novel, I fell in love with Watervalley and its citizens.”

—­Southern Literary Review

“Engaging . . . just enough crisis and tension to keep a very simple but endearing story moving and moving! Highly recommended!”

—­The Best Reviews

“A lovely novel that had me tearing up in the first chapter and cracking up in the second.”

—­Dew on the Kudzu

Other Books in the Watervalley Series

More Things in Heaven and Earth

Each Shining Hour

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Jeff High, 2015

Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Random House, 2015

“Over the Valley,” music and lyrics by Thomas M. Lauderdale and China Forbes, published by Thomas M. Lauderdale Music and Wow & Dazzle Music, from the Pink ­Martini album
Splendor in the Grass
, courtesy of Heinz Records.

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an au­thorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

New American Library and the New American Library colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

High, Jeff, ­1957–

The splendor of ordinary days: a novel of Watervalley/Jeff High.

p. cm.—(Watervalley series; 3)

ISBN 978-0-698-18782-5

1. Physicians—­Fiction. 2. City and town ­life—­Tennessee—­Fiction. I. Title.

PS3608.I368S68 2015

813'.­6—­dc23 2015014796

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedicated to the Wounded Warriors whose scars cannot be seen and for those who hope, pray, and wait for them to be whole again.

“They also serve who only stand and wait.”

—­John Milton, “On His Blindness”

Watervalley, Tennessee. July 5, 1968

T
he ring of the bell was hard and furious, piercing the night and shattering the quiet depths of the small hours. It rang with a shrill quality of urgency and menace, hammering savagely, relentlessly, permeating the stagnant, suffocating air of the empty streets and shadowed lawns. The clanging brutally woke him from the oblivion of sleep. He leapt from his bed and ran to the window, anticipating an orange glow from the nearby downtown, but there was none. The fire was somewhere in the countryside.

He dressed quickly and ran downstairs. The kitchen light was on, his mother waiting. She stood by with folded arms and a pale, ghostly face of tacit worry. As he rushed to the front door, her timid voice followed him with the familiar words of caution. He stopped, walked back to her, and kissed her on the cheek. “It's your big day. I'll come back safe.”

The blistering, brassy tongue of the bell continued as he sprinted the three blocks to the fire hall. One by one, the houses along the street were lighting up. Out from the dark vault of night, the town was coming alive.

At the firehouse, the pump truck was already out on the pavement, poised to charge forward. It was a spectacle of bulk and power, a rolling fortress of steel and rails and magnificent lights. The great engine was idling, forcing the warm night air to shudder and vibrate. Men were running, shouting, rushing to grab their gear, bumping chaotically against one another in a furious effort to slide into coats and boots. And above the roar and confusion was the thunderous voice of the fire chief. Standing on the rear mount bumper of the truck, he was yelling for them to come, now, now, now.

Eighteen and nimble, he was the youngest in the volunteer service. He moved among them effortlessly, geared up quickly, and was one of the first to mount the ride bumper on the side of the truck. He stepped on and grabbed the rail. As the others arrived, they regarded him with astonishment, questioning him.

“What are you doing here? Don't you leave in the morning?”

Sleep didn't matter to him. It would be a long bus ride to Fort Polk. He could rest on the way. Vietnam would still be there.

­Half-­suited men were still clumsily chasing the truck as it began to pull away, launching itself with the slow ebbing wail of the long siren. The truck accelerated quickly. The ride was wild, noisy, insane. He held the rail firmly, his heart pounding.

Soon they left behind the sterile streetlights of downtown and were bounding headlong into the black and desolate countryside. Men were shouting, trying to be heard above the deafening blow of the wind and the siren.

“Where is it?”

Another man answered above the din. “Out Gallivant's Crossing. Some farmer called it in.”

The words shook him. This was an odd, sobering coincidence. He had returned from Gallivant's Crossing only a few hours earlier. He tightened his grip against the reckless and exhilarating lunges of the turns. They rode on, the truck pitching and heaving, slinging them in unison.

Someone shouted into the howling noise. “Is it a house?”

An answer came from someone down the line. “Not sure.”

They turned onto Gallivant's Crossing and drove for several miles into the rolling hills and thick woods where only a few isolated farms dotted the vast black landscape. There the world slept, illuminated by a solitary barnyard light that cast its frail luster into the shadows. These ­far-­flung islands of life seemed soundless, timeless, blissfully removed from the surge and clamor of the wailing truck. They roared onward, into the uncertain darkness.

He knew this road. And with each mile, each hill, each turn, his heart began to sink slowly within him, flooding him with dread.

Surely not there,
he thought to himself.
Surely not the cottage.

The truck slowed, its driver in doubt of the fire's location. They topped the last hill before Mercy Creek Road, and the glow in the near distance was easily discerned. The truck made the tight turn down the narrow chert road and advanced with what speed it could toward the blaze. Trees crowded the sides of the lane, their branches brushing against the men.

One of them shouted out, “This isn't right, boys. We're on the fringe of Mennonite country. What are we doing here?”

A cry came back. “Putting out a fire, you idiot.”

“You watch, genius. They won't let us get close.”

The truck emerged from the trees as the lane cleared on the left to a small flat meadow tucked neatly between nearby hills. The massive engine turned onto the long drive and stopped. One hundred yards ahead, lighting up the night sky, was a small frame house, burning furiously. They could see dozens of shouting men. His thoughts raced. Why had the truck stopped?

The men began to step off and gather in small groups, staring at the distant blaze. The fire chief walked leisurely down the drive. Two men in ­broad-­brim hats came to meet him. After a short discussion, the chief walked back.

“False alarm, boys. They've got a bucket brigade going from a pond out back. They're just going to let the fire burn itself out and water down the perimeter to keep it from getting into the field.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Nah. Apparently the house was empty. They only use it for storage.”

The chief turned and stared at the fire for a moment. “We'll stay for a bit . . . just stand by at the ready in case it gets out of hand.” He paused and shook his head. “You know these Mennonite boys. They don't like outsiders getting involved, even if it's for their own good.”

He stared at the chief and stood silently, his nauseating panic slowly replaced by a sullen, bitter resentment. He knew all about this abandoned house, but he said nothing. He only watched. He knew who had started the fire, and he knew why.

And he wasn't the only one.

For decades, they would keep their silence, blinded by their anger.