Table of Contents
TO MY PARENTS, JOE & BARBARA VALENT,
for believing I could do this.
AND TO MY SAVIOR
for holding my hand every step of the way.
Acknowledgments
My sincerest appreciation goes out to Jerry Jenkins and all those with the Christian Writers Guild for their tireless dedication to those whom the Lord has called to write; to Nick Harrison, for believing in my work and keeping me in the game when I felt like giving up; to my agent, Wendy Lawton, for graciously showing a rookie the ropes; to everyone at Tyndale House for taking a leap of faith; to my editor, Sarah Mason, for her time and effort on behalf of myself and my characters; to Karen Watson and Stephanie Broene for putting their hearts into this project; to my entire family for their love and support; to my aunt, Jan Corrie, and to Rosemary Howren for being faithful prayer warriors on my behalf; to my First Readers ClubMom, my sister Trish McGonigal, my cousin Cristi Kimmel, and Melissa Ridenhourfor being my unofficial editors; to Melanie Payton and Amy McCreight for making me laugh when I wanted to cry. And last but not least, to my nephews and nieceJosh, Ethan, Micah, and Cadyand to all the kids Ive been blessed to work with over the years, for reminding me how to see life through a childs eyes.
Chapter 1
The summer I turned thirteen, I thought Id killed a man.
Thats a heavy burden for a girl to hang on to, but it didnt surprise me so much to have that trouble come in the summertime. Every bad thing that ever happened to me seemed to happen in those long months.
The summer I turned five, Granny Rose died of a heart attack during the Independence Day fireworks. The summer I turned seven, my dog Skippy ran away with a tramp who jumped the train to Baltimore. And the summer I turned eleven, a drought took the corn crop and we couldnt have any corn for my birthday, which is what Id always done because my favorite food was corn from Daddys field, boiled in a big pot.
To top it off, here in the South, summers are long and hot and sticky. They drag on and on, making slow things seem slower and bad things seem worse.
The fear and guilt of the summer of 1932 still clings to my memory like the wet heat of southern Virginia. That year we had unbearable temperatures, and we had trouble, just that it was trouble of a different kind. It was the beginning of a time that taught me bad things can turn into good things, even though sometimes it takes a while for the good to come out.
The day I turned thirteen was one of those summer days when the air is so thick, you can see wavy lines above the tar on the rooftops. The kind of day when the sound of cicadas vibrates in your ears and everything smells like grass.
On that day, as Momma got ready for my birthday party, I told her that I wanted nothing to do with watermelon this year.
We have some fine ones, she told me. Just dont eat any.
But the boys will spit the seeds at us like they do all the time, I said. And theyll hit me extra hard today since its my birthday.
Ill tell them not to, she said absentmindedly as she checked her recipe again with that squinched-up look she always got when trying to concentrate.
I knew I was only another argument or two from being scolded, but I tried again. Those boys wont listen to you.
Those boys will listen to me if they want to eat, she replied before muttering something about needing a cup of oleo.
They dont even listen to Teacher at school, Momma.
That last reply had done it, and I stepped back a ways as Momma picked up her wooden spoon and peered at me angrily, her free hand on her apron-covered hip. Jessilyn Lassiter, I wont have you arguin with me. Now get on out of this house before your jabberin makes me mess up my biscuits.
I knew better than to take another chance with her, and I went outside to sit on my tree swing. If God wasnt going to send us any breeze for my birthday, I was bound and determined to make my own, so I started pumping my legs to work up some speed. The breeze was slight but enough to give me a little relief.
I saw Gemma come out of the house carrying a big watermelon and a long knife, and I knew she had been sent out by her momma to cut it up. Gemmas momma helped mine with chores, and her daddy worked in the fields. Sometimes Gemma would help her momma with things, and it always made me feel guilty to see her doing chores that I should have been doing. So I dug my feet into the dry dirt below me to slow down and hopped off the swing with a long leap, puffing dust up all around me.
I wandered to the picnic table where Gemma was rolling the green melon around to find just the right spot to cut into. I guess this is for my party.
Thats what your momma says.
Are you comin?
My momma never lets me come to your parties.
So? Aint never a time you cant start somethin new. Its my party, anyways.
It aint proper for the help to socialize with the familys friends, Momma says.
Your momma and daddy have been workin here for as long as I can remember. Youre as close to family as we got around here, as I see it. I aint got no grandparents or nothin.
Gemma scoffed at me with a sarcastic laugh. When was the last time you saw one brown girl and one white girl in the same family?
I shrugged and watched her slice through the watermelon, both of us backing away to avoid the squirting juices.
Looks like a good one, Gemma said as the fragrant smell floated by on the first bit of a breeze wed seen all day.
All I see are seeds for the boys to hit me with.
Why do you let them boys pick on you?
I dont let em. I always push em or somethin. But theyre all bigger than me. What do you want me to do? Pick a fight?
Guess not. A piece of the melons flesh flopped onto the table as Gemma cut it, and she popped it into her mouth thoughtfully. Ill never know why boys got to be so mean.
Its part of their recipe, I guess. I helped by piling the slices on a big platter, and I strategically picked as many seeds as I could find off the pieces before I stacked them. Never mind my dirty hands. You come by around two oclock, I told her adamantly. Ill get you some cake and lemonade. Youre my best friend. You should be at my party.
Gemma shushed me and shoved an elbow into my ribs as her momma went walking by us.
Gemma Teague, her momma said, you girls gettin your chores done?
Aint got no chores of my own, Miss Opal, I told her. I figured on helpin Gemma instead.
Then you two make certain you keep your minds on your work, ya hear?
Yesm, we both mumbled.
Gemmas momma walked past, but she looked back at us a couple times with a funny look on her face like she figured we were planning something.
In a way we were, but I didnt see it as being a big caper or anything, so I continued by saying, You know, I aint seein any sense in you not at least askin your momma if you can come by for cake. Shes usually understandin about things.
Every year its the same thing from you, Jessie. She wont let me come, and besides, Ill bet your momma dont want me here no more than my momma does. It just aint done.
It just aint done! I huffed. Who makes up these rules, anyhow?
Gemma kept her eyes on her work and said nothing, but I knew her well enough to see that she didnt understand her words anymore than I did.
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