Laura Trentham, the author of The Military Wife, is back with an
emotionally charged novel about redemption and second chances. In the vein of
Josie Silver’s One Day in December, AN EVERYDAY HERO (St. Martin’s Griffin,
February 4, 2020, $16.99), explores the challenges of a relationship and
ultimately discovering that love…and joy is worth fighting for.
At thirty, Greer Hadley never
expected to be forced home to Madison, Tennessee with her life and dreams of
being a songwriter up in flames. To make matters worse, a series of bad
decisions and even crappier luck lands her community service hours at a
nonprofit organization that aids veterans and their families. Greer cannot
fathom how she’s supposed to use music to help anyone deal with their trauma
and loss when the one thing that brought her joy has failed her.
Then there's Emmett Lawson, the
golden boy who followed his family’s legacy. Greer shows up one day with his
old guitar, and meets Emmett’s rage head on with her stubbornness. A dire
situation pushes these two into a team to save a young teenager, but maybe they
will save themselves too. . .
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
“Disorderly conduct. Public intoxication.
Resisting arrest.” Judge Duckett put down the paper, linked his hands, and
stared over his reading glasses from his perch behind the bench with a
combination of exasperation and fatherly disapproval.
Greer Hadley shifted in her sensible heels
and smoothed the skirt of the light pink suit she’d borrowed from her mama for
the occasion. “I’ll give you the first two, Uncle Bill—” The judge cleared his
throat and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me—Judge Duckett—but I did not resist
arrest.”
“That you recall.” Deputy Wayne Peeler
drawled the words out in the most sarcastic, unprofessional manner possible.
She fisted her hands and took a deep
breath. The impulse to punch Wayne in the face simmered below the surface like
a volcano no longer at rest. But ten o’clock on a Monday morning during her
arraignment was not the smartest time to lose her temper, and she’d promised
herself not to add to her string of bad decisions.
She sweetened her voice and bared her teeth
at Wayne in the facsimile of a smile. “I recall plenty, thank you very much.”
Truth was she didn’t recall the minute
details, but the shock of Wayne’s whispered offer on Saturday night to make her
troubles go away for a price had done more to sober her up than the couple of
hours spent in lockup waiting for her parents.
Dressed in his tan uniform, Wayne adjusted
his heavy gun belt so often she imagined he got off every night by rubbing his
gun. Giving him a badge had only empowered the part of him desperate for respect
and approval. His nickname in high school, “the Weasel,” had been well earned.
Unfortunately, she was the unreliable
narrator of her life at the moment and no one would trust her recollections.
Judge Duckett, her uncle Bill by marriage until he and her aunt Tonya had
divorced, rustled papers from his desk.
The ethics of her former uncle acting as
her judge were questionable, especially considering they had remained close
even after he’d remarried, but if nepotism is what it took to make this
nightmare go away, then she wouldn’t be the one to lodge a complaint.
“A witness claimed you were sitting quietly
at the end of the bar until a song played on the jukebox. What was the song?”
Her uncle glanced at her over his glasses again, which made him look like a
stern teacher.
“‘Before He Cheats’ by Carrie Underwood.”
She forced her chin up.
His mouth opened, closed, and he dropped
his gaze back to the paper. A murmur broke out behind her.
She would not cry. She wouldn’t. She
blinked like her life depended on a tear not falling. Later, in the privacy of
her childhood bedroom, she would bury her face in the eyelet-covered pillow and
let loose.
Beau Williams, her cheating ex-boyfriend,
was only partially to blame for her embarrassing behavior. It was a confluence
of setbacks that had had her holding down the end of the bar. Hearing Carrie’s
revenge anthem had hit a nerve exposed by the shots of Jack. Rage had quickened
the effects of the alcohol, and that’s when things got fuzzy.
“Yes, well. That is a rather … Let’s move
on, shall we? The witness also claims after a heartfelt, albeit slurred speech
about the vagaries of relationships and how the moral fiber of the Junior
League of Madison was frayed, you fed five dollars into the jukebox and played
the same song for over an hour. ‘Crazy’ by Patsy Cline, was it?”
Ugh. She didn’t recall how much money she’d
fed the machine, but it sounded like something she would do. “Crazy” was one of
her favorite songs. A master class in conveying emotion through simple lyrics.
She was just sorry she’d wasted five dollars on Beau. He didn’t deserve her
money, her heart, or Patsy.
“No one can fault my taste in the
classics.” Greer tried a smile, but her lips quivered and she pressed them
together.
Her uncle continued to read from the
witness statement, “You proceeded to throw two glasses on the floor, shattering
them, and attempted to break a chair across the jukebox.”
She swallowed hard. A vague picture of a
frustratingly sturdy chair surfaced. The fact the chair remained intact while
she was falling apart had sent her anger soaring higher and hotter. A glance
from her uncle Bill over the paper had her giving him a nod. She couldn’t deny
it.
He continued, “A patron called 911. When
Deputy Peeler arrived, he pulled you away from the jukebox and forced you
outside. That’s where, he claims, you kicked him … well, you know where.”
“Wayne dragged me down the stairs—”
“Deputy Peeler, if you please.” Wayne
sniffed loudly.
“As Deputy Peeler escorted me down the
stairs, I lost my balance and fell. The heel of my shoe jabbed into his crotch.
Sorry.” Greer didn’t make an attempt to mask her not-sorry voice with fake
respect.
If she accused Wayne of misbehavior on the
job, he would deny it and spin it somehow to make her look even more
irresponsible. Lord knows, she’d embarrassed her parents enough for a lifetime.
Anyway, seeing him rolling on the ground and cupping his crotch had been sweet
payback.
“I sustained an injury where that spike you
call a heel caught me.” Wayne half turned toward her.
Instead of playing it smart and soothing
his delicate male ego, she batted her eyes at him. “I’m sure that’s left the
ladies of Madison real upset.”
Wayne took a step toward her. “You are such
a—”
The gavel knocked against the bench and her
uncle stood, looming over them. “I’ve heard enough, Deputy. Sit down.”
Wayne turned on his heel and left Greer to
face her uncle Bill. This was where she would promise such a thing would never
happen again, and he would give her a stern warning before dismissing all
charges.
“I’m striking the resisting arrest charge.
It was an accident.”
Greer forced herself not to look over her
shoulder and stick her tongue out at Wayne. That left only two misdemeanors,
which her uncle could expunge with a swipe of his pen.
He settled behind the bench and picked up
his pen, his gaze on the papers. “You will pay for any damages.”
“I’ve already reimbursed Becky.”
Technically, she’d had to use her parents’ money, considering she’d crawled
home from Nashville broke. “And apologized profusely. You can be assured there
will not be a repeat performance. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Good. As for the other charges…”
Her deep breath cleansed a portion of the
tension across her shoulders, and a smile born of relief appeared.
“You will perform fifty hours of community
service.”
Her smile froze on her face. It sounded
like a lot, but she’d been stupid and immature and deserved punishment. “I
understand. Clean roads are important.”
“Litter pickup? Goodness no.” He took his
glasses off and smiled at her for the first time, but it wasn’t the jolly-uncle
smile she was familiar with. “You have talents that would be wasted on the side
of the road picking up trash, Ms. Hadley. You will spend your fifty hours
working at the Music Tree Foundation.”
“I’m not familiar with it.” She swallowed.
The mention of music set her stomach roiling. “Highway 45 was in terrible shape
on my drive in last week.”
“The foundation is a nonprofit music
program that focuses on helping military veterans and their families cope with
the trauma they’ve endured serving our country. They’re in need of volunteer
songwriters and musicians.”
“I can’t write or play anymore.” Her dream
of hearing one of her songs on the radio had died. Not in a blaze of glory but
from a slow, torturous starvation of hope. At thirty, she was resigned to
finding a real job and cobbling together a normal life in the place she’d tried
to leave behind.
“My decision is final. As far as I can
determine, your brain—despite this lapse in judgment—is in fine working order.
You can and will help these men and women heal through your gift of music.
Unless you’d rather spend thirty days in county lockup?”
Would her uncle actually throw her in jail?
For a month? “No, Your Honor, I don’t want to go to county lockup.”
“Good. Once you turn in your log with all
your hours signed off by the foundation’s manager, your record with this court
will be cleared.” He handed her file to a clerk. “Case closed. Next up is
docket number fourteen.”
She stood there until he met her gaze with
his unflinching one. “Go home, Greer.”
Her parents were waiting at the door to the
courtroom. While they’d faced the horror of having to bail their only child out
of jail stoically, her mother’s embarrassment and disappointment were ripe and
all-encompassing. Greer wilted and trailed her parents out of the courthouse.
She felt like a child. An incompetent,
needy child living in her old bedroom and dependent on her parents for
emotional and financial support. She thought she’d hit rock bottom many times
over the years, but her situation now had revealed new lows.
The silence in the car built into a painful
crescendo.
“The tiger lilies are lovely this year,
don’t you think?” Her mother’s attempt at normalcy was strained but welcome.
Her father’s hands squeaked along the
steering wheel as an answer.
Greer huddled in the backseat and stared
out the window, the clumps of flowers on the side of the road an orange blur.
As a teenager, she’d chafed at her parents’ protectiveness and had wanted
nothing more than to escape to Nashville, where she’d been convinced glory and
fame awaited. Now she was home and a disappointment not only to her parents but
to herself. Even worse, she hadn’t come up with a plan to turn her life around.
“Ira Jenkins is back in the hospital. I
thought I’d run by and check on him. Since Sarah passed, he seems a shell of
the man he once was.” Her mother turned to face the backseat. “Would you like
to come with me? I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”
“He won’t remember me, Mama.”
“I’m sure he will.”
Greer scrunched farther down in the seat.
The last thing she wanted was to make small talk with a man she hadn’t seen in
years.
“You’ll have to get out eventually and face
the music.” Her mother’s smile wavered and threatened to turn into tears. “So
to speak.”
Her mother was trying, which was more than
could be said for Greer at the moment. Her parents deserved a better daughter.
Someone successful they could brag on at the Wednesday-night potlucks at
church. Not a daughter they had to bail out of jail.
“I will. I promise. Just not to see Mr.
Jenkins.” Greer leaned forward and squeezed her mother’s hand over the seat,
needing to give her something to hope for even if Greer wasn’t sure what that
might be.
Her father cleared his throat. “You need to
think about the future.”
He ignored her mother’s whispered, “Not
now, Frank.”
“A job. Or back to school. We’ll put you
through nursing or accounting or something useful.” He shifted to meet her gaze
in the rearview mirror. “But you can’t keep on like you’re doing. You need a
purpose.”
“I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.”
School had never been her wheelhouse. She’d been sure she’d make it in
Nashville and had never formulated a backup plan.
They pulled up to her childhood home, a
two-story brick Colonial on the main street of Madison, Tennessee. Oaks had
been planted down a middle island like a line of soldiers at attention. They
had grown to shade both sides of the street. It was picturesque and cast the
imagination back to a time when ladies lounged on porches with their iced tea
and gossiped with their neighbors to escape the heat of summer.
Air-conditioning had altered that way of life.
At one time, as a kid, she’d known every
family up and down the street well enough to knock on their door for help or run
through their backyard in epic games of tag. Now, though, the houses were being
bought up by people who used Madison to escape the bustle of an expanding
Nashville. They built pools in the backyards and fences and weren’t outside
except to walk their trendy dogs.
The march of progress through Madison added
to her melancholy sadness. There was a reason not being able to go home again
was a recurring theme in books and songs.
“We love you, Greer. You know that, don’t
you?” Her mother’s voice was tight with emotion, but she didn’t turn around,
thank goodness.
Her mother never cried and if Greer
witnessed tears, she would burst into sobs herself and embarrass everyone.
“I know. Thanks for everything. I’m going
to do better. Be better.” It seemed a wholly inadequate promise she wasn’t even
sure she could keep, but it was all she could manage. She ducked out of the car
and skipped around to a side door of the house that was always unlocked.
Her room was both a haven and a mocking
reminder of the state of her life. Posters of album covers papered the wall
behind her bed, the colors faded from the sun and the edges curling with age.
In high school, she’d gravitated toward
indie folk artists and away from the commercially driven country-music machine
located a few miles south. Joan Baez was flanked by Patty Griffin and Dolly
Parton. Even though Dolly veered more country than Greer, no one could deny the
legend’s songwriting chops. The guitar Greer had hocked for rent money had
borne Dolly’s signature like a talisman. Sometimes Greer ached for her guitar
like a missing limb.
The flashing glimpse of a woman in a pale
pink suit stopped her in the middle of the floor. She turned to face the
full-length mirror glued to the back of the closet door. God, it was like glimpsing
her mom through a time warp.
Greer touched the delicate pearls that had
been passed down to her on her eighteenth birthday. They were old-fashioned and
traditional and stereotypical of a Southern “good girl.” Not her style. She’d
left them in her dresser drawer when she’d left home the day after high school
graduation.
A tug of recognition of the women who had
come before her had her clutching the strand in her hand as if something lost
were now found. Was it her circumstances or her age growing her nostalgia like
a tree setting roots?
She turned around to break the connection
with the stranger in the mirror, stripped off the pink suit, and pulled on
jeans and a cotton oxford. Her mother would appreciate seeing her in something
besides the frayed shorts and grungy concert T-shirts she’d lounged around in
the last week. She reached behind her neck for the clasp of the necklace, but
her hands stilled, then dropped to her sides, leaving the pearls in place.
She stepped out of her room and was
enveloped in silence. Her father had returned to his insurance office and her
mother must have set off for her hospital visit. The house took on an expectant
quality, as if waiting for its true owners to return. She was no longer a
fundamental part of this world. Not unwelcome, perhaps, but a loose cog in her
parents’ lives.
She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen and
made herself a ham sandwich. May was too early for fresh tomatoes, but in
another month or two her mother’s garden would make tomato sandwiches an
everyday treat.
Craving an escape, Greer grabbed a book and
settled in her favorite window seat. The rest of the afternoon passed in the
same expectant silence. The chime of the doorbell made her start and drop her
book. If she pretended no one was home, maybe whoever was on the front porch
would go away. The last thing she wanted was to face one of Madison’s gossips
masquerading as a do-gooder.
The creak of the door opening had her
bolting to her feet.
“Greer? I know you’re home. Are you
decent?” Her uncle Bill’s booming voice echoed in the two-story foyer.
She propped her shoulder in the doorway of
the sunroom. “Letting yourself in people’s houses is a good way of getting shot
around here.”
“While your mama would have liked to have
shot me during the divorce with her sister, I hope we’ve made our peace.” He
closed the door behind him and Greer did what she’d wanted to do in the
courtroom—she threw herself at him for a hug.
He lifted her off her feet and spun her
once around. Her laugh hit her ears like a foreign language. It had been too
long since she’d laughed from a place of happiness.
“You could have just come out to the house.
You didn’t have to get arrested to see me.” Bill let her go, and she led him
into the sunroom.
“Do you want something to drink?” Greer
asked, already turning for the kitchen and the fresh brewed pitcher of sweet
iced tea.
“No, thanks. Mary has fried chicken ready
to go in the pan, so I can’t stay long.”
Bill had divorced her aunt Tonya more than
a decade earlier and married the choir director of the biggest black church in
town. A scandal had ensued not because he’d married a black woman, but because
he, a long-standing deacon in the Church of Christ, had converted to a heathen
Methodist.
“How is Mary?”
“Always singing.” He shook his head, an
indulgent smile on his face, as they settled into their seats.
His comment sprinkled salt on an open
wound. She’d begged off going to church with her parents because of the
questions she was sure to face and the hymns she couldn’t bring herself to
sing. Some of her earlier happiness at seeing him leaked out. “Good for her.”
“I came to make sure you weren’t mad at
me.”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I got the impression you expected me to
dismiss the charges.” His smile turned into a wince.
“I wouldn’t have been upset if you had, but
I get it. I was an idiot and deserve punishment.” She picked at the fringe on a
decades-old needlepoint pillow and cast him a pleading glance. “I’d rather pick
up trash, though, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s not the same to me.” He crossed his
long legs and tapped a finger on the cherry armrest of the antique chair that
looked ready to surrender at any moment to his bulk. “Do you remember Amelia
Shelton?”
“Mary’s daughter? She was a couple of years
ahead of me in school. We didn’t hang out or anything, but she seemed nice.”
Greer couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Amelia. Greer’s side of the
family had skipped Bill and Mary’s small wedding ceremony; the acrimony between
him and her aunt Tonya hadn’t faded at that point.
“Amelia is the founder and director of the
Music Tree Foundation and is desperate for qualified volunteers. You’ve been
playing and singing and writing music since you were knee high. It was meant to
be.”
“It’s not meant to be. I’ve got to get a
real job.”
Her uncle made a scoffing sound. “You’re
too much like my Mary. You could never leave music behind.”
“Music dumped me on the side of the road,
gave me the finger, and peeled out.” Greer shook her head and touched the
string of pearls, her gaze on his polished black dress shoes. “I’m a mess,
Uncle Bill. I have nothing to offer. In fact, I’ll probably make things worse
for whatever poor soul I get paired with.”
She expected him to argue, but he seemed to
be weighing the truth in her words like the scales of justice. His shrug wasn’t
in the least reassuring. “Amelia has done something really special with her
foundation. It might do you a world of good to focus on someone besides
yourself.”
“Dang, that’s harsh.”
He patted her knee. “I’ve seen all kinds
come through my courtroom. The ones who turn it around are the ones who quit
feeling sorry for themselves.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Beau is an asshole. Not the
first or the last you’re likely to encounter. Don’t you deserve better than
him?”
“Yes?” She wished she’d been able to put
more conviction into the word.
Beau was successful, nice-looking—even
though a bald spot was conquering his hair day by day—and respected in their
town. They’d known each other since high school, but had only started dating in
the last year.
He was solid and steady and comfortable.
Three things lacking from her life. Catching him cheating with the president of
the Junior League had been another seismic shift in her world, leaving her unsure
and off balance.
“If you can’t believe in yourself yet, then
believe me. You are talented, Greer, and you have the ability to help people
find their voice.” He slipped a card out of his wallet. When she didn’t reach
for it, he waved it in her face until she took it.
A tree styled with musical symbols of all
different colors decorated one side of the card. She ran her thumb over the
raised black ink of Amelia’s name and an address on the outskirts of Nashville.
“I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Not if you want to stay in my—and the
court’s—good graces. She’s expecting you tomorrow at three.”
“No rest for the wicked, huh?” Her smile
was born of sarcasm.
Bill rose and ruffled her hair like he had
when she was little. “Not wicked. Lost.”
Greer walked him out, brushed a kiss on his
cheek, and murmured her thanks. She leaned on the porch rail and waved until he
disappeared down the street.
I once was lost, and now I’m found. She’d
sung “Amazing Grace” so many times that the lyrics had ceased to have an impact.
But, standing on her childhood front porch, having come full circle, a shiver
went down her spine, and goose bumps broke over her arms despite the heat that
wavered over the pavement like a mirage. Her granny would have said that
someone had walked over her grave. Maybe so. Or maybe change was a-coming
whether she wanted to face up to it or not.
Copyright
© 2020 by Laura Trentham
BUY
LINKS
Macmillan: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250145550
Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/product/9781250145550?AID=42121&PID=7992675&cjevent=1101dd10476711ea83cc00ae0a240614
AUTHOR BIO
Laura
Trentham
is an award winning romance author. The
Military Wife is her debut women’s fiction novel. A chemical engineer by
training and a lover of books by nature, she lives in South Carolina.
SOCIAL
MEDIA
Twitter: https://twitter.com/LauraTrentham
Author Website: http://www.lauratrentham.com/
Macmillan Author Page: https://us.macmillan.com/author/lauratrentham
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