Several years ago, I wrote a book on spec, and it wasn’t exactly what the publisher wanted, so I wrote them another one. That first manuscript sat in a drawer. Many times I pulled it out and tried to reshape it, but it never came together and I always had another book waiting in the wings.
Well. For the past couple of months, I’ve been working on that book. It has gone through more refurbishment, but it is finally coming together . . . and I love it. I had it start just before Christmas, but it’s more than a Christmas story–it’s about those quiet people society tends to overlook, and about what they have to offer. I set it in Peculiar, a Florida town I invented for my novel FIVE MILES SOUTH OF PECULIAR, and the town came back to life for me.
Because this book is not biblical fiction, nor is it really like any of my other books, I’ve decided to try to indie publish it with a kick starter campaign. If you’re not familiar with Kickstarter, it’s a way for lots of people to come together to help me meet the expenses of publishing, hiring an audio book reader, hiring an editor, and paying for marketing. I would love for you to take a look to see if this is the sort of book you’d be interested in . . . you can view the campaign here. If you support us, I am offering several nice rewards for your help. It’s the least I can do. 🙂
Here’s the first scene:
Chapter One
In a town the size of Peculiar—four hundred and ninety-three souls at last count—folks notice everything.
Trust me. I’ve been the police chief here long enough to know that if you so much as sneeze out of season, three people will offer you soup, two will pray over you, and one will start a rumor that you’ve taken up smoking. Privacy is theoretical in a town this small.
Which is why nearly everyone paid attention to Joshua Donnelly.
I’ll admit, I did too. Not because he caused trouble. Quite the opposite. Men like Josh Donnelly stick out precisely because they don’t.
For years, Josh and his mother moved through their days with a rhythm so steady you could’ve set your watch by it. Sunrise breakfast. Dishes washed before the coffee cooled. Bibles opened before the first car turned onto Main Street. That’s not poetic license, either. Grace Egan, who lived next door and had a kitchen window positioned like a theater box seat into the Donnelly household and could’ve sworn to it under oath.
Grace claimed she never once saw a variation.
Not until the November morning everything began to shift.
Before that day, Peculiar knew twenty-six-year-old Josh exactly as he’d always been. Polite as a deacon. Shy as a wild rabbit. A little odd around the edges, in the harmless way folks like to call “quirky” when they’re fond of you.
Josh carved animals out of fallen branches—rabbits, raccoons, the occasional tractor—and sold them at Retro Relics, Jackie Leakey’s antique shop. Jackie will tell you she bought the first few pieces out of neighborly pity. She’ll also tell you she tripled her money on them and never felt bad about it. Folks around here like things that are handmade and gentle, reminders of softer days. Josh’s toys fit the bill.
He moved through life like a boy raised in a forest chapel, which wasn’t far off. The Donnelly house sat on Church Street, a sagging Victorian swallowed up by live oaks, scrub pines, and palmetto bushes that refused to be contained. Vines crawled up trunks and spilled back down like green curtains, giving the place an otherworldly look. Despite Margaret Donnelly’s friendliness, no child ever knocked on her door at Halloween. According to local legend, the woods were full of monsters. Personally, I’d have been more concerned about snakes and spiders, but children have their priorities.
Given his surroundings, it’s no wonder Josh grew up a little different.
Every afternoon, after his bologna-and-mustard sandwich, he walked the mile to Twin Oaks Assisted Living Center. He always changed shirts first, usually into a plain white tee. And every time he reached the front door, he paused to smooth his jeans like he was about to meet royalty.
Maybe he was.
Bill Goodman—my predecessor and, depending on the day, my conscience—had taken a shine to Josh years back. Bill spent most afternoons in a recliner by the window, muttering about baseball stats and the decline of civilization. Josh listened. That alone set him apart. When Bill felt sharp enough, they played chess in the community room. One man at the far end of life, one still near the beginning, keeping each other company without making a fuss about it.
That was Peculiar.
Predictable. Steady. Comfortably uneventful.
Then came November sixth, 2006.
A northern wind swept through Florida that morning, rattling palmettos and dragging sweaters out of drawers hadn’t been opened since the the Apollo moon landing. Grace Egan felt the draft and closed her window. Jackie Leakey turned on the heat and fussed over her potted hydrangeas.
That’s when she noticed something peculiar in Peculiar.
Josh Donnelly wasn’t wearing his usual T-shirt.
He had on a button-down. A nice one.
He moved faster too. Rinsed the breakfast bowls without lingering. Kissed his mama on the forehead. Picked up a foil-covered plate he must’ve prepared the night before. Then instead of taking the sidewalk route to Twin Oaks, he cut through Peculiar Park.
Jackie stood on her porch, broom in hand, and watched him disappear into the trees. She wondered if the assisted living facility had called with bad news about Bill. Around here, deviation from routine usually means trouble.
Josh reached Twin Oaks early, cheeks pink from the cold. He warmed one hand by the electric fireplace, nodded to Isabella at reception, and headed straight for the elevator to Bill’s room.
Bill was still in his pajamas, but his eyes lit up.
“A little early today, aren’t you, son?”
Josh grinned and held up the plate. “Don’t you remember what day it is? You’re eighty-five. Mama made you a mini pound cake.”
Bill blinked. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Want cake for breakfast?”
“Why not?”
Josh fetched plates and forks, and the room filled with the aromas of lemon and butter while the wind rattled the palms outside. They talked about the cold snap, the Noah’s Ark Josh wanted to carve, and the Rays’ chances at another World Series.
Bill was halfway through a complaint about pitching when there came a knock at the door.
Isabella peeked in, worry written all over her face.
“Josh,” she said, “your neighbor called. Your mama’s in an ambulance. They’re taking her to the hospital.”
The fork slipped from Josh’s hand and hit the table.
He didn’t stop to clean up.
He was already running.
And that’s where this story truly begins.
Until next time,
Angie
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Angela, I wish you all the best with your Kickstarter campaign! I ran one a few years ago and was happy with the results. 🙂
Thanks, Becky! I’m hoping for the best, but in love with this story no matter what. Just trying to give it the best start in the world. . . . they really are like our children, aren’t they? Thanks!